Kurt thought for a moment, then gave Chet a list of prices which were so greatly in excess of those charged by the Bayport mills that they were prohibitive.
“Why, that’s higher than dad would want to pay,” Chet said.
Uncle Dock shrugged his shoulders.
“Take it or leave it. We ain’t askin’ for his trade.”
“You won’t get it. Not at those prices.”
It was quite evident that Uncle Dock and his strange associates were not desirous of encouraging any outside trade for the old mill, However, Frank realized that the men had a right to manufacture patented food in secret if they wished, so he nudged Chet as a signal against any further questions.
They had reached the door of the mill by now, and Markel hustled Lester inside before he had a chance to say anything further to the boys, although the lad cast an appealing glance behind as though he would have liked again to express his thanks to his rescuers.
“Where do you fellows live?” asked Kurt, peering at them from under his shaggy eyebrows.
“Bayport.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“We’re just on a hike,” explained Frank. “We just thought we’d come around this way.”
“You’ll be late for supper if you don’t hurry back.”
This broad hint was not lost on the boys. It was clear that the men wanted to get rid of them.
“I guess we’ll be on our way. We’ll go in for a swim farther up the river so Joe can have a chance to dry his clothes.”
This seemed to remind Uncle Dock of the fact that Joe had, after all, saved Lester’s life. He reached for his pocket.
“I’d like to reward you for saving the lad,” he said, becoming suddenly affable. Joe shook his head, and when Uncle Dock took two five dollar bills from his pocket and offered them to the boys, one to Frank and the other to Joe, they disclaimed any intention of accepting money for what had plainly been their duty.
But no sooner had Uncle Dock extended the bills than the other man, Kurt, gave a muffled exclamation and stepped forward. He snatched the money from Uncle Dock’s hands and quickly turned around, with his back to the boys.
The interruption was only of about a second’s duration, for Kurt at once wheeled about and again extended the money. He gave a short, nervous laugh.
“My mistake!” he said. “I thought he was only offering you a dollar each. You deserve five. It’s all right. Here—take it.”
He thrust the money upon them but they refused. Kurt did not press the point. He put the bills back in his own pocket.
“All right. If you won’t, I suppose there’s no use arguing,” he said, with evident relief. “But we’re very grateful to you just the same. Well, Dock, what say we get back to work?” he continued, turning to his companion.
Uncle Dock turned away and went back into the mill with Kurt.
“It’s plain they don’t want us hanging around,” said Joe, with a rueful glance at his clothes. “Let’s go on up the river so I can throw these clothes over a hickory limb and get ’em dried out before we start back home.”
X
The New Boat
A week went by, a week in which the Hardy boys and their chums again wrestled with refractory Latin phrases and geometrical problems, as the examinations drew near. There was little time for fun, even outside school hours. The boys were all overcome by that helpless feeling that comes with the approach of examinations, the feeling that everything they had ever known had somehow escaped their memory and that as fast as they learned one fact they forgot another.
But the week was over at last and on Saturday morning Fenton Hardy looked up from his newspaper with a quiet smile.
“What’s the program for today?” he asked of his sons.
“Nothing in particular,” said Frank. “I was thinking I’d dig into the Latin for an hour or so, although I’m so sick of the sight of that book that I’d like to throw it out the window.”
“I’m away behind in my algebra,” spoke up Joe. “But it’s too nice a day to study. Anyway, I’ve been working hard all week.”
“Perhaps if you went down to the boathouse you might find something there,” suggested their father casually.
The boys stared incredulously. Then they gave a simultaneous whoop of delight.
“You don’t mean to say the motorboat is here?” exclaimed Frank.
Their father had taken charge of the buying of the motorboat for them. They had not expected that the craft would arrive until the start of the summer holidays.
Fenton Hardy merely smiled and turned to the financial page.
“It mightn’t be a bad idea to go down to the boathouse anyway,” he said.
The boys needed no further urging. Within a few seconds they were scrambling for their caps, within the minute they were racing down the front steps, and soon they were hastening toward Barmet Bay.
In preparation for the arrival of the motorboat they had rented a boathouse on the southern shore of the bay, at the foot of the street on which they lived. During the week, Mr. Hardy had obtained the key from them on some pretext, but they had thought nothing of it. Now everything was clear.
“The boat must have arrived here during the week and he had it taken to the boathouse without telling us about it,” said Frank.
“I guess he was afraid we wouldn’t do much studying for the rest of the week if we knew it was there.”
“I guess we wouldn’t have, either.”
When they reached the boathouse they could hardly contain themselves in their eagerness to see if the boat had indeed arrived. Frank inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. They stepped inside.
There, rocking gently in the waves, was a long, graceful craft, white with gilt trimmings, a motorboat that gave an immediate impression of strength and power without the sacrifice of graceful lines. There was a flag at the bow and at
