CARL SCHAUM
Frank Hardy wasted no time.
The motorcycle had been stolen. There was no doubt of that. That it
had been stolen within that past five minutes, he knew. When the boys
were coming out of the water he thought he had heard the clatter of
a machine, but at the time he had paid no attention to the sound,
thinking it came from the main road.
"Come on!" he shouted. "We'll chase him."
"Which way has he gone?" gasped Chet.
Frank looked at the road. It was not a traveled thoroughfare and weeds
and grass were in the ruts. It was impossible to see any sign of the
tire tread.
"Joe and I will go ahead," he decided. "Chet, you and Biff go on back
to the main road on your bike. If you don't get any trace of him, wait
for us."
He sprang onto Joe's motorcycle and his brother leaped up behind. Biff
Hooper was just emerging from the bushes and Chet quickly told him
what had happened.
In a moment the two machines were roaring off along the road in
opposite directions, Chet and Biff returning to the highway and the
Hardy boys going on down the country lane.
Once past the lake, Joe and Frank found the going was rough.
Presumably, it was just a lane connecting with the highway, and there
was little traffic over it. The motorcycle bumped along, Frank letting
the machine out as much as he dared.
They came to a dusty spot in the lane and Frank gave a cry of
exultation.
"This is the way he went! There's the tire marks!"
Clearly defined in the dust was the imprint of the tread. The boys
knew they were on the right track, but they knew that the thief was
undoubtedly proceeding as quickly as they were, if not faster.
Could they overtake him?
Coming to a more level stretch of road, Frank risked a greater speed
and the motorcycle leaped forward in a cloud of dust. There were many
curves and the high trees obscured a view of the road ahead so they had
no idea how close they were to the fugitive.
Owing to the roar of their own machine they could not have heard the
clatter of the other motorcycle even if it had been only a short
distance ahead. They could only trust to their own speed and to the
chance that the thief had not obtained too much of a start.
Suddenly, as they swerved around a bend in the road, Joe gave a cry of
delight.
In the distance, on an open stretch, half hidden by a heavy cloud of
dust, a motorcycle was hurtling toward an expanse of paved highway that
lay like a white ribbon far beyond the trees.
"That's him!" Joe shouted.
But Frank had already seen the dark object ahead.
He let the machine out to its fullest speed. He knew that if the
fugitive once gained the highway it would be impossible to overtake
him. It was now or never.
But the country road was deceptive.
Just a few yards away, he spied a culvert. It had been poorly
constructed and a bad bump was inevitable. It was suicidal to take it
at their present speed.
He desperately tried to slacken pace, but the machine reached the rise
in the road in a moment, lurched over it, seemed to leap through the
air, and then hit the road again with a crash. There was a tremendous
jolt.
Frank's grip was almost torn from the handlebars, but he held on
tightly. Joe had grasped him tightly around the waist and still
retained his seat.
The motorcycle swerved, skidded wildly, and headed toward the ditch.
But Frank had set himself for the shock of going over the culvert and
he acted almost instinctively.
Had he been unprepared he would certainly have lost control of the
motorcycle and both he and Joe might have been killed. He swung the
hurtling machine back into mid-road again just when it seemed that it
was about to crash into the deep ditch. He did not slacken speed, for
that would have meant a dangerous skid.
By skillful handling, he settled the machine on the smoothest part of
the road again and it roared on down the stretch.
The fugitive, too, seemed to be having trouble. The motorcycle ahead
was lurching and bouncing in an alarming manner and its speed had
slackened. Frank's experienced eye saw that the thief had encountered
a rough and treacherous piece of road that ran for about half a mile
before it met the main highway.
Suddenly they saw the machine swerve wildly and go completely over on
its side. The driver was thrown into the middle of the road.
"He's done for!" Frank shouted.
But his joy was short-lived. The thief had not given up yet. He
scrambled to his feet and returned to the motorcycle, righted it, and
leaped into the saddle. The machine, evidently undamaged, bounded
forward again.
However, the accident had given the Hardy boys a chance to make up
ground and they had gained considerably. In a few moments they reached
the beginning of the rough section of the road and the fugitive was no
more than two hundred yards ahead.
