“Carl Schaum!” exclaimed Frank. “He was one of the chaps who got off lightly.”
“And to my mind he was one of the worst rascals of the lot,” added Joe.
“Well, he’s at large now. They haven’t been able to trace him. He’s a tough bird, all right.”
“Carl Schaum used to live around here, didn’t he?” asked Biff.
“Sure. He used to live just outside the city. He’s been in and out of plenty of scrapes. A real bad egg.”
“Oh, probably the police will pick him up again,” Biff said. “He won’t get very far. It’s a cinch he won’t hang around Bayport.”
“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” remarked Frank.
The road the boys had taken went south and then east toward the coast, through a beautiful countryside. The boys had been on their way a little over two hours, but already they were hot and dusty. Just at that moment, Joe spied a flash of blue among the trees beyond an inviting shady lane.
“Looks like a lake down there,” he said. “What say we investigate?”
“I’m game,” said Chet. “Maybe we can have a swim.”
As time was not pressing and the boys were traveling leisurely, in no hurry to reach the caves, they at once fell in with the suggestion. Frank headed down the lane and in a few minutes the lads were riding beneath shady trees down toward the banks of a small lake that lay calm and clear among the woods. There was a wide, sandy beach, and with whoops of delight the boys at once brought their motorcycles to a stop, parked them beneath the trees by the road, and raced gayly down through the grass.
It was one of the finest natural swimming places they had ever seen and the boys lost no time flinging off their clothes and splashing out into the cool water. For about half an hour they enjoyed themselves as only boys can, swimming and diving, until at last, refreshed, they came up onto the beach and donned their garments again.
Their motorcycles had been parked just out of sight of the beach, because the road ran past the lake, about a hundred yards distant. However, the boys had given little thought to the safety of the machines because the lake was in a secluded spot and there was no sign of human habitation near by.
“I’ll race you back!” shouted Frank, as they began to dress.
There was a mad scramble for clothes. Chet adroitly hurled one of Biff’s shoes into a thicket, thinking thereby to get a head start on his chum, but Joe sat on Chet’s trousers as he drew on his own socks, and Chet hunted in vain for the essential garments, losing more time than Biff did. All this byplay took time, and Frank, in the meanwhile, was dressing hastily but calmly, and was ready before any of the others. With a yell of triumph, he darted up the grassy slope.
Joe was next. Shoelaces dragging, he set out in pursuit. Chet did not even bother to put on his shoes but hastened after, his shirt open, and hanging onto his trousers with one hand while he fastened his belt. Biff, plunging about in the bush in search of the missing shoe, was last.
“First up!” shouted Frank. Then the others heard him give a sudden exclamation of surprise.
“What’s the matter?” called Joe.
He ran up in time to see Frank standing in the roadway, an expression of consternation on his face.
“The bikes!” he exclaimed. “There are only two here!”
“What?” yelled Joe.
“One of our bikes is missing! What do you know about that!”
As Chet and Joe hastened up they saw that he was right. Where three motorcycles had been parked beside the road, there were only two left.
Frank’s motorcycle was gone!
VII
Carl Schaum
Frank Hardy wasted no time.
The motorcycle had been stolen. There was no doubt of that. That it had been stolen within that past five minutes, he knew. When the boys were coming out of the water he thought he had heard the clatter of a machine, but at the time he had paid no attention to the sound, thinking it came from the main road.
“Come on!” he shouted. “We’ll chase him.”
“Which way has he gone?” gasped Chet.
Frank looked at the road. It was not a traveled thoroughfare and weeds and grass were in the ruts. It was impossible to see any sign of the tire tread.
“Joe and I will go ahead,” he decided. “Chet, you and Biff go on back to the main road on your bike. If you don’t get any trace of him, wait for us.”
He sprang onto Joe’s motorcycle and his brother leaped up behind. Biff Hooper was just emerging from the bushes and Chet quickly told him what had happened.
In a moment the two machines were roaring off along the road in opposite directions, Chet and Biff returning to the highway and the Hardy boys going on down the country lane.
Once past the lake, Joe and Frank found the going was rough. Presumably, it was just a lane connecting with the highway, and there was little traffic over it. The motorcycle bumped along, Frank letting the machine out as much as he dared.
They came to a dusty spot in the lane and Frank gave a cry of exultation.
“This is the way he went! There’s the tire marks!”
Clearly defined in the dust was the imprint of the tread. The boys knew they were on the right track, but they knew that the thief was undoubtedly proceeding as quickly as they were, if not faster.
Could they overtake him?
Coming to a more level stretch of road, Frank risked a greater speed and the motorcycle leaped forward in a cloud of dust. There were many curves and the high trees obscured a view of the road ahead so they had no idea how close they were to the fugitive.
Owing to the roar
