The Phantom Freighter Franklin W Dixon

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CHAPTER VII

Chefs Mew Business

when Frank and Joe reported to Mr. McClintock that the Hawk had vanished mysteriously, he went into a tirade which ordinarily would have embarrassed them. But the boys scarcely heard him. Instead, their thoughts turned to the strange happenings in connection with the ship. The threatening seaman, the swinging boom that had knocked Frank into the water, the unpleasant captain and his refusal to consider passengers, and now a new route for the Hawk evidently determined upon in a hurry.

"-so do something. And do it quick," the Hardys suddenly realized Mr. McClintock was saying. "I thought you were boys who got things done in a hurry."

Frank gulped. "Sorry, Mr. McClintock. We'll find another freighter."

"I'll go and ask at Klack's," Joe offered, hurrying back inside the agency.

Chet's New Business 57

He told the man in charge about their names being on a waiting list for a freighter voyage. "What are the chances of getting passage?" he asked.

"Practically none at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Not many of 'em take passengers, and most of 'em are booked up."

"When can I see Mr. Klack?" asked Joe.

"I'm Mr. Klack."

"Oh," said Joe. "Well, you have our phone number. Please let us know when you get a reservation. The sooner the better."

He left the office and returned to the waiting taxi. He was unusually quiet until they had dropped Mr. McClintock at his hotel. Then the boy burst out.

"Frank, I don't like that man Klack. I have a feeling he wouldn't give us a reservation if he had one."

"But why?" asked his brother.

Joe shrugged. "I'm going to make some investigations of my own."

True to his word, he was down at the docks the next morning. A freighter which had come in at seven o'clock, he learned, carried six passengers. Hurrying to the captain, he asked him if the Hardy party might take the outgoing trip.

"Sorry, son," smiled the pleasant man, "but the space was reserved not an hour ago." As Joe

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groaned, the captain continued, "The Klack Agency sold it."

Fire in his eye, Joe hurried to K lack's. Only the gum-chewing girl was there. The boy demanded to know why passage had not been given to him.

"My, but you're mad for so early in the morning," the girl said placidly. "That friend o' yours with those big muscles, he wouldn't try to chew me up the way you're doin'."

"You haven't answered my question," Joe interrupted icily.

"And I ain't goin' to," the girl replied. "I get my orders from Mr. Klack, not you."

"You mean-"

"I mean I ain't sayin' another word." She began to pound a typewriter.

Joe, nonplused, returned home. When Frank heard the disturbing report, he said:

"Something queer about it all. I'm beginning to think that somebody doesn't want us to sail on a freighter."

"What'll we do now?" Joe exclaimed. "Mr. Mc-Clintock will be calling up here-"

"And won't find us," grinned Frank. "We're going out to Chet Morton's. He phoned that he needs our help badly. He's pretty sore at us."

"We have neglected him," Joe agreed. "Wonder how much of his fifteen dollars he's earned?"

Chet's New Business 59

"He said his fly-tying business hasn't started yet. And Joe, we forgot to try to sell his rod to Mr. Mc-Clintock."

"Gosh, that's right. Well, we can still do it," said Joe. "Let's bring the rod back with us."

Chet Morton lived on a farm a few miles outside Bayport. The brothers found him sitting on the back porch surrounded by a vast assortment of tools and equipment for tying flies. There were bits of tinsel, silk floss, fur, chenille and wool. Near by lay chunks of cork, lengths of silk and wire, fishhooks of various sizes, bottles of wax and cement, and scissors and pliers. A vise was set up at the edge of the porch. Chet looked important and busy, if a little confused.

"Quite a layout, Chet," said Frank, as he and Joe sat down on the steps.

Joe gave a yelp and got up hastily. He detached a small hook from the seat of his pants.

"A trout fly looks simple," explained Chet, "but it is really pretty complicated." The stout boy had a large book propped up against the leg of a chair. He consulted-the book and picked up a size sixteen hook. "I'm tying a Quill Gordon just now. Let's see-black hackle and yellow mallard wings."

"Is this your first fly?" asked Joe.

"I've made two, so far," Chet bragged. "Here's one."

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He picked up a weird-looking thing from a tin box and handed it over. The Hardys examined it dubiously. It was like no fly they had ever seen before. One wing was considerably bigger than the other, and the hook was completely engulfed in a confused tangle of furs and feathers.

"If I were a fish," remarked Frank, "and saw anything like that plop down on the water, I'd be scared to death. What is it?"

"Actually," Chet confessed, "I started out to tie a Royal Coachman, but I didn't have any peacock feathers so I decided to turn it into a Grizzly King, but it came out different from what I expected. So I've decided to call it a Morton Special."

"It's original, at any rate," Frank commented, grinning.

"Maybe you could tie a better fly yourself," returned Chet with dignity. "Just try your hand at this Quill Gordon." He thrust over the pliers and scissors. "There's the instruction book. Go ahead."

The Hardys recognized this as a familiar maneuver. Whenever Chet began a piece of work some innocent bystander usually finished it. Frank, however, was interested in the fly tying so he studied the instructions for tying the Gordon and settled down to the job. Chet made himself comfortable with his back against a post.

