Anxious Days
It was not until the next evening that the result of the investigation
into the airplane crash was officially announced. Then, to the joy of
the Hardy boys, they learned that the authorities held them blameless
for the accident.
The report ran, in part:
“A thorough investigation of the circumstances surrounding the
crash has led us to decide that the responsibility rests wholly
with the pilot, Giles Ducroy. We find that Ducroy had been
drinking on the day of the accident and that, according to
reliable witnesses, he was still under the influence of liquor
after the wreck. In his condition, Ducroy was unable to make a
proper landing. He has made a clumsy attempt to lay the blame on
two boys driving an automobile in the road near the scene of the
crash, but this is manifestly absurd. The motorists, on the
other hand, had a narrow escape from death because of Ducroy’s
irresponsible handling of his plane, and certainly no blame can
be attached to them.”
Frank danced an impromptu jig. “Hurrah!” he shouted. “That takes a load
off my mind.”
“I’ll bet dad put in an oar for us,” said Joe happily.
“Shouldn’t be surprised. Let’s go and ask him.”
When they entered Fenton Hardy’s study, the detective smiled at their
evident delight.
“What’s happened?” he asked. “Have you fallen heir to a fortune?”
“Better than that. The post office people have announced that we aren’t
to blame for that plane wreck,” declared Frank. “We’ve been worrying our
heads off about it.”
“Did you help, Dad?” asked Joe.
“Oh, I may have said a few things to the inspector,” observed Mr. Hardy.
“He is an old friend of mine and I have done him a few favors in my
time. It really wasn’t necessary, because I don’t think they would have
blamed you in any case. But it prevented them from being fooled by
Ducroy, anyway.”
“That was certainly mighty fine of you. Dad!” exclaimed Frank. “I don’t
know how we can thank you.”
“I know,” said their father. “You can go back to school to-morrow and
dig into those examinations and graduate this year.”
“We’ll do our best,” they promised.
“The exams won’t be so bad, now that this worry is off our minds,” added
Joe.
For the rest of the week the Hardy boys attacked their final
examinations with such determination and enthusiasm, unmarred by any
worries about the airplane accident, that when they handed in their
final papers they knew that if they had obtained passing marks on the
papers written earlier in the week there was little doubt of the final
outcome.
“But that’s just the trouble,” groaned Joe. “I was so worried when I
wrote those first papers that I’m sure I didn’t get by.”
“Forget it,” advised Frank. “The exams are over and we can’t change the
papers now. We’ll just have to be patient and wait for the results.”
“I wish I knew them now,” said Chet Morton. “If I don’t pass this year,
my dad will flay me alive. I might as well pack up and head for Alaska
if I don’t get through. What are you fellows going to do, now that
school is over?”
“Wait for the results,” returned Frank. “If we pass, I think dad wants
us to go to college and we’ll have to start making our plans.”
Jerry Gilroy, another chum of the Hardy boys, sauntered up.
“How about you, Jerry?” asked Frank, “What are you going to do now?”
“I have a job,” announced Jerry calmly.
“Already?” the others exclaimed enviously.
“I start work Monday as a reporter for _The Banner_.” Jerry stuck out
his chest and pulled his hat brim down over one eye.
“That’s a good job,” said Tony Prito, who joined the group at that
moment. “You’ll be able to get into all the shows in town for nothing
and get through the police lines at all the fires.”
“Well,” said Jerry doubtfully, “just at first they’re putting me at work
writing up obituaries and real estate deals. But I’ll soon work my way
up,” he added hastily.
Tony Prito announced that his parents had decided on a college course
for him and that Phil Cohen was bound in the same direction.
“Looks as if the old gang will be broken up by next fall,” said Joe
glumly.
“That’s true,” agreed Chet. “I think we all ought to get together as
soon as we know the results of the exams and have one big party to
celebrate.”
“A picnic!” exclaimed Frank.
“Good idea!” declared Jerry Gilroy. “I’ll write it up for the paper.”
“Where shall we have the picnic?” asked Tony. “Beach Grove?”
