"Aha!" exclaimed Mr. Hardy, in mock surprise. "So my sons were investigating, eh? What was it? A murder? A plot to blow up the White House? A train wreck? Something big, I hope."
"No—not quite that bad," admitted Frank. "It was a car theft."
Mr. Hardy shook his head.
"I'm disappointed in you," he said solemnly, "I really am. To think that sons of mine should investigate a car theft. I thought you wouldn't bother about anything less than a murder!" His eyes twinkled, and the Hardy boys, who were accustomed to their father's good-natured banter, smiled back at him.
"We weren't just practicing detective work, dad," explained Frank. "You see, Chet Morton's roadster was stolen this morning."
"Is that so!" exclaimed Mr. Hardy, genuinely concerned. "Why, that's too bad. Chet was mighty proud of that car, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was. And it hasn't been found yet."
"No trace of the thief?"
"He tried to hold up the steamboat ticket office after he stole the car."
Mr. Hardy whistled.
"Why you have been on a case worth while. Tell me all about it."
He settled back in his chair while his sons
