CHAPTER XVI

Lower Than Pigs

JOE checked his speed just in time to keep from falling into a deep pit. Biff lay moaning at the bottom of the hole.

Frank and Tony ran to help Joe pull Biff out.

“Ow! My left ankle! It’s broken!”

Frank quickly examined the injury. “It could be, but I think it’s only a bad sprain. Here, try to stand.” Biff made the attempt, winced, and nearly fell down.

“Somebody pulled a dirty trick,” Joe said.

The boys found that the freshly dug pit had been covered with boughs and a strip of tar paper, over which pine needles had been scattered.

Frank surmised that they probably were pretty close to Rosy, and that the trap had been placed there to discourage the curious.

After a hurried consultation, it was decided to get Biff back to Bayport as soon as possible.

“We’ll have you flown from the Boonton Airport,” Joe said. “Phil can go with you. Here, Biff, put an arm around my shoulder.”

With Frank and Joe on either side of their injured pal, Biff hobbled as fast he could. Occasionally Tony spelled each of the Hardys, until they reached the road leading to Boonton. It was gravelly and barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass.

“We might have to wait all day for a lift,” Biff said, discouraged. Frank examined the injured ankle once more. It was so swollen that Frank removed the work boot. As he did, the sound of wheels drifted from around a bend in the road, and into view came a horse pulling a wagon loaded with pigs.

The driver, obviously a farmer, stopped when the boys hailed him. He was tall and gaunt, showing a thin, weather-beaten face in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

“Going to Boonton?” Joe asked.

“Yep.”

“Would you give us a lift? Biff here is injured. Sprained his ankle.”

“Ain’t room enough.”

“Please, Mr.-“

“Teeple’s the name.” The man tilted his hat and jerked a thumb toward his pigs. “I’m going to market. Got a full load.”

Frank tried a long shot. “Are you Willy Teeple’s father?”

The question caught the man by surprise. “You know my son?”

“Sure, he works for the baron!”

“You in that gang too?” the farmer asked, frightened, and Frank saw he was about to put the whip to the horse.

“Wait, Mr. Teeple. No, we don’t work for the baron, but we heard about him, on the road job. Do you know who the baron is, and where he hides out?”

The farmer grew agitated. “All I can say is the baron’s a bad man. I don’t know what he’s done to my Willy. But terrible things have been happening. Okay, the three of you get in back with the pigs. I’ll take the injured lad up front with me.”

Frank, Joe, and Tony pushed Biff up onto the seat beside Willy’s father. Then they jumped in with the pigs, and the wagon started toward Boonton.

“What are you boys doing here?” the farmer asked. “It’s dangerous.”

“Willy told us that,” Frank said. “We’re looking for Rosy.”

“The devil himself makes that fire!” the farmer exclaimed. On further questioning, he told the boys that several people, who had ventured near it, had vanished. “Including a detective!”

Before Frank could ask another question, a jeep appeared over the brow of a rolling hill, a mile away. Joe whipped the binoculars to his eyes.

“Here comes trouble. Four rough-looking customers and I’ll bet they’re the baron’s men.”

“We’ll have to hide among the pigs,” Frank said. He grabbed Biff by the shoulders and pulled him into the back of the wagon. Then the four companions lay flat, with the pigs snorting and grunting and stepping over them with their cloven hoofs.

“This isn’t exactly a perfume factory,” Joe remarked.

“Quiet,” Frank whispered. “Here comes the car.”

With screeching brakes, the jeep came to a stop, alongside the farmer’s wagon.

“Hey, you! We’re looking for four guys. Have you seen ‘em?”

“What you say?”

“We’re looking for four of our road crew. They’ve stolen the payroll!”

“Hay what?”

“Oh, he’s deaf,” one of the men growled. “Let’s go.”

The jeep roared off, and when it was out of sight, the youths crawled from under the pigs.

“Thanks, Mr. Teeple!” Frank said. “That was a close call for us. And we’re not thieves.”

“I know it.”

The wagon crossed a small brook and stopped so the boys could wash and bathe Biff’s swollen ankle in the cold water. When they finally arrived at the airport, the Hardys and their pals thanked the farmer.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Teeple,” Frank said. “Your son is okay. We’re going to try to help him! But don’t say a word about this to anybody.”

The farmer promised and the hitchhikers got out, assisting Biff gingerly into the terminal building. Joe immediately phoned Phil, asking him to check out of the hotel and hurry to the airport. Then the starved boys went to the lunch counter.

By the time they had finished three hamburgers apiece, Phil Cohen stepped out of a taxi and ran to greet them. After hearing their story, he said, “I’ve got some news, too.”

Phil reported spying on four suspicious men staying at his hotel. “I heard them giving the password ‘helix’ to the bellman,” he said, and pulled a sketch from his pocket. It showed the faces of the four men.

“I think they’re the ones who were in the jeep,” said Joe. He took the sketch for future reference.

When Phil heard he was to accompany Biff back to Bayport, he asked, “What do we do for money?”

“Fly now, pay later.” Frank chuckled, and hurried away to convince a charter pilot that Radley would pay the bill at Bayport.

After the two boys had winged off, Frank, Joe, and Tony went directly to the Boonton police station. There they inquired whether Yancy had had any visitors at the hospital. A lieutenant named Murphy reported that Yancy had had but one visitor-a seedy fellow who looked harmless enough. “Claimed to be a distant cousin.”

“Did you put a tail on him?” asked Tony.

Murphy said a patrolman had shadowed the man as far as a shack at the outskirts of Boonton. “It convinced us that he was just a drifter,” Murphy continued, “so we didn’t bother any further.”

The boys thanked the officer, got directions to the shack, and hastened to find it. It was located not far from the town dump, and was constructed of old planks and wooden packing cases. The makeshift roof, of corrugated tin, was full of holes.

The trio approached the rickety door of the windowless shelter. Frank listened. Silence. He opened it quietly and the three stepped inside.

“This isn’t exactly the Waldorf-Astoria,” Tony said with a chuckle. The shack was littered with empty bottles, tin cans, and stacks of old newspapers.

Frank and Joe immediately poked about the debris, looking for a clue to the mystery man. On the floor, poking out from under a moldy mattress, was a handle of a brief case. As Joe bent down to reach for it, footsteps sounded outside.

“He’s coming back,” Frank whispered. “Duck!”

The boys hid behind a stack of cartons and listened. The footsteps came closer, then circled the shack. Finally the door opened slowly.

“Oh boy!” a childish voice sang out. “He’s not here today, either.”

“Now we can play detective club again,” a second voice chimed in.

Frank, Joe, and Tony stepped out from behind the boxes to see two young boys peering inside. They cried out with fright, turned, and fled.

“Come back here,” Joe called. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

The youngsters stopped, then hesitatingly returned. “You aren’t robbers or anything?” asked the older one, who was about ten.

“Of course not,” said Joe. “Say, what are your names?”

The older boy was Andy Pulaski; the other, three years younger, was Rick. “We’re brothers arid we live on Church Street,” declared Andy. He said they often came to the shack to play, but a rough-looking man had scared them away several times.

“He’s a bum!” Rick said, nodding his head vigorously. “I can tell, ‘cause he doesn’t shave.”

“Well, you can play here all you want,” said

Frank. He reached down and pulled the brief case from under the mattress. Then, leaving the boys to their fun, the young sleuths hastened away.

In the seclusion of a grove of trees, Frank and Joe stopped to examine the brief case, while Tony looked on.

Both sides were scorched and charred, and the place where initials would normally be imprinted was covered with dried mud.

Frank took out his knife and scraped away the crusty dirt. The initials showed up clearly- F.H.I