“Not much chance of catching Captain Royal away from home today, I’m thinking,” said Frank.
“No, he’s likely sitting in his cosy little cave beside a good fire. Well, he may feel more like talking.”
There was no breeze blowing, and the sea lay calm and slatey beneath the fog. It was a damp, clammy morning and the chill penetrated to the bone. The boys felt rather guilty at having left Chet and Biff, to set out on this expedition of their own, but as Frank had pointed out it was, after all, private business. They well knew that if their suspicions were incorrect, Chet would joke about the affair unmercifully. It was better to keep it to themselves until they were certain of their ground.
They were just approaching the cliff that hid Captain Royal’s cave from view when Frank halted and peered through the fog at the base of the rocks some distance ahead.
“Do you see somebody lying there, Joe?”
Joe looked in the direction he indicated.
“Looks like an old log—no, it moved!”
“Seems like a man sprawled on the sand.”
“Perhaps it’s Captain Royal. Maybe he fell and hurt himself.”
The boys hastened across the rocks in the direction of the figure on the shore.
As they drew nearer they saw that it was indeed a man who lay sprawled at the base of the rocks, apparently asleep. However, they soon saw that it was not Captain Royal.
“Perhaps somebody fell off the cliffs from above,” ventured Joe, as they hastened up to the recumbent figure.
Frank looked up. The cliff loomed high above.
“If he did, we can’t help him now. He would be dead.”
They came up to the man sprawled on the sand. He was not dead. A large log near his head suggested that he might have tripped.
“He’s unconscious!”
The man’s face was turned away from them and the boys could not distinguish his features. He was roughly dressed and his clothes were wet with fog.
Just then the fellow stirred restlessly in his sleep. He slowly turned his head.
When the boys saw his face they gasped with surprise.
“It’s Carl Schaum!” exclaimed Frank.
It was indeed the escaped automobile thief, the man who had stolen Frank’s motorcycle the days the boys left Bayport.
XVIII
The Prisoner
Carl Schaum did not awaken. His slumber was too deep. He was quite senseless from the effects of the liquor he had drunk.
“This is luck!” exclaimed Frank. “I wonder how he got here!”
“I suppose he’s hiding down in these caves away from the police.”
Something beside the bottle near the slumbering man caught Frank’s eye. He bent forward and examined it.
It was a small package containing several tins of meat, of the same variety the Hardy boys and their chums had brought with them on their expedition to the caves.
“There’s our thief!” Frank declared, with conviction. “It was Carl Schaum who stole the provisions from our cave.”
There seemed little doubt that this was the case. The evidence of the package of food was conclusive.
“What shall we do with him?” asked Joe.
Frank groped in his pocket and produced a length of stout cord.
“We’ll tie him up first. He’s an escaped criminal and it’s our duty to turn him over to the police.”
“What if he puts up a fight?”
“He’s too drunk. Anyway, we should be more than a match for him.”
They looked at the man sprawled on the ground. He was snoring loudly, quite oblivious of his danger. Quietly, the Hardy boys took up their positions, one on each side of the fellow, and then with a quick movement they turned him over on his back and pinned his arms behind him.
To their surprise, Carl Schaum did not struggle. He merely groaned in his sleep.
“He’s dead drunk,” said Frank. “We won’t have any trouble with him.”
Quickly he flipped the cord about Carl Schaum’s wrists, and they bound the unconscious man. Still he did not awaken. When the boys were satisfied that their captive was firmly trussed up they stood back to await further developments.
Carl Schaum snored on.
“I guess we’d better wake him up,” said Frank, with a mischievous grin.
“It would take a cannon to waken him, by the looks of things.”
“Good cold water should do the trick.”
Frank went down to the shore, took off his hat and dipped it in the sea. He hastened back, the hat half full of water, and dashed it in Carl Schaum’s face.
There was a splutter. Then Joe, anxious to be in on the fun, filled his hat and flung a copious supply of cold water at their captive.
Carl Schaum blinked, groaned, spluttered again, and tried to sit up.
“This will make us even for stealing my motorcycle,” said Frank, as he dashed more water into the fellow’s face.
“And this,” said Joe, hastening up with another hatful.
Carl Schaum was literally drenched. He opened his eyes, then gave vent to a strangled yell. Frank managed to fling another hatful of water into his face before the boys decided that their captive was sufficiently awake.
“Hey! What’s this?” roared Schaum indignantly. He had just discovered that his wrists were bound.
“Just a little joke,” said Frank.
Water was streaming down the man’s face. He was thoroughly aroused by now.
He was still too dazed to recognize the Hardy boys. As he sat on the beach, with his wet hair down over his eyes, his clothes completely soaked, he was a ridiculous object, and his expression of mingled wrath and surprise made it difficult for the lads to restrain their laughter.
“Lemme go!” demanded Schaum, struggling to release his wrists, without success.
Frank shook his head.
“Nothing doing. You’re wanted back in Bayport, Schaum, and that is where you’re going.”
Schaum gasped.
“Bayport!” he said, after a moment. “Where’s that? I never heard of the place.”
“Oh, yes you have. You escaped from the Bayport jail, Schaum, and they’ll be glad to see you back again.”
“You’re crazy!” the rascal stormed. “I was never in
