But although Joe was young and wiry he was not strong enough to cope with his antagonist and Frank soon saw that the stranger was having the better of the battle. He glanced ahead, saw that the Sleuth was heading into a long, low bank of fog but that there were no other boats in sight, then abandoned the wheel.
He leaped back to the assistance of his brother, crooked his elbow about the stranger’s neck, and dragged him back. The man struck out, wildly, twisted around and staggered Frank with a blow in the ribs. He managed to struggle to his feet, they saw his hand flash to his pocket, and then he produced a small package and flung it far out over the side.
It had only taken a second, but that second was sufficient to serve for his undoing.
Frank scrambled to his feet in the swaying boat, and for a moment they sparred. Then Frank’s right fist shot out and the blow landed directly on the point of the stranger’s jaw.
The man was not knocked out, but he staggered back and the wild lurching of the boat sent him off his balance. He stumbled and fell. His head struck against the side of the boat and he crumpled up in a heap.
The blow had knocked him unconscious.
Frank bent over him. He saw that the man was not badly hurt, but that he had been stunned by the impact. He pointed out a coil of rope in the stern.
“Tie his ankles, Joe, in case he wakes up. I’ve got to get back to the wheel.”
The Sleuth by this time was off her course, and was wallowing in the trough of the waves. Quickly, Frank swung the craft about, but when he peered ahead to locate Bayport he gave an exclamation of alarm.
The city was nowhere to be seen. The heavy cloud of mist that had been gathering over the bay now totally obscured the shores.
How far the boat had departed from her course he did not know, and in the fog bank he had but a vague idea of their location. He began to look around in hopes of finding a compass, but there was none in the boat.
“Have you got a pocket compass, Joe?”
Joe, who was busily engaged in tying the unconscious stranger’s ankles together, looked up and shook his head.
“Isn’t there one in the boat?”
“No—and here we are in a fog bank. I don’t know whether we’re in the right direction for Bayport or not.”
XIII
Paul Blum
Frank Hardy reduced the speed of the motorboat, because he realized the dangers that lurked in the fog.
Almost any moment they might crash into another boat in the bay. Even worse, they might be so far out of their course that they would pile up on one of the rocky shores.
The fog was impenetrable. Frank did his best to judge their direction by the waves but this did not help greatly, as there were cross currents and the wind was shifting.
The Sleuth coursed on, feeling its way blindly through the haze that enveloped the bay. Frank peered ahead into the foggy veil.
Joe concluded his ministrations to the stranger, who was now beginning to stir. The man opened his eyes and groaned.
“Have you had enough?” asked Joe.
“Who hit me?”
“You hit your head against the side of the boat. Are you going to make any more trouble?”
The man groaned again, tried to get to his feet, found that his ankles were tied together, and sank back with a sigh.
“He won’t give us any more bother,” declared Joe, coming forward. It was plain that there was no more fight left in their captive.
“I wish this fog would lift,” said Frank.
As though in answer to his words a sudden gust of wind sent the mist in scurrying wreaths, raising the heavy grey veil long enough to enable him to see Bayport lying almost directly ahead. He could make out the position of the row of boathouses and he headed the Sleuth toward them.
The curtain of fog descended again, but Frank was now fairly sure of his position.
“We’re heading in the right direction now.”
“Should we try to make the boathouse? I don’t think we’ll be able to find it in this mist.”
“I guess you’re right. We’ll land at the big wharf.”
In a short while, the boat was nosing its way through the fog, among the shadowy craft anchored near Bayport wharf. The city loomed up in a ghostly dark mass beyond the water.
Finally the Sleuth drew alongside the wharf and nosed its way to one of the slips. To the surprise of the boys they saw several figures running along the wharf.
“What boat is that?” shouted someone from the fog.
“The Sleuth!”
“Good! That’s them. I thought they’d land here,” said the voice, evidently addressing someone else on the wharf.
“Looks as if we’re expected,” observed Joe.
A man came down the slip, and even in the fog they knew the figure was familiar. When he drew closer they saw that the man was none other than their father.
“Dad!” exclaimed Frank.
“Have you got him with you?” asked the detective quickly.
“Who? Joe?”
“No, no. The man you picked up at Barmet village. I had a telephone message about him.”
“Yes, we have him here. He tried to hold us up with a revolver, but we got the better of him.”
“Fine!” said Mr. Hardy, peering down into the boat, where the stranger was struggling to sit up. “All right, Chief!” he called, to a burly man who was coming down the slip. “They have him.”
Chief Collig, of the Bayport police force, and Con Riley, one of his men, then appeared in view.
“Got him, hey?” said Collig.
“They have him here in the boat.”
“All right. Hand him over.”
Still wondering how their father had known that the stranger was in the boat with them and wondering also why the police were on hand, the Hardy boys untied the ropes
