The Phantom Freighter by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

pair of binoculars. Through the glasses he saw that the men were apparently battling for possession of a large carton. One of them stumbled back with it in his arms. As the other leaped toward him he raised the box high in the air and hurled it overboard.
    His opponent sprang at him, knocking him down with a savage blow to the jaw. Then he lurched to the wheel of the boat and swung the craft away from the rocky shore.
    The men and their fight were of no great concern to the Hardys, but the carton was. Could it possibly have some connection with their case? they wondered.
    Frank headed for the spot where the cardboard container was bobbing up and down in the water, and Biff and Joe hauled it aboard. The sodden carton, with no marks of identification, was torn open. Frank reached in and pulled out the contents. Nothing but tightly packed wool!
    â€œWhy were those two fellows fighting over a box of raw wool?” Biff asked, puzzled.
    â€œThat’s their business,” Chet said impatiently. “Let’s go out farther and try my herring again.”
    The Hardys, however, were eager to take the carton home and examine it more carefully for possible clues. They were intrigued by the resemblance to the James Johnson box which had come to their house by mistake. Both young sleuths felt sure there was a link between the two!
    In their garage Frank went over every inch of the outside of the box. “Not a mark anywhere,” he reported.
    Joe, meanwhile, had pulled apart every bit of the compressed wool. There was no trace of anything secreted in the fluffy mass.
    â€œOnly one more place to look,” said Frank and carefully examined the interior sides of the carton. “Nothing here, either,” he added. “Whatever was packed in the wool must have fallen out, either before the guy threw the box into the water or after.”
    The boys cleaned up the mess and went into the house, where they found that the mystery had taken a new and unexpected turn. Aunt Gertrude, looking grim, met them in the kitchen.
    â€œMy papers!” she exclaimed in excitement. “Some of them have turned up. Your father just had a letter about them and wants you to take care of it. Look at this!”
    Frank and Joe eagerly read the letter, which was postmarked Hopkinsville, several miles away, and had been mailed the previous day:
    Dear Mr. Hardy:
    I am a dealer in autographs and historical documents. Recently there came into my hands a number of letters in which you may be interested. They were written in 1812 by Admiral Hardy, one of your ancestors. If you would like to consider purchasing these letters, please get in touch with me.
    Your sincerely,
Daniel J. Eaton
    The boys gazed at their aunt in astonishment.
    â€œWhere did he come across the letters?” Frank asked.
    â€œThat’s what I’m wondering!” declared Aunt Gertrude. “Because those very letters were in my lost carton. The man has the impudence to try to sell us our own property!”

CHAPTER IX
    Code Numbers
    FRANK and Joe lost no time in getting to Hopkinsville and finding Daniel J. Eaton. He was a short, baldish man. His little store was wedged inconspicuously between an establishment featuring antique glass and one selling furniture.
    Hopkinsville seemed to have many such places —stores dealing in stamps, coins, and rare books. An ideal spot to dispose of old documents!
    â€œHere are the letters. They’re authentic, all right,” Mr. Eaton told the boys as they examined the Admiral Hardy letters.
    â€œPlease tell us where you got these,” Frank requested.
    â€œThey were sold to me by a Miss Elizabeth Hardy a few days ago,” the man replied. “She said the letters had been in her possession for many years.”
    â€œWould they be valuable to a museum or to a collector?” Joe asked.
    Mr. Eaton shook his head. “Not really. To another member of the Hardy family, however, someone such as your