“Our friend can travel in peace,” remarked Frank. “He got his five changed anyway.”
“And the other fellow got his dollar. Everybody’s happy.”
They reached the store and paused outside the entrance to examine an assortment of baseball bats, discussing the relative merits and weights of each, then poked around in a tray of mitts, trying them on and agreeing that none equaled the worn and battered mitts they had at home. Finally they entered the shop, where they were greeted by the proprietor, a chubby and genial man named Moss. Mr. Moss was sitting on the counter reading a newspaper, for business was dull that afternoon, but he cast the sheet aside when they came in.
“Looking for clues?” he asked humorously, as they came in.
As sons of Fenton Hardy, and as amateur detectives of some ability in their own right, the boys were frequently the butt of jesting remarks concerning their hobby, but they invariably took them in the spirit of good-natured raillery in which they were meant.
“No clues here,” continued Mr. Moss. “You won’t find a single, solitary clue in the place. I had a crate of awfully nice bank robbery clues in yesterday, but they’ve all been snapped up. I expect some nice murder clues in tomorrow morning, if you’d care to wait that long. Or perhaps you’d like me to order you a few kidnapping clues. Size eight and a half, guaranteed not to wear, tear or tarnish.”
Mr. Moss rattled on, with an air of great gravity, burst into a roar of laughter at his own joke, then swung his feet against the side of the counter.
“Well, boys, what’ll it be?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, as the two brothers grinned at him. “What can I do for you?”
“We want some pie-plates,” said Joe. “Three.”
“Small ones, I suppose,” said Mr. Moss, then chuckled hugely as the boys looked at him in indignation.
“I should say not,” returned Frank. “The biggest you’ve got.”
Mr. Moss laughed very much at this also, and swung himself down from the counter and went in search of the pie-plates. He returned eventually with three that seemed to be of the required size and quality.
“Wrap ’em up,” said Frank, throwing the five dollar bill on the counter.
Mr. Moss wrapped up the plates, then picked up the bill and went over to the cash register. He rang up the amount of the sale and was about to put the money in the till when he suddenly hesitated, then held the bill up to the light. Slowly, he came back to the counter, rubbing the bill between thumb and forefinger, feeling its texture and minutely examining the surface.
“Where did you get this bill, boys?” he asked seriously.
“We just changed it for a stranger on the train,” answered Frank. “What’s the matter with it?”
“Looks bad to me,” replied Mr. Moss dubiously. “I’m afraid I can’t take a chance on it.”
He handed the bill back to Frank, then indicated the package on the counter.
“What are you going to do about the plates?” he asked. “Have you any other money besides that bill?”
“Not a nickel,” said Joe. “At least, not enough to pay for the plates. But do you really think the bill is no good?”
“I’ve handled a lot of them. It doesn’t look good to me. I tell you what you’d better do. Take it over to the bank across the street and ask the cashier what he thinks of it.”
The boys looked at one another in dismay. It had never occurred to them that there might be anything wrong with the money. Now it dawned on them that there had been something suspicious about the affable stranger’s request. Had they really been victimized?
“We’ll do that,” agreed Frank. “Come on, Joe. Keep those plates for us, Mr. Moss. If the bill is bad we’ll be back with some real money later on.”
They crossed the street to the bank and went up to the cashier’s cage. They knew the cashier well and he smiled at them as Frank pushed the five dollar bill under the grating.
“Want it changed?” he asked.
“We want to know if it’s good, first.”
The cashier, a sharp-featured, elderly man with spectacles, then took a sharp glance at the bill. He pursed up his lips as he felt the texture of the paper. Then he flicked the bill across to them again.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’ve been stung, boys. It’s counterfeit.”
“Counterfeit!” exclaimed Frank.
“You aren’t the first one who has been fooled. There’s been a lot of counterfeit money going around the past few days. It’s very cleverly done and it’s apt to fool anyone who isn’t used to handling a lot of bills. Where did you get it?”
“A fellow got off the train and asked us to change it for him.”
The cashier nodded.
“And by now he is miles away, probably getting ready to work the same trick at the next station. I guess you’ll have to pocket your loss, boys. It’s tough luck.”
II
Counterfeit Money
The Hardy boys left the bank, feeling at once foolish and wrathful.
“Stung!” declared Frank. “Stung by a counterfeit bill! Oh, if the fellows hear of this we’ll never hear the end of it!”
“What a fine pair of greenhorns we must have looked to that slick stranger! I’d like to lay my hands on him for about five seconds. I’ll bet he’s been laughing to himself ever since about how easily we were fooled.”
“I’ll say we were easy. We hadn’t a suspicion in the world.”
“After all,” Joe remarked, “that bill might have fooled anyone. You can’t deny that it looks mighty like a real five.”
They halted on the corner and again examined the money. Only an experienced eye could have detected any difference between the counterfeit bill and a genuine one. It was crisp and new and appeared in every respect identical with any bona fide five dollar bill that had ever been legitimately issued by the Federal Government.
“If we were dishonest we could palm this off on
