The Mystery of the Chinese Junk (4 page)

The youthful owners of the
Hai Hau
began to suspect the same thing. But they rejected any thought of giving up the junk, and cast-off as George Ti-Ming stood watching them, his eyes slitted with annoyance.

The sky was overcast, with a brisk breeze chopping up the gray-green sea. The Bayport crew hoisted sail to take advantage of the wind.

“Boy, at last we get a chance to enjoy ourselves!” Chet lolled back in the stem, lacing his hands behind his head.

“You said it,” Frank agreed. “But we'd better keep an eye on the weather.”

The outer harbor was alive with shipping, but gradually they left this scene of activity behind. As the
Hai Hau
proceeded along during the late afternoon, the wind gradually died down and mist gathered over the water. Sails flapping, the junk had to depend on its motor.

“That fog's building up,” Tony remarked. “We'd better hug the shoreline.”

Joe, who was handling the tiller, nodded. “Looks as though it's going to be a real peasouper.” He cut speed as the fog became thicker.

The hooting of foghorns reached their ears. Frank began sounding their own power whistle, a blast every minute. Bit by bit, the fog closed in. Soon they were blanketed by a thick curtain.

“Think we should drop anchor?” Joe asked.

His question was answered as they felt a sudden bump from the bottom. The motor churned uselessly.

“We're aground!” Biff exclaimed.

Joe cut the outboard hastily, hoping that no damage had occurred.

“N-now what?” said Chet nervously.

Frank shrugged. “Wait it out till the fog lifts. It's about all we can do.”

It was an eerie sensation, lying still on the water, cut off from the outside world. The boys took turns ringing the junk's bell. From time to time, muffled sounds drifted through the swirling mist.

Chet had taken charge of the galley. As he prepared to heat up cans of beans for supper on the charcoal stove, he accidentally spilled several red-hot embers onto the wooden deck.

“Watch it!” Tony yelled.

Joe doused the embers with a splash of water. “Take it easy, Chet!”

“This junk must be jinxed!” Biff grumbled.

The fog did not lift until morning. Biff and Tony pried the junk loose with the euloh oar and a boat hook, while Frank reversed the engine. Fortunately, no damage had occurred.

The boys resumed their voyage, making good time. They slept on board again that night and at noon the next day, Saturday, triumphantly sailed into Bayport Harbor. A crowd gathered as the junk approached the public dock.

“Boy, look at the reception!” Chet exulted.

“All we need is a brass band,” Tony agreed with a pleased grin. “This'll get our boat business off to a flying start!”

The boys' satisfaction dimmed considerably when they found themselves greeted by laughs and joking comments. Clams Dagget was in the forefront of the crowd, spurring on the spectators with jeering remarks.

“Here comes the ‘Hee Haw'! I told you they was buyin' a real
junk!”
he hooted. “I'd sooner put to sea in a bathtub!”

Joe scrambled up on the dock, ready to blast Clams angrily. But Frank laid a restraining hand on his brother's arm.

“Let him have his little joke.” Calling out to Clams, he said, “It's pronounced ‘Hay How.' ”

After arranging for space at a dock that had day and night guards, the chums left the Hai Hau tied up, planning to get in touch with one another by phone. Frank and Joe hurried home. They found Aunt Gertrude pale and upset.

“I'm glad you're back!” she said, as they each gave her a hug. “There was a prowler here again last night!”

“A PROWLER!” Frank echoed. “What happened, Aunt Gertrude?”

“The alarm bell went off in the middle of the night,” Miss Hardy reported. “I jumped out of bed and looked down at the lawn. The floodlights were on and I could see a man dart off through the bushes!”

“What did he look like?” Frank asked.

“I could see only his back, but he seemed tall. Fortunately, all the doors were bolted.” Upset by the recollection, Miss Hardy sank into an armchair. “Gave me a dreadful fright! I thought for a while I might faint!”

“Not a brave person like you!” Joe patted her shoulder affectionately. “Did you call the police?”

