stolen car will be recovered when the thief tries to get rid of it. The engine numbers alone often trip them up. Of course, I guess they'd clap on false license plates, but it's pretty hard to get away with a fine-looking car like Martin's unless it's been repainted and altered a bit." "It's no fun to lose a car," declared Chet. "I remember how badly I felt when the crooks stole my roadster last year." "You got it back, anyway." "Yes, I got it back. But I was mighty blue until I did." The motorcycles rounded a bend in the road and before the boys lay a wide stretch of open highway, descending in a gradual slope. To their right lay Barmet Bay, sparkling in the afternoon sun. At the bottom of the slope was a grassy expanse that opened out on the beach, the road at this point being only a few feet above the sea level. The little meadow was a favorite parking place for motorists, as their cars could regain the road easily, but to-day there was not an automobile in sight. "Look at that," said Frank. "No one here on a nice afternoon like this." At that moment, however, the appearance of a man who came running up from the beach and across the grass, belied his words. "Some one's here all right," remarked Joe. "And he seems in a hurry about something." As the boys rode down the slope they could see the man hastening out into the middle of the road, where he stood waving his arms. "Looks like Isaac Fussy, doesn't it?" said Chet. "The rich old fisherman?" "Yes, it's Fussy all right. Look at him dancing around. Wonder what's the matter." In a few moments the boys had drawn near enough to see that the old man who was waving at them so frantically was indeed the wealthy and eccentric old fisherman known as Isaac Fussy. He was a queer old fellow who lived by himself in a big house on the outskirts of Bayport, and who spent much of his time on the bay. Just now he was evidently in a state of great agitation, shouting and waving his arms as the boys approached. The motorcycles came to a stop. "Anything wrong?" asked Frank. "After 'em! After 'em!" shouted the old man, his face crimson with wrath, as he shook his fist in the air. "Chase 'em, lads!" "Who? What's the matter, Mr. Fussy?" "Thieves! That's what's the matter! My automobile!" "Stolen?" "Stolen! Robbed! I left it here not ten minutes ago and was startin' out in my boat to fish. I just looked back in time to see somebody drivin' away in it. An outrage!" shouted Mr. Fussy. "After 'em!" "Why, it's been stolen just a few minutes ago, then?" "They just went tearin' around the bend before you came in sight. If you look lively, you'll catch 'em. You know my car--it's a big blue Cadillac sedan. Paid twenty-eight hundred for it. Catch them thieves and I'll reward you. Don't waste time standin' here talkin' about it--" The motorcycles roared and leaped forward. "We'll do our best!" shouted Frank, as he crouched low over the handle bars. A cloud of dust arose as the three powerful machines sped off down the road, leaving Isaac Fussy still muttering imprecations on the thieves who had stolen his Cadillac. The boys were excited and elated. This was as close as any one had yet come to being on the trail of the auto thieves, and they knew that in their fast...