'Yes, we appreciate it,' Frank chimed in.
Mrs. Hardy smiled. 'We know you're in a hurry.'
The boys went out the back door and hastily stowed the food and clothing in their motorcycle
carriers.
'We must put in the make-up kit from the lab,' Frank reminded his brother. With Fenton Hardy's help, Frank and Joe had fitted out a small modern crime laboratory over the family
garage. Joe hurried upstairs to it and soon emerged with the kit, which he put in the carrier.
When they reached their boathouse, the boys found the Sleuth there. By the time the craft
emerged, she carried two entirely different-looking young men.
Frank's face was smudged and his dark hair was tousled. He wore a battered straw hat and a
striped jersey with a long rip in the back.
Joe's normal suntan had been made even darker by the use of make-up. A fake tattoo
decorated his right arm. His trousers were torn off at the knees.
Both boys wore tennis shoes bursting at the sides. They carried burlap sacks appropriate for
beachcombing.
'Let's land about a mile this side of Shantytown,' Frank suggested. 'We can wander toward it along the beach.'
Soon Beachcomber Joe, at the wheel, ran the Sleuth into a little cove. Drawing her up between
two rocks, they camouflaged the craft with pieces of driftwood and dry seaweed.
'Now,' said Joe, 'if we can just find another clue to lead us to Chet and Biff!'
Frank nodded. 'And at the same time learn what's behind the fighting in Shantytown.'
Trying not to appear hurried, the two boys sauntered along with their sacks. The midafternoon
sun threw
a white sparkle over everything -the curling waves, the sand, and even the gray, bleaching
driftwood.
Now and again Frank and Joe would stoop and put a handful of shells, bits of rope, or a few
pebbles into the sacks.
'Some beachcombing!' Joe grinned.
At last the Hardys entered the squatters' village. The first huts were merely tarpaulins stretched across driftwood poles. But as the boys strolled along, they saw that several of the many shacks were of wood, well constructed, with solid, padlocked doors.
A few men were lounging about, smoking. Frank and Joe passed near a group roasting potatoes
in hot coals before one of the huts. The men paid no attention to the Hardys as the boys moved on.
'If Chet and Biff are here, they could be in any of these shacks!' Joe muttered in a low tone.
'How can we get a closer look?'
The young sleuths were walking between the water's edge and the first row of huts. Near them
a man stood in the water wringing out a shirt.
'Let's drift up to the next shack,' Frank suggested.
The boys approached a solidly built shanty. Abruptly the door swung open. A thin, seedy-
looking man with faded red hair stepped out in the sunlight and stared at them with hard blue
eyes. As the Hardys returned the look, the fellow moved toward them.
'What are you doing here?' he challenged harshly.
'Just walking along the beach,' Joe returned in a tough-sounding voice. 'Looking for junk.'
'Yeah? Well, get out of here and do it some place else. See?'
'This is a free country,' Frank retorted, also speaking in a tough tone. 'We'll walk here if we feel like it.'
Instead of answering, the man reached into a back pocket and pulled out a blackjack. He lunged at Frank with the agility of a cat.
'Cut it out, Sutton!' barked a voice. The newcomer, a broad-shouldered young man, darted between Frank and his assailant. A boxer's hand chop sent the blackjack flying to the sand.
Sutton muttered under his breath, clenched his fists, and glared at the tall man. He was young and strong, with a blond crew cut.
'If you're looking for trouble, I'll give it to you,' the big fellow said meaningfully.
Sutton dropped his eyes and turned away. He retrieved his weapon and disappeared behind his
shanty.
Relieved, Frank said, 'Thanks a lot, Mr.-'
'Call me Alf,' was the friendly reply. 'I was wading over there when I saw Sutton go for you.
You'd better stay away from this place. We've had a lot of trouble lately.'
'Well, thanks again, Alf,' Frank said warmly as he shook the huge, hard hand. 'You sure saved me a lump on the head. I'm Frank, and this is my brother Joe.'
The three strolled along the beach. 'So there's been trouble in Shantytown lately,' Joe repeated, hoping
to learn more from their new acquaintance.
'Yes. Sutton and his pals have been the ones making it, too. All they do is fight among
themselves.
Shantytown wouldn't be such a bad place, otherwise.'
'Do you live here, Alf?' Frank inquired.
'Me?' The man laughed good-naturedly. 'No, but I work on the docks and I know some fellows who work in town occasionally and live here, so I come out a lot on my hours off.'
By now the three had reached the far edge of the colony. 'I've got to see a fellow,' Alf told them. 'Look out for Hank Sutton when you go back. If he tries anything, just yell for Alf-Alf Lundborg.'
The young giant's friendly act and his open face made Frank decide to trust him. 'Maybe we can help you sometime, Alf,' he said. 'Our name is Hardy, but we don't want anyone in Shantytown to know it.'
'Nobody'll hear it from me,' Lundborg replied. 'Say, if you're going to be around for a while, why don't you eat with my friends and me?'
'We'd like that,' Frank said. 'How'11 we find you?'
Alf reached into his pocket. 'Just listen for this,' he replied, opening his hand. In the palm lay a harmonica. 'See you around,' he said and moved off.
When Alf Lundborg had gone up the beach, the brothers retraced their steps. While picking up
more stones and shells, they scanned the sand carefully for anything that might belong to their missing chums.
This time they took care not to venture too close to Sutton's shanty.
'There's our 'friend,'' Frank said in a low voice.
Stealing a glance toward the hut, Joe saw Sutton standing at one corner, talking earnestly with another man. His companion was listening with obvious impatience. He shifted his weight and
suddenly turned full around. The Hardys saw that he was short in build, and had black hair
combed straight back.
'That man!' Joe whispered. 'It's-' 'I know!' Frank took his brother's arm and hurried him toward the beach. 'It's the speedboat driver who almost rammed us! What's he doing here?'
CHAPTER VIII
Postcard Puzzle
'KEEP going,' Frank advised Joe. 'If we turn around for another look, that powerboat pilot may recognize us!'
With bent heads, the young detectives shuffled along the beach between the ocean and the
first line of squatters' shacks. If the stranger with the dark, combed-back hair noticed them at all, he saw only two ragged beachcombers wandering back in the direction of Bayport.
'So, the fellow who rammed us hangs around Shantytown!' Joe burst out.
'Yes,' Frank added thoughtfully, 'and he's friendly with the chief troublemaker there.'
'But why should one of Button's pals try to ram the Sleuth?' Joe puzzled. 'Because he found out-or suspected-we'd be investigating Shantytown?'