His aunt sniffed. “Certainly not! What good would that have done? The man was gone.”

After fixing lunch for the boys, Aunt Gertrude went upstairs to lie down. Frank and Joe ate with zest, discussing the case between mouthfuls of tomato soup, cold roast chicken, and angel cake.

“If that prowler was tall, he might have been the same guy who stole our two hundred dollars,” Joe conjectured.

Frank nodded. “Sounds that way. We'd better report it to Chief Collig. I'd like to know if he has any leads on the thief.”

“Afraid not, boys,” the officer said. “It's my opinion the burglar has left town. But your report, Frank, sheds a new light on the matter.”

After putting down the phone, Frank got paper and pencil and jotted down four objectives for him and Joe to accomplish. From their father, the boys had learned that thinking with a pencil often helped to clarify a case. Joe grinned wryly as he read what his brother had written:

“I'd say we have our hands full!”

“Ditto!” Frank agreed. “First, let's check the grounds.”

The brothers looked around the house for footprints, but the prowler seemed to have left none, although the soil was soft.

“If you're looking for that prowler's marks, it's no use,” Aunt Gertrude informed them from an upstairs window. “It rained here last night.”

Frank and Joe spent the rest of the afternoon replacing the old alarm system with a new type to warn of anyone approaching. They tore out the wiring in the shrubbery and substituted an electric-eye “snooperscope” arrangement, as Joe dubbed it. Next, the boys disconnected the outdoor floodlights and the shrill alarm bell in the house. Instead, they hooked up a series of buzzers on all floors. By this setup, the Hardys hoped to lure intruders close enough to be captured, rather than frighten them away.

“It should do the trick if that thief pays us another visit,” Frank said when the job was finished.

“There's only one thing I wish we'd done differently; fix the system so it would work with the doors open,” said Joe. “But it's too late to change it. We must remember to keep them closed.”

Remembering that they had not yet reported to Jim Foy, Frank telephoned him. The Chinese-American lad was thrilled to hear he was part owner of the
Hai Hau,
but mystified by the boys' strange adventures on the Staten Island pier and in Chinatown.

“Is there any way your uncle or cousin could help us check up on George Ti-Ming?” Frank asked.

“Sure,” Jim replied. “Uncle Dan's a member of the Chinese Benevolent Association. It has information on everybody connected with Chinatown. I'll ask him to find out.”

“Swell!”

Before hanging up, Frank told Jim the brothers would meet him at the
Hai Hau
after church the next morning. The three gathered at twelve-thirty and Jim's eyes sparkled as he walked around the junk.

“She's a beauty,” he said enthusiastically. “I guess she's pretty old, but in good shape. When do we begin business?”

“As soon as we find out what the law requires to carry passengers,” Frank replied.

Monday morning, when the Hardys were eating breakfast, Tony Prito stopped by in one of his father's construction company's pickup trucks.

“Hey, you know my cousin Ralph who's a Coast Guard officer?” Tony said. “Well, I got all the dope from him yesterday about operating a passenger boat for hire.”

“Neat. What is it?” Frank asked.

“Well, we can't carry more than six passengers without going to a lot of trouble in keeping to regulations.”

“That's okay,” said Joe cheerfully. “We'll make two or three round trips each day.”

“Frank,” Tony went on, “you and I will have to get pilot's licenses.”

“What about the rest of us?” Joe put in.

“Can't. You have to be eighteen.”

“What's involved in getting the licenses?” Frank inquired of Tony.

“A written test and a physical exam by our family doctors or the Public Health Service,” Tony replied. “Bring along a letter from your doctor.”

“Okay, I'll make an appointment this morning. What's the test on?”

“Navigation laws—and first aid, fire prevention, buoys, sanitation, etc.”

“You fellows had better pass or we won't be in business,” Joe warned with a grin.

Frank winked at Tony and clutched his stomach. “Oh, I've developed a horrible pain. Afraid I have appendicitis.”