“Beach Grove is the only place for a picnic. We’ll have the whole
graduating class,” Frank said. “The girls, too.”
“I don’t know about that,” demurred Chet, who did not care for girls.
“Go on with you. If we have a class picnic we can’t leave the girls out.
Anyway, they’ll be sure to bring along lots of eats.”
“Oh, I forgot about that,” said Chet, who had a weakness for food. “By
all means, we must have the girls along.”
“In the meantime, Jerry, keep your eyes open around your newspaper
office and see if you can’t get a look at the examination results when
they’re sent in for publication,” Frank suggested. “They’ll appear in
the paper first, and if you get on the good side of the city editor he
may let you have a look at them.”
“And phone us right away,” added Chet.
Jerry promised to keep on the lookout for the examination results.
Frank’s suggestion of a picnic met with the instant favor of the other
members of the graduation class who were enthusiastic over the idea.
They all realized that within the next few months the class would be
scattered far and wide and that it would probably be their last
opportunity of being all together.
Then they settled down to the tedious business of awaiting the
all-important results. Two days passed, with no word from Jerry Gilroy,
who had extracted a promise from his city editor that he would be shown
the list as soon as it reached the office. The Hardy boys and their
chums bided their time with such patience as they could muster. Frank
and Joe went out on Barmet Bay in their motorboat, _The Sleuth_, and
explored the countryside in their roadster.
On Thursday morning the boys were in the gymnasium in the barn back of
the Hardy home. Chet Morton was sitting in a window munching at an
apple, as usual. Biff Hooper was drumming away at the punching bag. Tony
Prito was practicing some complicated maneuvers on the parallel bars,
while Phil Cohen and Joe Hardy were engaged in a spirited wrestling
match. Frank was busy trying to repair a broken baseball bat, with small
success.
“Somebody calling you, Frank,” said Chet, glancing out the window.
Frank looked out. Aunt Gertrude was standing in the back door, beckoning
to him.
“You’re wanted on the telephone,” she called.
“It must be from Jerry!” shouted Frank.
The others stopped their activities instantly. Frank almost tumbled down
the stairs in his anxiety to reach the house in the quickest possible
time. The other boys crowded to the window. They saw him disappear into
the house. He seemed to be away for a long time.
“Bad news, I’m sure of it,” moaned Chet.
“Good news, I’ll bet a cookie,” said Joe, trying to be cheerful.
After a while they saw Frank come out of the house. His shoulders
drooped. He walked slowly.
“What’s the verdict?” clamored Chet.
Frank looked up, shook his head mournfully, and sighed. They heard him
coming up the stairs.
“I knew it,” Chet groaned. “We’ve all failed.”
When Frank came up into the gymnasium they crowded around him. He looked
as though he had lost every friend he had in the world.
“For the love of Pete, don’t keep us in suspense!” demanded Tony. “Was
it Jerry? What did he say?”
“It was from Jerry,” admitted Frank heavily. “Well, fellows, I don’t
know how you’re going to feel about it, but as for me——” he shook his
head again.
“Back to the high school for another year, is it?” asked Joe solemnly.
“Don’t take it too badly, fellows. Of course, we all knew the exams were
harder than usual.”
“Yes, they were tough,” admitted Chet. “But, hang it all, didn’t _some_
of us get through? I was sure I’d failed, but I thought the rest of you
would make it.”
“The results are out,” said Frank. “I know you’re going to feel bad
about it, but every one of us—every one, mind you—_passed_!”
“What?” they roared.
Frank turned a handspring.
“We all passed!” he yelled, in delight. Then he sat down on the floor
and laughed at the expression on their faces. “Boy! didn’t I throw a
scare into you?”
Biff Hooper hurled a boxing glove at him. Phil Cohen seized Tony Prito
around the waist and danced about in glee. Chet threw away the core of
his apple and stood on his head. Joe vaulted over the parallel bars.
Pandemonium reigned.
School was over at last!
“And now,” shouted Frank, “for the picnic!”