Free The Missing Chums by Franklin W. Dixon

protecting darkness.
    â€œWhew!” breathed Joe as he tumbled, panting, into the motorboat. “They must have been on deck, watching.”
    â€œAnyhow, I found out what we wanted to know,” Frank reported. “That wasn’t Chet, but a boy who looks a lot like him.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œHe tackled me. I said, ‘Chet, it’s Frank!’ but he hung on tightly. That’s when I yelled for you to go over the side.”
    Joe started the motor and opened the throttle all the way. As the Sleuth gained power, the prow lifted and the boat leaped forward. Safely away from the yacht, Joe switched on the running lights. Along the shore, they could see a solitary light here and there. Presently the bright glow of beach fires told them they were passing Shantytown.
    â€œNo more stops tonight,” Frank said with a chuckle.
    The Sleuth crossed the quiet expanse of Bayport harbor and finally entered their boathouse. Twenty minutes later they reached the Hardy house. Their mother and aunt were anxiously waiting.
    â€œGoodness gracious!” scolded Aunt Gertrude. “Is this a time to come home—” She stopped and gasped. “Oh! Look at them! Soaking wet—like a pair of drowned rats!”
    â€œWe’re almost dry, Auntie,” Joe replied with a laugh. “We fell in over an hour ago.”
    â€œFell in!” their mother exclaimed. “We can’t wait to hear! But first you’d better go upstairs and change, then have some supper.”
    Soon Frank and Joe, comfortable in fresh, dry clothes, were seated at the kitchen table before a late but steaming dinner.
    â€œWhere’s Dad?” Frank asked.
    â€œHe left town this afternoon,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “He’s checking an out-of-state clue on the bank robbery. Now tell us what happened to you boys.”
    â€œWell, we thought we saw Chet on a schooner,” Frank began, as he cut into a generous slice of roast beef.
    â€œOnly it wasn’t Chet ...” Joe said, and helped himself to a baked potato.
    â€œThey thought we were thieves ...” Frank tried again.
    â€œSo we jumped overboard!” Joe added.
    â€œA very clear account,” Aunt Gertrude commented tartly.
    As soon as the brothers finished eating they excused themselves, jumped up, and headed for the back door.
    â€œOh, no!” cried Aunt Gertrude in alarm. “Where are you off to now?”
    â€œJust out to the laboratory, Auntie,” Frank reassured her. “We found something today we must work on.”
    The boys ran up the garage stairs and Joe unlocked the door at the top. Frank switched on the fluorescent light over a clean table. On it he laid the cheesecloth bundle of glass fragments from the Sleuth.
    â€œWe’ll need something to hold these together,” he noted, unwrapping the green shards. As the brothers examined them, Frank reached for a container of putty. “This will be better than glue.”
    Treating the fragments like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, the young sleuths rebuilt a twelve-ounce, green-tinted pop bottle.
    â€œFizzle,” Joe read from the raised glass letters. “Fizzle—where—”
    â€œHarry’s confectionery in Northport!” Frank broke in excitedly. “The owner said that the bald man bought several bottles of Fizzle!”
    â€œYou mean he might have been the one who left the broken glass in the Sleuth?”
    â€œYes! Not only that—he might have done it while helping to steal our boat.”
    â€œWait a minute!” Joe’s thoughts raced as he followed his brother’s line of deduction. “If that’s true, he could be one of the bank robbers! They stole a car in Northport!”
    â€œAnd don’t forget the postcard business, which may tie him in with the kidnaping of Chet and Biff!”
    Joe nodded. “Then there’s Ben Stark, the pilot of the Black Cat, which by the way, came down