Free The Vanishing Thieves by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

head into the galley, Big Harry woke his companions.
    When Red and Anton were up and dressed, the boys were untied one at a time and told to wash up. Then they were allowed one sweet roll each from a sack Big Harry had brought along.
    After their meager breakfast, the young detectives were left sitting in the galley, with only their wrists bound, under the watchful eyes of Red and Anton. Big Harry and Crafty went above and started the engines. About ten minutes after the boys felt the boat pull away from the dock, Crafty called down from above, “The skipper says to bring them topside.”
    Red and Anton herded the boys on deck. They saw that the boat, with Big Harry at the helm, was headed well out to sea. “Sit with your backs to the rail!” Red ordered. Frank and Chet lowered themselves on the portside, while Joe and Vern leaned against the starboard rail.
    Standing over Frank and looking down at him, Crafty Kraft began the interrogation. “How much does your father know about our operation at the warehouse?”
    â€œHow could he know anything?” Frank inquired. “He lives in Bayport.”
    â€œHe sent you and your brother here,” the tattooed man said impatiently. “And I’m sure you’ve phoned him since you found out about us.”
    â€œWe came here on our own,” Joe spoke up. “And we’ll give you our word that we haven’t talked to him since we arrived.”
    Crafty turned around to face the boy. “You feel like talking?”
    â€œI have nothing to talk about!”
    Crafty told Anton to follow him, and the two went down into the cabin. Shortly they reappeared with two small, rowboat-size anchors.
    They dropped them on the deck near the boys’ feet. Then, while Anton joined Red and Big Harry at the bridge, Crafty went below again.
    When he came back, he was carrying a coil of thin wire in one hand and a pair of wire cutters in the other. Dropping the wire near the anchors, he snipped off four lengths of about four feet each.
    â€œWhat’s that for?” Chet inquired fearfully.
    â€œNothing, if your friends talk,” Crafty told him. “If they don‘t, we’re going to see how well you boys can swim with anchors tied to your bodies.”
    â€œHey, that’s murder!” Chet protested.
    â€œSo, try calling a cop!” Crafty snarled.
    Dropping the wire cutters next to the anchors, the tattooed man went forward to confer with his companions.
    The wire cutters were closer to Joe than to any of the others. Glancing toward the bridge, he whispered, “Keep watch and warn me if any of them look this way.”
    He had just started to inch forward when Frank hissed, “Watch out!”
    Joe hurriedly slid back against the rail, just as Crafty Kraft came back to stand over him again.
    â€œYour last chance,” he said. “Would you rather talk or go overboard?”
    â€œI have nothing to talk about,” Joe said evenly.
    The tattooed man kneeled down before the boy and passed a piece of wire around his waist, twisted it tight and fastened an anchor to it. Then he rose to his feet. “I’ll let you think about it a while. Soon as we’re three miles out, I’ll ask you again.”
    He went to the bridge. As soon as his back was turned, Joe again inched forward on the seat of his pants. Then he swung around and gripped the wire cutters with his right hand. He twisted the jaws of the cutters toward the rope binding his wrists, but found it too awkward in a seated position. Slowly he struggled to his feet.
    At that moment, Big Harry spotted a log floating in the water just ahead and made a sharp turn to port. Frank and Chet both slid toward the starboard rail. Joe started to lose his balance, almost recovered, but then Chet’s sliding body crashed into him.
    Joe’s knees hit the rail and, head first, he pitched overboard!

12 Turned Tables
    The younger Hardy took a deep breath just