The two motorcycles lurched and bounded over the bumpy surface. Frank
saw that the thief was not a first-class driver. He seemed to be having
a great deal of trouble keeping the stolen machine on the road and did
not dare travel at high speed.
As for himself, he saw that he would have to take chances. He shouted
to Joe, "Hang on!" and let the motorcycle out as much as he dared.
It was a rough ride. More than once it seemed as though they would
crash, but they steadily gained on the fugitive.
The man looked behind. He saw that he had no hope of reaching the
highway.
The stolen motorcycle came to a stop. The rider leaped out into the
road and ran toward the ditch. Beyond it there was a fence and a high
bank of trees. Through the ditch and over the fence scrambled the
fugitive. He looked back again just as the Hardy boys drew up beside
the abandoned machine and then disappeared among the trees.
The boys were at first inclined to follow, and Joe dashed toward the
ditch in pursuit. But Frank's better counsel prevailed.
"Let him go," he said. "We'd never find him in that underbrush, and
he might just double back to the road again and clear out on the
motorcycle. We've got the machine back. That's the main thing."
Reluctantly, Joe came back.
"Yes, we've got the machine. But I'd like to lay my hands on that
crook."
"Didn't you recognize him?"
Joe shook his head.
"I only caught a glimpse of his face but it seems to me I've seen him
before."
"We've both seen him before."
"Where?"
"The Shore Road gang."
"The auto thieves?"
Frank nodded his head in assent.
"Then," exclaimed Joe, "that must be Carl Schaum! All the others are in
jail."
"That's who it is, all right. I recognized him the moment he looked
back."
"I wish I had chased him!" declared Joe.
"He's likely putting a lot of distance between himself and us just now.
I guess the reason he stole the motorcycle was to help him in his
getaway, for the police are looking for him since he escaped from jail."
"If we had caught him we would have had to take him back to Bayport
anyway," Joe remarked philosophically. "It would have interrupted our
trip. Perhaps it's just as well."
"He'll be picked up somewhere else. I'm glad he didn't get my
motorcycle. That would have upset the trip even worse."
Frank examined the machine. It had been slightly damaged by the upset
on the rough road and there were a few dents and scrapes, but there
was nothing seriously wrong with it. He mounted the motorcycle and its
staccato roar soon filled the air.
"Running as good as ever," he said, with satisfaction.
"Good! Shall we go back now?"
"We may as well. There's no use chasing Carl Schaum, and the others
will be wondering what has happened."
The brothers rode back toward the swimming pool and then out to the
highway, where they found Chet and Biff waiting for them. Not having
found any trace of the machine on the highway the chums had waited
according to instructions. When they saw the brothers coming in view,
each on his own machine, they raised a cheer.
"Good work!" shouted Chet. "Did you have to battle for it?"
"No battle at all," returned Frank, bringing the motorcycle to a stop.
"An old friend of ours had just borrowed it for a little ride."
Chet looked at him incredulously. Frank laughed at the expression on
his chum's face.
"An old friend!" exclaimed Biff. "I didn't know you had any friends
around this part of the country."
"He wasn't exactly a friend. An acquaintance, I should say. Carl Schaum
swiped the machine."
Chet and Biff whistled simultaneously.
"Schaum was the thief!" Biff exclaimed. "Are you sure?"
"Where is he?" demanded Chet. "Did you tie him up?"
"We didn't catch him," confessed Joe. "He left the bike in the road
when he saw we were gaining on him. Then he cleared out over the fence
and into the woods."
"That was too bad!" exclaimed Chet.
"Are you sure it was Carl Schaum?" asked Biff Hooper, for the second
time.
"I got a good look at him," Frank said. "It was Carl Schaum, all right.
When we get to the next town we'll tell the police. If they know he's
around here at all they'll probably land him without much trouble."
Chet went over to his motorcycle.
"Well, the sooner we get to the next town, the better. We've lost quite
a bit of time already. What say we start on again?"
The chums agreed that the discovery of the swimming hole had cost them
considerably more time than they had expected, so accordingly they
mounted their machines again and set out on the highway once more.