He blundered about in the deep thicket, turning vainly this way and that. Great vines trailed across his face; he brushed aside stubborn branches and soggy wet leaves; he stumbled over roots and little bushes; the deep grass rustled and hissed at his feet.
There was no other way. He would have to use the flashlight. The darkness was impenetrable. Trees and bushes enclosed him. He could not see where he was going.
He switched on the light and, to one side of him, descried a sort of passage among the bushes, so he headed in that direction. He managed to get free of the worst of the vines and the thick foliage and found himself in a forest aisle. He went down it, in the direction of the booming surf. His heart beat quickly at the thought that he was now free and that he would soon be back at the boat. What had happened to Chet? He judged that his chum was either captured now or lost in the grove. Frank knew that he could not wait to learn Chet’s fate because any delay would be fatal to them all.
He had switched out the flashlight and was plunging along through the darkness when the forest aisle suddenly took a twist and he found himself again floundering in the midst of trees and trailing vines that entangled him.
Frank switched on the flashlight again.
And a second later he heard a grim voice from close by:
“Throw up your hands!”
He wheeled about and found himself suddenly bathed in a ring of light. Someone was standing only a few feet away with a flashlight leveled at him, and in the beam of the flashlight he could see a glittering revolver aimed directly toward him.
“Throw up your hands!” rasped the voice again, “or you’ll be shot.”
Slowly Frank raised his hands above his head.
“That’s better. Now march back ahead of me. Back to the cave, young fellow. We’ve got you all now. Forward march!”
XVIII
Back to the Cave
“This is a piece of luck!” declared the redheaded man.
He squatted by the fire with his arms folded and surveyed the four prisoners. Frank and Joe had been dragged back to the cave with the others and were now bound and helpless, while the gangsters confronted them.
“Who are these two?” asked the man called Pete, indicating the Hardy boys.
Red shook his head.
“We’ve seen ’em before. They were in the boat the day we were looking these two birds over,” he remarked, gesturing toward Chet and Biff.
“What’s your names?” demanded Pete gruffly.
The Hardy boys glanced at one another. Their captors were not yet aware of their identity and they did not know whether to admit it or not. Frank resolved on silence as the best course.
“Find out!” he retorted.
An ugly look crept into Red’s face.
“Is that so?” he snarled. “Won’t talk, eh? I’ll soon make you talk.”
He leaned forward and wrenched open Frank’s coat. Frank’s wrists were handcuffed and he was helpless to resist. Red pulled him roughly to one side and groped in the inner pocket of the coat. There was a rustle of paper and he withdrew two or three letters. Frank bit his lip in exasperation. He had forgotten about the letters and he knew that any hope of concealing his identity was now lost.
The redheaded man brought the letters over to the fire and squinted at the addresses. His eyes opened wide; his jaw dropped.
“Frank Hardy!” he gasped.
“What?” demanded one of the other men.
“All these letters are addressed to Frank Hardy!” declared the astonished gangster. “What d’you know about that!”
With a sudden movement, Pete grasped Joe by the collar and held him while he turned his pockets inside out. Finally, with an air of triumph, he produced Joe’s membership card in a Bayport athletic association, on which his name was written in full.
“Joe Hardy!” he read. “Why, these are the real Hardy boys!”
The gangsters looked at one another with crestfallen expressions, but their momentary astonishment at realization of their mistake was quickly changed to rejoicing.
“I told you we weren’t the Hardys,” put in Chet. “I told you all along that you were making a mistake.”
“Shut up!” ordered Red. “Yes, men, we made a mistake, all right. We didn’t have the Hardy boys after all. But now we have got ’em! I’ll say this is a piece of luck! We’ve got the whole caboodle now.”
Meanwhile one of the men had been going more thoroughly through the boys’ pockets. Now he grunted.
“Armed! Would you believe it? Brats like these!”
“Take the guns away,” came the order from Red.
“What’ll we do with the others?” demanded one of the gangsters.
“With the two we caught in the first place? We’ll hang right onto ’em. We’ll hold the Hardy boys for ransom the way we intended to, and we’ll make some money out of the other two as well. You two boys,” he said, turning to Chet and Biff, “have your people got money?”
“Find out!” snapped Chet, following Frank’s example.
“We’ll find out, all right!” rasped Pete. “We’ll find out. And if they haven’t got money it’ll be all the worse for the pack of you!” He chuckled suddenly. “We’ll make a real haul out of this, men! Four ransoms!”
“Yes, and now that we have the real Hardy boys we’ll give Fenton Hardy a few anxious minutes,” laughed another of the men, from a dark corner of the cave.
“Where is our father?” asked Frank.
Red scratched his chin meditatively.
“You’re gettin’ curious, hey? Want to know where your father is? I’ll tell you. He’s in a safe place where he can’t get out of. Our men out in the West got him.”
“What are they going to do with him?”
“Ah!” said Red, with an air of mystery. “What are they goin’ to do with him? That’s the question.
