“Those stones over there will make a good place for the fire,” said Callie.
She had found a natural pit among the rocks. In it the boys piled the driftwood, then lighted it. Soon there was a roaring blaze. Frank heaped more rocks into the fire.
When the stones were red-hot and the flames had died out, they placed a layer of seaweed over them. Then the girls laid the lobsters, clams, and corn on the cob in rows and piled on several more layers of seaweed.
“I can hardly wait,” Chet groaned hungrily as he sniffed the tantalizing aroma of the clams.
While the food was steaming, the Hardys brought their friends up to date on Bowden, Latsky, and the search for the demiculverin.
“Later today Joe and I want to climb to the top of Pirates' Hill and look for the cannon,” Frank told them.
A few minutes later Iola announced that the food was ready. They gathered around as Joe cleared away the hot seaweed.
“Right this way, folks!” he called out. “First plateful of juicy sizzling hot clams goes to Miss Iola Morton!”
One by one the picknickers came forward and piled their plates. Every clam, lobster, and ear of corn disappeared. Then a huge watermelon was cut into sections and served.
Forty minutes later Chet rolled over on the sand. “I can't move!” he moaned.
“Neither can I!” Joe echoed. “Girls, that was the greatest meal I ever ate!”
There was little conversation during the next hour. Chet was soon snoring and the others stretched out for a rest. But finally they arose and walked toward the water's edge. Chet was the last to join the group.
“How about my doing that skin diving now?” he suggested.
“Okay,” said Frank, and helped his chubby friend into the equipment.
“I'll follow you,” said Joe, and started putting on his flippers.
Chet lunged forward and stepped into deep water. Almost at once he vanished beneath the surface. Then Joe, too, submerged.
Ten minutes later Chet came up and sloshed to the beach. He removed his face mask and grinned.
“Brought you some souvenirs, girls,” he said, and laid a large handful of unusual shells streaked with mother-of-pearl on the sand,
“Oh, they're beautiful!” Callie exclaimed.
Iola clapped Chet on the shoulder. “I'm proud of you, brother. Hope there's a pearl among these.”
“How far down did you go?” Tony asked him.
“About twenty feet,” Chet stated. “I'll go deeper next time. And here's something else I found.”
From one of his belts he brought out what looked like part of a rusty ice pick.
Tony grinned. “I suppose a whale dropped this. He likes his drinks cold and chips off the icebergs with it.”
Chet ignored the gibe. “I'm going to keep it as a souvenir!”
“Joe should have come back by this time,” Frank remarked.
Everyone looked toward the water. There was no sign of his brother. Frank became uneasy.
“I'm going to look for Joe,” he announced.
Putting on his gear, he hurried into the water and soon was lost to sight. Frank swam up and down the coast off Pirates' Hill but did not see Joe. A sinking feeling came over him. Suppose his brother had been attacked by the ray!
Then a more alarming thought struck Frank. He suddenly recalled the black-garbed skin diver who had speared his air hose earlier that week. Perhaps the man had returned!
Frank struck out faster and peered around anxiously. Suddenly above him he saw a swimmer whose body extended upright. He was clinging to a boat.
“Joe!” he thought, and hurried toward the figure.
His brother was grasping the gunwale of the
Napoli,
his face mask removed. Frank surfaced alongside of him and took off his own mask.
“Hey, Joe!” he cried out. “You gave us a scare! Where have you been?”
“Sorry, pal,” Joe replied. “I was lying in the bottom of the
Napoli.”
“Why?” Frank asked in amazement.
“I've been spying on a spy,” Joe replied. “Look to the top of Pirates' Hill! See that figure silhouetted up there? He's been watching every move you and the others have been making on the beach!”
“That guy's doing more than watching,” said Frank, staring at the lone man on the summit of the hill. “He's digging!”
CHAPTER IX
A Surprising Suspect
FROM where the Hardys were clinging to the
Napoli,
it certainly appeared as if the man were turning up the sand. He held something resembling a blunt shovel in his hands.