“Too bad,” said Tony. He got up from the chair on which he had been sitting and limped across the room. “No use, Joe. Can't run a junk with a bad leg.”

“Okay, you guys.” Joe laughed. “Get going!”

Frank promised to meet Tony on the
Hai
Hau's dock at two o'clock and called the Hardys' family physician, Dr. Bates, as soon as Tony had left. The brothers spent the next hour composing an advertisement announcing their boat business, to be turned in at the Bayport
Times
office as soon as the licenses to run the
Hai Hau
were granted.

The doctor's nurse had given Frank an appointment at one o'clock sharp. After getting his checkup and a letter from Dr. Bates reporting a perfect score, Frank drove to the pier. Tony was already there and reported that he too had been given a clean bill of health. He showed Frank several life jackets.

“Ralph advised me to get these,” Tony said. “We can split the cost later. Did you bone up on your rules and regulations, Frank?”

“Sure did. I think I know 'em okay.”

Frank and Tony went off to the Coast Guard inspector's office, and passed the written test without any trouble. The boys were given papers showing they had licenses to operate the
Hai Hau.
They then parted and Frank drove to the Hardy home.

“Now we can run the ad,” said Joe, relieved. He and Frank took it to the newspaper office.

“What's next?” Joe asked.

Frank suggested that the brothers inform their other partners they were now ready for business. “Let's start with Chet.”

He drove the car to the Morton farm on the outskirts of Bayport. Only Chet's mother was at home. She said that Chet had gone to practice something to do with spelunking at the abandoned Tyler farm, a mile down the road.

“I didn't know that place had a cave on it,” Joe remarked as he and Frank drove off.

Frank pulled into the rutted dirt drive of the Tyler farm and stopped in front of the weather-beaten, deserted house. The boys got out.

“Hey, Chet!” Joe shouted, cupping his hands.

The brothers began scouting the fields, which were overgrown with weeds and brush.

Suddenly a shrill whistle came as if from nowhere, followed by a ghostly voice calling,
“Hey, you guys! Help!”

“It's Chet!” Frank exclaimed. “Where is he?”

A further search revealed an old dry well. Attached at the top of the well to a tree was a broken length of rope. At the bottom of the gloomy shaft they could make out the round face of their chum looking up at them pitifully.

“For Pete's sake, what happened?” Joe called down. “You all right?”

“Yes, I'm all right, but get me out of here!”

Joe ran back to the car and returned with a rope. After much tugging and hauling, the Hardys finally succeeded in pulling Chet to safety.

“Thanks, fellows!” he panted.

The Hardys eyed in amazement the strange-looking garb of their friend, who was perspiring heavily.

“Good grief!” Joe burst out laughing. “What're you dressed up for—a moon flight?”

The stout youth was wearing large, one-piece green coveralls. They fitted snugly at wrists and ankles, and had leather patches at the knees and shoulders. The opening at the neck revealed two heavy red-plaid wool shirts underneath, which made Chet's oversize figure bulge more than ever. Cotton work gloves, huge hiking boots with sweat socks, and a hard hat topped with a miner's lamp completed Chet's costume.

He also carried a police whistle on a lanyard around his neck, a waterproof plastic bag over one shoulder, and a length of nylon rope wrapped around his plump midriff.

“All that in this weather?” Frank shook his head. “Heat must've gone to your brain, Chet.”

“You just don't know about spelunking,” Chet defended himself, adding proudly, “The name comes from the Latin word for cave,
spelunca.”

“Do you need this much gear for exploring caves?” Joe put in.

“Sure, it's dangerous. You have to be prepared for emergencies,” Chet replied.

He opened his shoulder bag and took out a compass, a special watertight flashlight with a plastic lens, extra bulbs, batteries, matches, and candles in a small waterproof container. There were also plastic reflecting tape, several strips of which he had already pasted on his helmet, a cigar-shaped first-aid kit, a small knife, extra carbide and a repair kit for the lamp, and two canteens.