The secret of the caves

"Well, the stealing of autos in this neighborhood has come to an end, Frank. Wonder if anybody will ever take to stealing motorboats."

"Perhaps, Joe. But there isn't the chance to steal a boat that there was to steal cars."

"Gee, now that the excitement is over I wonder what will come up next."

"Don't know; but something is bound to happen sooner or later--it always does."

"Hope it comes soon--I don't want to get rusty."

It was a Saturday afternoon in June, one of those warm, drowsy days when even the leaves of the trees seem too indolent to stir. There was scarcely a ripple on the surface of the water, no movement but the flow of the incoming tide.

Three motorboats circled lazily about in Barmet Bay within sight of the city of Bayport. The lazy spirit of the afternoon seemed to have spread to the occupants of the boats, for they lounged about in comfortable attitudes.

Biff Hooper, in his craft, the Envoy, had devised a way of steering with his foot while sprawled on the side cushions.

In a motorboat close by, the Napoli, sat Tony Prito, whose dark hair, olive skin, and sparkling eyes indicated his Italian parentage even more emphatically than his name. In the third craft were two lads who need no introduction to readers of previous volumes in this series.

The boy at the wheel, a tall, dark, handsome lad of about sixteen, was Frank Hardy, and the other, a fair, curly-headed fellow about a year his junior, was his brother Joe. These boys were the sons of Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous private detective who lived in Bayport.

"I didn't expect to see you fellows out on the bay this afternoon," shouted Biff Hooper, raising his head over the side of his boat.

"Where did you think we'd be?" called back Frank. "Up in the attic, studying?"

"Thought you'd be out in your car," and Biff grinned widely.

There was a laugh from Tony Prito, and the Hardy boys also laughed with great good-humor. Their car was a standing joke among their chums, and, as Chet Morton put it, "standing" joke described it exactly, for it seldom moved.

"Never mind," returned Joe. "That old car served its purpose, anyway. We used it only as bait."

"It was mighty good bait," said Tony. "You caught some big fish with that old crate."

"It has earned its keep," Frank called back. "We're going to put it on a pension and let it stay in our garage for the rest of its life, without charge."

The boys were referring to a roadster that the Hardy lads had purchased out of their savings some time previous. It was a car that proved the old axiom that beauty is only skin deep, for although it glittered with nickel and paint and although its lines were trim and smooth, its inner workings were utterly beyond the comprehension of Bayport mechanics. For a few weeks after its purchase the car ran, eccentrically enough, but still it ran. Then, one day, for no apparent reason, it gave up the ghost and no amount of tinkering would prompt it even to move out of the garage.

However, as Joe had said, the car had served its purpose. The boys had picked it up cheaply, with a definite object in view. As told in the preceding volume of this series, "The Hardy Boys: The Shore Road Mystery," there had been a series of mysterious automobile thefts on the Shore Road leading out of Bayport, numerous pleasure cars and trucks having been stolen, and no amount of investigation on the part of the police had succeeded in revealing their whereabouts or the identity of the thieves.