“Leave it to me,” announced Chet Morton mysteriously. “I’ll get a bomb. I’ll guarantee to keep the chief in town.”
“Not a real bomb?” asked Frank.
“Why not?” said Chet. “Listen to me.”
Chet proceeded to lay forth his plan in a stealthy whisper. It was received with chuckles and murmurs of admiration. His companions clapped him on the back, and when he had finished the boys hastened down the street toward the Hardy home.
In the rear of the house were a garage and an old barn. In the barn was a gymnasium that the Hardy boys had fitted out for themselves, and here was the usual collection of old toys, footballs, broken baseball bats and such paraphernalia, to be found wherever boys store their cherished possessions. Frank groped about among the rubbish in one corner until at last he rose with an exclamation of triumph, holding aloft a shining object.
“It’s here!” he said. “Let’s get busy. There’s no time to lose.”
An old box was quickly produced, and in it the shining object was placed. The box was then carefully wrapped up, and in a few minutes the boys left the barn, Tony carrying the package under one arm.
Not far from the Bayport police station was a fruit stand over which presided an Italian by the name of Rocco. He was a simple, genial soul, who believed almost everything he heard and, like most of his countrymen, he was of an excitable nature. Toward Rocco’s fruit stand the boys made their way. Rocco was sorting over his oranges when they approached. Tony, with the box under his arm, hung in the background, while Chet stepped boldly forward.
“How much are your oranges, Rocco?” he asked.
Rocco, with much explanatory waving of arms, recited the prices of the various grades of oranges.
“Too much. There’s a fellow at another fruit stand on the next street sells them a nickel a dozen cheaper.”
“He no can do!” shrieked Rocco. “My price is da low.” Then, angered by this reflection on the prices of his wares, he burst into a lengthy explanation of the struggles confronting a poor Italian trying to get along in a new country. He grabbed Chet by the coat collar, dragged him to a corner of the fruit stall, bade him inspect the fruit, gabbled off prices, and generally worked himself into a state of high indignation. In the meantime, Tony Prito made good use of his time to shove the mysterious package under the front of the stall. Then he joined the other boys who had screened his movements by gathering about Rocco.
“You’ll have the Black Hand after you if you keep on charging such high prices—that’s all I can say!” declared Chet, as the boys moved away.
“Poof! W’at do I care for da Blacka Hand. No frighten me!” said Rocco bravely, but he gulped when he said it and there was no doubt that the shot had gone home.
It was now after six o’clock, and the boys decided that in the interests of their plan they would have to brook the parental wrath by being late for supper. Frank had assumed that Chief Collig and Detective Smuff would be leaving to catch the train at about ten minutes to seven, so shortly after six-thirty, Phil Cohen, who had remained in the background during the interview with Rocco, walked smartly up to the fruit stand again. The others were viewing the scene from around the corner of a nearby building.
“Banana,” said Phil briefly, tossing a nickel on the counter. When he had received the fruit he began to eat it, at the same time chatting with Rocco.
“W’at you t’ink?” snickered the Italian, “some boys come here a while ago and say da Blacka Hand t’ink I charga too much for da fruit.”
“Well, you do charge too much, Rocco. Everybody says so.”
“I sella da good fruit at da good price.”
Phil turned aside and at the same time accidentally knocked an apple to the ground. He bent to pick it up, Rocco eyeing him narrowly in case he tried to slip it into his pocket. But Phil did not get up at once. Instead, he said:
“Oi! What’s this?”
“W’at you find?”
“What’s this, Rocco?” Phil rose from in front of the stand, with the package in his hands. “I found this under the counter.”
Rocco stared. His mouth opened in dismay. For, sounding clearly from the inside of the package, came a steady tick-tock, tick-tock.
“A bomb!” he shrieked. “Put heem down!”
Thereupon he scrambled wildly over the array of fruit at the back of the stand, knocked over a tray of oranges, and went sprawling over the opposite counter, roaring, “Police!” at the top of his lungs.
Phil, with a fine imitation of fright, put the package on top of the counter and fled.
Rocco, in his white apron, was dancing about in the middle of the street, yelling, “Bombs! Police! Da Blacka Hand!” Then, suddenly fearing that the supposed bomb might explode at any moment, he whirled rapidly about and raced down the street away from the stand, in the general direction of the police station.
He reached the doorway just as Chief Collig and Detective Smuff were leaving for the train. Panting with fear and excitement, Rocco implored them to save him from the Black Handers who had put a bomb under his fruit stand.
“Da bomb, she go teek-tock,” he wailed. “She blowa da stand into da little piece!”
“A bomb!” exclaimed Chief Collig. “Surely not in Bayport!”
“I always thought there was Black Handers around here,” said Smuff.
“She blowa up da fruit stand! Come queeck!”
Chief Collig and Detective Smuff followed Rocco to the corner. Then they peeped around until they could see the deserted fruit stand, with the package on the counter.
“You say it goes tick-tock?”
“Just lika da clock.”
“Must be a bomb, all right,” said Smuff. “They run by clockwork.”
“Might go off any minute,” observed the chief. “I hate to go near it. Smuff, you go and pour a pail of water over it.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re not
