Free The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge by Franklin W. Dixon

questions. What are you? A reporter?”
    With difficulty Joe held back a retort and mumbled, “Sorry.”
    Chet, ravenous, reached for a third piece of bread. He changed his mind abruptly as Angan stared at him.
    â€œWe don’t like heavyweights on our crew!” the foreman said pointedly.
    Having finished, Chet rose to leave. As he neared the end of the bench where Angan sat, Chet accidentally jostled the man’s elbow, and the cup of coffee he held spilled over the table.
    â€œDummy!” roared Angan, jumping up. With one hand he grasped the front of Chet’s work shirt and twisted it until the buttons nearly popped. His other fist cocked back. “For two cents I’d—”
    Without warning, Willy Teeple’s big hands grasped the foreman’s wrist in a viselike grip.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that, Mr. Angan,” Willy said softly.

CHAPTER XI
    Jailbird Language
    WILLY TEEPLE’S grasp prevented Angan’s fist from sailing to its mark on Chet’s jaw. The foreman released him and swung on Willy. At the same instant, Bond Deemer ran over and forced himself between the two.
    â€œWhat’s the idea of interfering, Teeple?” Deemer thundered. “Angan handles the men around here.”
    The hillbilly backed off, his face showing no resentment. “Okay, Mr. Deemer,” he said.
    Chet, meanwhile, had stood by half stunned by the foreman’s sudden violence. His pals had found it hard not to go to his aid. To their surprise, Angan turned to Chet apologetically.
    â€œI’m sorry, Ball,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. But we’re in an awful mess around here and my nerves are on the raw edge.”
    â€œThat’s all right, Mr. Angan,” replied Chet, relieved.
    â€œYou know what’ll happen if our bad luck continues,” Angan said, looking about in appeal to the onlooking workmen. “The Prito company will be penalized five hundred dollars a day for every day extra it takes to finish this job beyond the time we’ve contracted for.”
    Tony spoke up. “I guess that would just about put Mr. Prito out of business, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œI’m afraid so,” Angan replied, “and Prito’s a good guy.”
    â€œOkay, break it up,” Deemer ordered impatiently. “Back to work.”
    With a scuffle of heavy boots, the workmen filed out of the commissary. On the way Chet thanked Willy for coming to his rescue. The gangling youth gave a quick nod and turned off. Soon power shovels were chugging and earth-moving equipment went bouncing over the rough, unfinished portions of the highway. Working together, Frank and Joe found an opportunity to discuss the work gang.
    â€œIt’s hard to tell who’s friend or foe,” Joe remarked. “But I guess it’s too soon to form any suspicions.”
    The Hardys agreed that Angan, although hot-tempered, seemed to be regular.
    â€œHe was actually sorry for Mr. Prito,” Frank observed.
    â€œDeemer’s not especially good-natured, either,” said Joe. “But he seems okay.”
    The Hardys’ contact with their pals for the rest of the day was brief and surreptitious.
    â€œAnything new?” Frank asked as he passed close to Chet.
    â€œNo.”
    The same question, whispered in passing, to Phil, Biff, and Tony also produced a negative reply.
    After the evening meal was finished, Frank drew his brother aside. “We’ve got to do some sleuthing tonight,” he said.
    The Hardys sauntered amid the workmen lounging about, some smoking, others chatting in front of the bunk trailers. Frank sat on a tree stump while Joe flopped on a grassy knoll nearby. Soon they were casually approached by Tony.
    â€œHi, there,” he said in a loud voice. “How do you like working here?” Then, in lowered tones, he added, “What took you both so long?”
    In a nonchalant manner, but with a