“He didn't have that before,” Joe stated. “Must have just picked it up.”
“Maybe he figured after watching us a while that we weren't about to climb the hill,” Frank deduced. “So he feels safe to dig for whatever he's trying to locate.”
“He might even be burying something,” Joe suggested.
“Well, let's find out what he's up to.”
The Hardys donned their masks and swam underwater to shore. Quickly they told their friends about the man on the hill and their desire to see him at close range.
“I suggest that we separate and start looking for driftwood,” Frank said. “Then Joe and I will quietly leave the rest of you and sneak up the hill.”
The others agreed, promising not to alert the man by looking up. Joe pointed out a circuitous route to the top which would escape the notice of anyone above.
“You take that way, Frank. I'll wander down the beach and go up from another direction. We'll try a pincer movement on the fellow.”
“Okay. I wonder if he's Latsky.”
“Maybe he's Bowden.”
The picnickers began gathering driftwood, calling out in loud voices which they hoped would carry to the mysterious digger.
Minutes later the Hardys were on their separate ways up the hill. They slipped and slid in the heavy sand. Progress was slow, but finally both reached the crest. Frank and Joe were about three hundred feet apart as they poked their heads above the top and looked around.
The man was nowhere in sight!
Thinking he might be hiding below a hillock of sand, the Hardys walked toward each other, keeping careful watch. They met without seeing the digger.
“Where'd he go?” Joe asked in disgust. “Do you suppose we scared him off?”
“There ought to be footprints.”
The boys searched and finally found them. They were large and far apart, indicating that they had been made by a tall man.
“They go off in the direction of Sergeant Tilton's house,” Frank noted. “But the prints can't be hisâhe isn't that tall.”
The marks might belong to Latsky or Bowden, the Hardys decided. Mystified, they followed the prints. Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank's arm.
“If it was Latsky, and if he was the one who stole the cutlasses, maybe he was burying them here until the police alert is over.”
The boys turned back and dug as best they could with their hands around the area where the stranger had been standing. But nothing came to light.
“Let's go,” Joe suggested. “We're giving that man too much of a head start.”
The Hardys hurried along the trail.
Tilton's house, a quaint one-story shingled cottage, stood about three hundred feet away. The hill alternately dipped and rose twice to the high point where the structure was located.
“The footprints lead right to the door!” Frank observed.
Watching to see if anyone might be looking from a window, Frank and Joe walked up and knocked at the door. There was no answer. Frank knocked again. This time someone within stirred. Footsteps sounded and a moment later Sergeant Tilton opened the door.
“Well, this seems to be visitors' day around here!” he said, smiling. “Welcome! Come in!”
“Did you have another caller?” Frank asked, pretending it was just a casual question.
“Yep.”
Sergeant Tilton explained that only a short while ago a stranger had stopped at the cottage.
“Where is he now?” Joe asked quickly.
“On his way back to Bayport,” Tilton replied. “He was askin' the best way to go.”
“Who was he?” Joe prodded.
“Don't rightly know,” Tilton answered. “He never said.”
“What did he look like?” Frank asked.
“Tall young man. Right nice face. Kind o' greenish eyes an' brown hair. Say, why are you two fellows so interested in this guy?”
The Hardys told Tilton it was because of their advertisement for information about cannon which the sergeant had answered.
“So if any people are going to dig for it on Pirates' Hill,” Frank added, “Joe and I want to be the ones.”
The man chuckled. “Can't say I blame you.”
Frank now told Sergeant Tilton about Mr. Lightbody's account of the Battle of Bayport. “Do you think there could be any connection between that battle and the cannon you think is buried somewhere up here?”
“I sure do,” Tilton replied. “There were some crooked dealin's between those old pirates an' certain folks here in those days. I figger mebbe somebody ashore was trying to sell the cannon or trade it fer the buccaneers' loot.”
