In the second volume, “The House on the Cliff,” the Hardy boys and their chums had a thrilling experience in a reputedly haunted house on the cliffs overlooking Barmet Bay. This was the starting point of an exciting chase for smugglers, in which the Hardy boys came to the rescue of their father after undergoing many dangers in the cliff caves.
The third volume of the series, “The Mystery of the Old Mill,” which precedes the present book, relates the efforts of the Hardy boys to run to earth a gang of counterfeiters operating in and about Bayport and their efforts to solve the mystery surrounding an abandoned mill in the farming country back of Barmet Bay.
Frank Hardy, a tall, dark-haired boy of sixteen, was a year older than his brother Joe, and usually took the lead in their exploits, although Joe was not a whit behind his brother in shrewdness and in deductive ability.
Mrs. Hardy viewed their passion for detective work with considerable apprehension, preferring that they plan to go to a university and direct their energies toward entering one of the professions; but the success of the lads had been so marked in the cases on which they had been engaged that she had by now almost resigned herself to seeing them destined for careers as private detectives when they should grow older.
Just now, however, detective work was farthest from their thoughts. Frank and Tony Prito were engaged in some complicated maneuvers on the parallel bars, Joe was taking a boxing lesson from Biff Hooper, and Phil Cohen was trying to learn how to walk on his hands, under the guidance of Jerry Gilroy and Slim Robinson.
As for Chet Morton, the mischief-maker, he was sitting on the windowsill, meditating. And when Chet Morton meditated, it usually meant that a practical joke was in the offing.
“I’ll bet you can’t ‘skin the cat’ on that trapeze, Jerry,” he called out suddenly.
Jerry Gilroy looked up.
“Skin the cat?” he said. “Of course I can.”
“Bet you can’t.”
“Bet I can.”
“Can’t.”
“Can.”
“Do it, then.”
“Watch me.”
As every boy knows, “skinning the cat” is an acrobatic feat that does not necessarily embrace cruelty to animals. Jerry Gilroy was not unjustly proud of his prowess on the trapeze and Chet Morton’s doubt of his ability to perform one of the simplest stunts in his repertoire made him resolve to “skin the cat” as slowly and elaborately as lay within his power.
He grasped the trapeze bar with both hands, then swung forward, raising his feet from the floor, bending his knees. Chet edged forward, presumably to get a better view of proceedings, but at the same time he tightened his grip on a long, flat stick that he had found by the window ledge.
Jerry slowly doubled up until his feet were above his head, immediately below the bar, and then commenced the second stage of the elaborate back somersault, coming down slowly toward the floor. At this juncture the rear of his trousers was presented as a tempting mark to the waiting Chet. This was the stage of the feat for which the joker had been waiting and he raised the flat stick, bringing it down with a resounding smack on his human target.
There was a yelp of pain from Jerry and a roar of laughter from Chet. Doubled up on the bar as he was, Jerry could not immediately regain the floor, and Chet managed to belabor him twice more before the unfortunate acrobat finally found his footing. There he stood, bewildered, rubbing the seat of his trousers, with a rueful expression on his face, while Chet leaned against the wall, helpless with laughter.
The other boys joined in the merriment, for they had stopped to witness the incident, and after a while Jerry achieved a wry smile, although he looked reflectively at his tormentor as though wondering just what form his revenge should take.
No one enjoyed Chet Morton’s practical jokes more than he did himself. He whooped with laughter, wiped the tears from his eyes, and leaned out of the window, spluttering with mirth.
“Oh, boy!” he giggled. “The expression—on your—face—!” Then he was away again, leaning across the windowsill weakly, shaking with laughter.
Jerry Gilroy tiptoed quietly up behind him. A quick movement and he lowered the window until it was against Chet’s back.
The practical joker suddenly stopped laughing, and turned his head.
“Hey! What’s the matter?” he inquired.
He was pinned down by the window and he could not see Jerry picking up the flat piece of board that had been the instrument of torture a few minutes previously. But a suspicion of the truth came to him, and a roar of laughter from the other boys warned him that vengeance was due.
It came.
Smack!
Chet Morton wriggled and squirmed, but he was pinned helplessly by the weight of the window against his shoulders, and he presented a more tempting target for Jerry’s ministrations with the flat stick, and a more stationary target as well, than Jerry had presented for him.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
He roared with pain and, helpless as he was, danced vainly on the floor in his efforts to escape. Jerry Gilroy belabored him across the rear with that stinging stick until his desire for revenge had been fully satisfied, while the other boys howled with glee at the manner in which the tables had been turned.
Finally, when Jerry tossed the flat stick away and joined the others in their laughter, Chet managed to raise the window and escape.
“Can’t see what you’re all laughing at,” he grumbled, as he sat down carefully on a nearby box. Then he rose hurriedly and rubbed the tender spot.
“He laughs best who laughs last,” quoted Jerry Gilroy.
“Guess I’ve got to get home,” announced Biff, a moment later, and soon he and the others were on their way, dodging through the rain.
Then Frank and Joe put the barn in order and went
