“Keep right on toward Bayport!” he ordered. “Don’t turn back.”
“What’s the big idea?” demanded Frank indignantly.
“The idea is that I want to go to Bayport, and if you won’t take me there of your own free will, I’ll just have to persuade you, that’s all. This gun is loaded, so don’t make any foolish moves.”
The boys looked at one another, and the stranger began to chuckle.
“Be reasonable now,” said the man with the gun. “I have to catch that train, or I’ll miss the wedding. I can’t let you bring me back to the village. My friends would never let me hear the end of that joke. It’s just by luck I had this revolver in my pocket—but still, if you turn this boat around, I’ll use it.”
He was trying to pass the affair off as more or less of a joke but there was no mistaking the steely glint in his eyes or the hardness of his voice.
Frank looked at his brother, and shrugged.
“I guess there’s nothing else for it but bring him to Bayport,” he muttered. “I don’t want to get shot.”
“That gun looks bad,” agreed Joe. “There’s not much joking about that part of it.”
Frank bore down on the wheel and corrected the course of the boat so that they were soon bound directly for Bayport again.
“We’ll take you to the city,” he said to the stranger, “but I’m going to warn you that we’ll turn you over to the police if we get a chance. That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, even if you say it is only a joke. It’s a hold up.”
“You’ll think differently after we reach Bayport,” promised the man. “I’ll have my wife write you a letter of thanks after the wedding. I hate to use this revolver, but I can’t miss that train.”
The stranger’s insistence on his story that he had to catch a train did not convince the Hardy boys by any means. They were still suspicious of their passenger, the more so now that he used force to induce them to take him to Bayport.
“I’d like to get that gun away from him,” whispered Frank, as he bent over the wheel.
“Not much chance. He’s watching us too closely.”
“Trying to fix up some plot to get hold of this revolver?” asked the stranger. “You needn’t bother. I hold the whip hand here.”
“We know it,” retorted Frank. “But wait till we get to Bayport.”
The motorboat raced on down the bay. The storm clouds that had been collecting all morning now hung heavily in the sky. The bay was sullen and slate-colored, and a heavy sea was running. White caps broke on the surface of the water.
“Looks like a storm,” Frank muttered. “Perhaps it’s just as well we didn’t turn back.”
A streak of lightning split the sky; it was followed by a distant rumble of thunder. The Sleuth was riding the waves well, but there was a rocking motion that could not be avoided. The boat swayed from side to side as it plunged on.
After about five minutes Frank glanced behind.
The stranger was no longer standing up; he was sitting back against the cushions again and he still held the revolver levelled at the Hardy boys, but there was a curious expression on his face, an expression of nausea; his eyes were staring and his face was pallid.
For a moment Frank could not understand what the matter was. Then, as the boat gave a lurch more violent than usual, he understood.
He nudged his brother.
“Getting seasick!” he whispered.
Joe glanced back, and when he saw that the stranger’s florid face had changed in hue from a deep red to a greenish white he knew that the motion of the boat was indeed taking its effect. He forebore an impulse to chuckle at their passenger’s plight.
“Give her a little more gas,” ordered the stranger, in a curiously feeble voice. “You’re not going fast enough.”
He brandished the revolver threateningly.
Frank obligingly increased the speed of the Sleuth but the rocking motion only became more pronounced.
The stranger gulped, but he did not lower the weapon.
“That’s better,” he said, without enthusiasm.
“I’m going to give him something to be seasick about,” whispered Frank.
Without warning he suddenly bore down on the wheel and swung the motorboat about so that it was lying broadside to the waves.
“Here—what’s the matter?” asked the stranger. “Where are you going now?”
“We’re off our course. I’m heading in toward shore a little more so we can get out of the wind.”
This explanation satisfied the stranger, although it became speedily apparent that the new course did not.
The Sleuth received the full force of the long rollers. The waves were not high enough to be dangerous, but the swells gave an undulating motion to the craft that swiftly increased the stranger’s illness.
“He’s slipping,” whispered Joe.
Frank glanced back again.
The stranger was indeed “slipping.” His teeth were tightly clenched. His face was almost green. His expression was that of a man who is deathly sick. But he still clung to the revolver and he still waved it feebly at the boys.
“Head her in toward Bayport,” he demanded. “Do you want to make me sick?”
“This’ll fix him,” said Frank. “Get ready.”
He bore down on the wheel again.
The Sleuth swung around at right angles to her previous course. The abrupt, swerving motion finished the stranger.
With a groan, he slumped forward in his seat, and bowed his head on his arms.
Joe sprang up. With one bound he reached the man with the gun.
The stranger realized what was happening, and struggled to his feet. He raised the weapon, but Joe struck out and dashed the revolver from his hand. It described a flashing arc, then fell into the water with a splash.
Sick as he was, the man swung out viciously and his fist caught Joe on the side of the face, staggering him. Joe quickly recovered himself and plunged forward, grappling with the man. They swayed to and fro in the