Chet's New Business 61

"The big thing," he said, "is to remember that trout are suspicious of bright-colored flies. Then, too, you have to make your cast so that the fly will float as long as possible. That's for dry-fly fishing, of course. If the fly goes under the water you have to retrieve it and dry it off. It should be waterproofed with an absorbent pad and you should use dressing on the line so it will float."

Chet gave this little lecture with such an air of authority that the boys were convinced he had memorized it word foreword. He chattered cheerfully about all the money he would get selling flies, and was still going strong on the subject when Frank finished tying the Gordon.

"Not bad," admitted Chet critically. "A little too much gold wire on the ribs, and the head seems a little too large because you didn't wind the tying silk tightly enough-but on the whole, ,not bad at all. For a beginner."

"Let's go down to the stream and try it out," suggested Joe. "You try the Morton Special, Chet. Frank will use the Gordon and we'll see who gets the fish. Me, I'll dig a few worms just in case."

"Worms!" exclaimed Chet with lofty scorn. "No true angler would ever fish with a worm. Say, I guess we'd better take along a lunch. I'll see what's in the kitchen."

While Frank and Joe looked for other rods in the

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barn, Chet helped himself to some food. When he emerged from the house a few minutes later he was lugging a large hamper.

"It isn't much," he apologized. "Just a roast chicken and a cake and some pop and-"

"Wow!" cried Joe. "Are we eating or fishing?"

Frank drove the car into the hills to a trout stream called Bosnian's Creek. It was a perfect day for a picnic if not for fishing. They walked part of the way to a favorite spot. It was a wide, deep pool, sheltered by overhanging trees, at the foot of a waterfall.

Chet fitted together the ferrules of his expensive new bamboo rod, giving a little lecture as he did so.

"Nice cork grip, fairly large," he said. "It isn't so tiring as a small one. With a long-tapered rod like this a fellow should be able to place a fly almost anywhere he wishes." Chet made a few practice casts and the line snaked out over the pool. "See that white rock at the foot of the falls? I'll just lay the Morton Special to the left of it and-"

The fly shot out over the water and landed about two yards to the right of the rock. It floated for a second or so, then disappeared in a soggy mass under the water.

"Hm," said Chet. "It should float better than that."

He retrieved the Morton Special, dried it and

Chet's New Business 63

tried again. This time, on the back cast, the fly and the line became tangled in the branches of a tree.

"Oh, gosh," Chet groaned. "How about climbing up there, one of you fellows?"

The Hardys shook their heads. Chet had to climb the tree himself. He worked his way out along the branch. Under his weight, it suddenly cracked alarmingly and sagged low over the pool.

"I don't think it will take your weight, Chet," warned Frank. "Better come back."

Chet grunted. "At this time of year these branches are so green it's practically impossible to break them." He reached out, his hand not six inches from the fly. "They bend, but they won't-"

CRACK!

The sagging branch snapped off clean. There was a bleat of anguish from Chet, then a tremendous splash as he and the branch hit the pool together.

The boys were shaking with laughter when Chet rose to the surface, dripping wet, his hair plastered down over his forehead. He floundered out, muttering to himself.

"Don't see what's so funny," he grumbled.

Frank hauled the broken branch out of the pool and retrieved the line and the Morton Special.

The commotion had apparently scared any trout that might have been in the pool, because it was an

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hour before anyone was rewarded with a bite. And the lucky fisherman was Joe with a worm as bait!

"You've got a fish!" yelped Chet as he saw the line straighten out. "Strike him! Quick!"

Joe knew that a trout feeding below surface at this time of day could not be handled in such fashion. He let out more line, then drew it in slowly. Not until he felt a tug of resistance did he give battle, and finally land the fish on the bank. As it lay flapping in the grass, Chet gasped.

"What a trout!"

"Eats worms too," chuckled Joe.

This was too much for Chet. He decided it was time to eat. After three rolls, half a chicken, a large slice of cake, a doughnut, a couple of oranges and an apple, he stretched out under a tree. Joe wanted to go back to town to work on the freighter reservation, but Chet refused to budge.

"You should relax after eating," he said, and closed his eyes for a nap.

"We'll drop the hamper at your house," said Joe, starting off.

"Hey, don't leave me," Chet cried, getting up and following his friends to the car.

The Hardys dropped Chet off at the farm and drove to town. On the edge of Bayport they saw a familiar figure walking along.

Chet's New Business 65

"Looks like Patrolman Con Riley," said Joe with a grin.

Frank brought the car to a stop. Con Riley, who was on the Bayport police force, was slow-witted and never given any very important work to do. He waved to the boys, but did not smile. The policeman was wary of the Hardys, for they usually outguessed him, and a few times unwittingly had made him the laughingstock of the other policemen.

"You're a long way from headquarters," said Frank. "What's up?"

"I'm on a case."

"What's the trouble?" asked Frank. "Somebody been helping himself to an empty house?"

Con Riley's jaw dropped. He gaped at the boys,

"How did you know?" he demanded.