“No.”
“There is only the one road, and we didn’t meet him, so he must have taken the turning to the right at the end of the lane.”
“We’ll chase him,” said Joe. “Climb onto my bike, Chet. We’ll get the thief yet.”
“Wait a minute,” cried Frank suddenly. “I have an idea! Joe, do you remember that car we saw wrecked in the bushes?”
“Sure.”
“Perhaps the driver stole the first automobile he could lay his hands on after the wreck.”
“What wreck was that?” asked Chet.
The Hardy boys told him of the wrecked car they had found by the roadside. It had occurred to Frank that perhaps the smashup might have occurred just a short while before and that the driver of the wrecked car had resumed his interrupted journey in a stolen automobile.
“It sounds reasonable,” said Chet. “Let’s go and take a look at this wreck. We can get the license number and that may help us find the name of the owner.”
The motorcycles roared as the three chums set out back along the road toward the place where the upturned automobile had been seen among the bushes. The boys lost no time in reaching the place, for they realized that every second was precious and that the longer they delayed the greater was the advantage to the car thief.
The car had not been disturbed and apparently no one had been near it since the boys had discovered the wreck. They parked their motorcycles by the roadside and again went down into the bushes to examine the wrecked car.
To their disappointment the car bore no license plates.
“That looks suspicious,” said Frank.
“It’s more than suspicious,” said Joe, who had withdrawn a little to one side and was examining the automobile from the rear. “Don’t you remember seeing this car before, Frank? It didn’t occur to me until you mentioned the matter of license plates.”
“I have been wondering if this isn’t the same car that passed us on the shore road at the curve,” replied Frank slowly.
“It is the same car. There’s no doubt of it in my mind. It didn’t have a license plate, I noticed at the time, for I wanted to get the fellow’s number. And it was a touring car of the same make as this.”
“You’re right, Joe. There’s no mistake. The redheaded driver came to grief in the ditch, just as we said he would, and then he went on to the nearest farmhouse, which happened to be Chet’s place, and stole the first car he saw.”
“The busted car was the one the fellow was running who nearly sent us over the cliff,” Joe declared. “And it’s ten chances to one that he’s the fellow who stole Chet’s roadster. And he’s redheaded. We have those clues, anyway.”
“And he went on past our farmhouse instead of turning back the way he came,” cried Chet. “Come on, fellows—let’s get after him! There was only a little bit of gas in the roadster anyway. Perhaps he’s stalled by this time.”
Thrilling with the excitement of a chase, the boys clambered back onto the motorcycles and within a few moments a cloud of dust rose from the road as the Hardy boys and Chet Morton set out in swift pursuit of the redheaded automobile thief.
III
Traces of the Thief
Chet Morton’s roadster was a brilliant yellow, not easily mistaken, and the Hardy boys were confident that it would not be difficult to pick up the trail of the auto thief.
“The car is pretty well known around Bayport,” said Chet. “It was certainly a gay-looking speed-wagon. Anyone who saw it would remember it.”
“Seems strange that a thief would take a car like that,” remarked Frank. “Auto thieves usually take cars of a standard make and standard color. They’re easier to get rid of. He would know that a car like yours could be easily traced.”
“I don’t think he stole the car to sell it,” Joe pointed out. “Take it from me, that chap was getting away from some place in a hurry and when his own car was smashed he just took the first one that came to hand. If we keep after him before he has a chance to get rid of it we’ll run him to earth.”
A number of men in a hayfield nearby attracted Frank’s attention, and he brought his motorcycle to a stop.
“I’m going to ask these chaps if they saw him pass.”
Frank scrambled over the fence and went over to talk to the farmhands, who watched his approach with curiosity.
“Didn’t see a yellow roadster pass here within the last hour, did you?”
One of them, a lanky old farmer with a sunburned nose, carefully laid down his scythe, put his hand to his ear and shouted:
“Eh?”
“Did you see a fellow pass along here in a roadster?” Frank repeated, in a louder tone.
The farmer turned to his companions, removed a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his overalls and took a hearty chew.
“Lad here want to know if we saw a roadster come by here!” he said slowly.
There were three other farmhands and all gathered around. They put down their scythes very deliberately, and the plug of tobacco was duly passed around the group.
Frank waited.
“A roadster, eh?” asked one.
“A yellow roadster,” Frank told him.
One of the men removed his hat and mopped his brow.
“Seems to me,” he observed, “I did see a car come by here a while ago.”
“A yellow car?”
“No—twan’t a yeller car. It was a delivery truck, if I remember rightly.”
Frank strove to conceal his impatience.
“It was a roadster I was asking about. A yellow roadster.”
“Not one of them there coops, hey?” asked the oldest man in the group doubtfully.
“No, not a coupé. A roadster.”
“Roadster, eh?” remarked the old farmer. “That’s one of them there autymobiles with just two seats and a little cupboard in the back, eh?”
“My cousin has one,” observed another member of the group. “He got it secondhand in Bayport. I never could see why
