The Missing Chums by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

The Sleuth was being rushed toward the deadly rocks of Jagged Reef!

CHAPTER IX
    The Old Salt’s Story
    BUFFETED by the current, the Sleuth plunged out of control toward the line of white exploding spray, where the sea’s swell smacked against the barrier reef.
    Joe bore down hard on the wheel as the churned-up waters, falling back from the rocks, seethed underneath. The din of crashing waves was terrific, but above it could be heard the powerful throb of the Sleuth’s engine.
    â€œIf I could only turn her!” Joe thought.
    For an instant the motorboat seemed to stand still in the midst of the boiling waters. The engine and treacherous current pulled with equal strength in a fierce tug of war. Then, slowly, the sturdy craft inched her way seaward under Joe’s guidance.
    â€œShe did it!” Frank whooped in relief. “What a boat! And nice piloting, Joe!”
    The Sleuth gathered speed and Joe took the boat out a safe distance from the reef.
    â€œToo bad we couldn’t find out if that sunken boat was the Black Cat,” he remarked. “But maybe we can learn something about the wreck when we get to Northport.”
    â€œFirst we should trace the postcard,” Frank said. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at it again carefully. “This is so old, it probably was bought in a place that doesn’t sell many,” he commented.
    â€œThe edges are yellow and the picture is out of date. There haven’t been trolleys on Waterfront Street for years. As soon as we get there, let’s look for a little hole-in-the-wall store.”
    Frank studied the card from all angles. “Joe, look!” he exclaimed, and pointed to the thin edge. There was a blue stain. “Ink,” Frank judged. “If it was spilled on the whole batch of cards, the others will have similar blots. We’ll look for that.”
    It was well past noon when the boys sighted Northport on their left. Passing between a pair of entrance buoys, the Sleuth came off the swelling ocean onto the calm surface of a small, well-protected harbor.
    On one side a forest of thick masts rose from a fleet of sturdy fishing boats. At the far end of the bay, bright-colored pleasure craft rode at anchor. Slender, pencillike masts marked the sailboats. On the shore nearby were the yellow wooden skeletons of boats under construction.
    Joe guided the Sleuth toward a large dock with gasoline pumps, which extended into the water from the boatyard.
    â€œThis must be the yard that sponsored the regatta,” Frank commented. “Bring her in, Joe.”
    Within minutes the young detectives had made their craft secure and scrambled onto the dock. They hurried down the wooden planking and turned onto Waterfront Street. There were restaurants, souvenir shops, and boat-supply stores. All of them were well kept and busy. The boys stopped in a luncheonette for a snack, then hurried on. They paused to look down the first intersecting street. It was narrow and shabby.
    â€œLet’s try the stores on this street,” Joe suggested.
    Halfway down the block, they found a small confectionery squeezed between a junk shop and an empty store. There was a sign HARRY’S on the window.
    As the boys went in, a musty smell hit them. When their eyes adjusted from bright sunlight to the dark interior, they saw a glass case of candy and a soda fountain with a broken stool. There was no one in the store.
    â€œLook!” Frank said, pointing to a rack of postcards on a shelf behind the candy case.
    As Joe stepped behind the counter to peer at them, a door opened in the rear of the store.
    â€œDon’t touch!” said a deep voice.
    The boys turned to see a big man lumbering toward them. He had a swarthy face with huge dark eyes and a heavy black mustache.
    â€œYou want a postcard?” he asked shortly.
    â€œYes, please,” Joe replied. The shopkeeper took the card rack from the shelf and placed it on the counter.