The sergeant suddenly grinned impishly. “I've got a pirate den. D'you want to see it?”
“Pirate den!” Joe exclaimed.
“Yes sirree!” the elderly man replied. “Just follow me.”
Though the Hardys felt they should hurry off and try to overtake the young man they wanted to interrogate, they were tempted by Tilton's invitation. A few minutes would not make much difference. Furthermore, they might pick up some valuable information among his treasures.
“All right,” said Frank.
Sergeant Tilton led the boys to the kitchen. From an opening in the ceiling hung a rope ladder. The old man grabbed it and thrust his foot into the first rung.
“Up we go!” He laughed. “This is a real genu-wine freebooters' cave I got fer myself up here.”
Frank and Joe clambered up after him into the darkness of the room overhead.
“I'll turn on the lantern,” Tilton said. “I made this den out of a storage attic. There's no window. But no self-respectin' pirate would want a window in his den, anyway.”
He switched on a ship's lantern in a corner of the room. The first thing the boys noted in its dim glow was a pair of cutlasses. For a moment they wondered if the weapons could be part of the stolen collection. But just then Tilton blew a cloud of dust off them, in order to show them to better advantage. They had definitely been in the den a long time!
“Look at those treasure chests!” Joe cried out. “And all those guns!”
The room contained an amazing collection of corsair relics. Coins, rusted implements, old maps, pirate flags and costumes, and faded oil paintings of famous buccaneers decorated the walls and tables. On a rack in one corner hung a variety of old Army uniforms.
“This is great!” said Joe, and Frank added, “I wish we had time to examine each piece. I'd like to come again, Sergeant Tilton.”
“You're welcome any time,” the man said.
The boys preceded him down the ladder. As they were about to leave, Tilton said, “You know, I plumb forgot to mention something to you. The young fellow that was here a little while agoâhe's lookin' for a cannon, too!”
“He is!” Frank exclaimed. “Did he say what kind?”
“An old Spanish demiculverin.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other excitedly. They
must
find the stranger!
“Thanks a lot, Sergeant Tilton,” Frank said. “You've been a big help.”
“Don't mention it. And hurry back fer a real Visit.”
The Hardys promised and waved good-by. Then, following the large footprints that led away from Tilton's cottage, they hurried on. The tracks led down the side of one hill and up another, but Frank and Joe did not spot their quarry.
At last they reached a point as high as the one on which Tilton's house was situated. Suddenly Joe stopped and gripped Frank's arm. He pointed to a figure in a depression between dunes.
“There he is!”
“Don't let him get out of sight!” Frank urged, running in a westerly direction through the tall grass.
But at that moment the stranger entered the first of a series of deep dips in the sand.
“Oh!” Joe cried out suddenly. His right foot had slid into a hole. As he pitched forward, he felt a searing pain in his leg.
Frank turned and came back. Kneeling beside Joe, he felt the injured ankle joint. “You must have wrenched it. Better not step on your foot. Lean on me.”
“Okay,” said Joe. He was annoyed at himself. “That ends our little posse.”
“Never mind,” said Frank. “I'll help you back to the beach and we'll attend to your ankle there.”
In their concern over Joe's injury, both boys had stopped looking for the man. Now they peered across the sand hills, but did not spot him.
Moving as fast as Joe's ankle would permit, they neared the picnic spot. A fire was blazing. The Hardys grinned when they saw Chet cooking frankfurters.
“Our friend must have a vacuum for a stomach,” Joe remarked.
Frank did not reply. He was gazing intently at a strange young man who was watching Chet and chatting pleasantly with the girls. The fellow, about twenty-eight years old, was very tall, and had a determined, jutting jaw.
“Joe,” Frank said excitedly, “unless my eyes deceive me, the man we were chasing has walked right into our camp!”
“One thing is for sure,” Joe said. “He's not trying to avoid us now.”