The Firebird Rocket by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

plane and here I am.”
    â€œQuite a coincidence,” Frank commented.
    â€œThat’s right,” Ponsley challenged. “What are you doing on this plane?”
    â€œI told you we had to leave the country,” Frank pointed out. “Our investigation led us to Sydney.”
    Ponsley beamed and gestured with his hand, causing his ruby ring to throw off rays of deep red. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Both investigations will take place in Sydney. You can work on them at the same time!”
    The Hardys talked it over and concurred that they might handle the two cases while they were in Australia.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Frank told Ponsley, “but our assignment comes first. We can’t let the search for Mike Moran get in the way of that.”
    â€œAll right,” Ponsley said. “I’m glad you’ll help me. After all, I really am not a detective!”
    The Hardys returned to their seats and informed Chet about their conversation with Ponsley. Then they settled back for the rest of the flight to Los Angeles, where some passengers got off, others got on, and the jet became airborne again. The boys napped as it crossed the California coastline and headed out over the Pacific. Finally the Hawaiian Islands came into view, and soon they landed in Honolulu.
    The captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Please disembark. There will be a delay because of a technical problem.”
    Everybody went down the steps and into the terminal, where a stewardess informed them that the delay would last overnight. “A bus is ready to take you all to a hotel on Waikiki Beach,” she said. “We’ll continue the flight in the morning.”
    The boys and Ponsley boarded the bus with the other passengers and an hour later they had checked in at a luxurious hotel. From their window, the three Bayporters could see the broad band of white sand where the waters of the Pacific lapped ashore. White foam formed where the breakers rolled in. Surfboard riders tried to keep their footing on huge swells that carried them forward at express-train speeds, and most fell into the water. The rest glided triumphantly to the beach.
    â€œWhat say we try it, too?” Joe asked.
    â€œAffirmative,” Frank replied.
    â€œI’ll show you how to ride a surfboard!” Chet boasted. “Lead me to itl”
    They called Ponsley and asked him if he wanted to join them.
    â€œNo thanks,” he replied. “I’ll take a walk instead.”
    Leaving him in the hotel, the boys went to the bathhouse, rented swim trunks, and toted surf-boards into the water. They pushed through the shallow waves and reached the point far out where breakers began to form.
    â€œLast one in gets the booby prize!” Chet shouted gleefully, as he climbed up and balanced himself with his arms stretched out. A breaker caught hold of his board and sent it flying toward the beach.
    Frank and Joe followed on either side. The three made long curves up and down over the ocean swells, and they leaned to one side or the other to compensate for the tilt of their boards. Sunlight gleamed off the water and the wind blew spray into their faces.
    Chet had a lead at the start, but Frank and Joe skillfully maneuvered over the turbulent breakers until they were zooming along just behind him.
    Then a wave cutting across the breakers at an angle struck Chet’s surfboard, knocking it around. The heavy impact caused him to lose his footing and he tumbled into the water. His crazily floating board whacked him on the side of the head and he sank out of sight!
    Frank dived from his own board into the water in Chet’s direction, and Joe came headlong after him. They groped underwater as long as they could hold their breaths. Forced to surface, the Hardys gulped air and looked around frantically. Chet’s head bobbed up near Joe. His eyes were closed, and his body limp. Presently he slipped below the