CHAPTER II

Hitchhiker

After finishing dinner and enjoying Aunt Gertrude's apple fritter pie, the Hardys and Chet cleaned up the kitchen and washed the dishes. Then they retreated to the upstairs workroom in the converted garage out back.

Last month, with the help of their friend, Tony Prito, the Hardys installed a heating unit. Within moments on this frigid evening, a toasty warmth emanated from the ducts.

Spurred by the telegram from Dr. Jones of Marshall College, the boys dug through old copies of National Geographic. Stacks of back issues were placed on a shelf built by Mr. Hardy. They were hunting for all those that detailed the adventures of the famous archaeologist.

"It makes sense he would be acquainted with Dad," reasoned Frank. "But I never thought the two would ever be working together! I sure would like to know what's up."

"How come you fellows haven't mentioned him before?" Chet queried.

"He's a little older now. Been fairly quiet since the start of the Cold War, I gather," Frank replied, handing Chet a pile of National Geographic mostly from the 1930s and 40s. "I suppose his duties as Dean have kept him busy. That's him there."

Chet studied the photo. It was taken in a kind of underground cave. The handsomely cut figure, with an unshaven face, wore a fedora and leather jacket. He stared back at the camera. He appeared to be holding a whip.

Other pictures showed artistic renderings of artifacts such as the Ark of the Covenant and an ancient map purported to be of Atlantis.

Chet read, in an awed tone, one of the captions. It was an eye-popping photograph of a desert landscape. "Dr. Jones estimates he has crisscrossed the globe 27 times throughout his career," the text read. "Here, within this canyon in Hatay, rests buried in a temple carved in rock what Dr. Jones believes is the Holy Grail."

For a moment, none of the boys spoke.

"Did you apply to Marshall, Frank?" Chet asked, eyes glued to the images as he tenderly turned a page.

"No, it didn't cross my mind," the elder Hardy replied absently. "But maybe I should give it another look."

"I suppose I should buckle down with my college search, too," the doughty lad lamented.

"If you don't feel college is for you, there's a farm waiting for you, Chet," Frank encouraged. "And that's a swell job for someone who knows how to do it like you!"

Joe called from the window. "Say, fellows, douse the lights, would you?"

Frank complied. "What gives?"

With the lights out in the garage, Joe slowly peered out the edge of the window armed with a pair of binoculars. From that vantage point, Joe could see the corner of Elm and High streets, illuminated by a street lamp.

"There's been a car parked outside our house since we've been up here. I can't see who's inside."

"What kind of car is it?" Frank asked.

Joe shook his head. "Too hard to tell. Let's just keep an eye on it."

Flipping the electricity back on, the three chums remained in the workroom until it was time to head to the airport.

"Would you mind dropping me off on your way to pick up your father?" Chet asked.

"Sure, Chet," Frank replied. "Come to think of it, perhaps one of us should stay back in the event the house is really being watched."

"Good idea," his brother answered. "I'll do it."

As Frank and Chet cleaned off the snow from the Hardy sedan, they casually glanced down the street. The parked car was gone.

The ride out to Chet's family farmhouse was uneventful. A snowfall had garnered strength, forcing Frank to pay extra attention to the road. Chet, however, could not contain his enthusiasm for the cryptic telegram or for his newfound hero, Dr. Jones.

"Maybe we'll be able to travel to some secret place that's off the map!" the chubby friend cheerfully thought aloud.

When the Morton farmhouse came into view, Frank breathed easier. "Maybe the telegram's referring to catacombs, Chet."

"C-catacombs?"

"Where there're skeletons and rodents. All that stuff you like."

Chet shivered. "Maybe I'll just stick with my easel and paint."

Now it was Frank's turn to be taken aback. "Easel and paint?"

Chet puffed out his chest. "I've been working on my artisan skills, my friend. Perhaps one day I'll allow you a glimpse of my masterworks."

Frank giggled. There was never a hobby Chet was involved with for some length of time.

Moments later, Chet exited the sedan. "My best to your parents and Iola," Frank called.

"Roger!" Chet responded as he shut the door.

With the airport not too far from the Morton residence, Frank took the north road towards the terminal. As he passed the old Stanwide Mining Equipment Company, Frank slowed the sedan when he noticed a strange sight between the windshield wipers battling the endless snow.

The road was otherwise abandoned save for a solitary vehicle parked on the side of the road, its hazard lights flashing. A man was waving frantically at the oncoming Hardy automobile.

Frank rolled down the passenger window, frigid air immediately whipping through the heated car.

"How can I help you?" he called to the man.

"Howdy, stranger, a stroke of luck your coming this way. My jeep broke down and I'm in desperate need of getting to the airport."

"What's the trouble with it?"

"The old clunker's rear left tire gave out on me. I knew I was pushing it."

"Happy to help, if you have a spare," Frank offered. "Won't take more than a few minutes."

"That's the thing, son," the man shifted his feet in the snow. "No spare on me. Would you mind dropping me off at the airport and I can meet up with my cronies at the cargo hold?"

Frank thought for a moment. "Sure," he agreed. "Hop in."

The shivering man quickly opened the door and plopped into the seat.

As Frank slowly rolled past the out of commission jeep, he asked, "Want to turn your flashers off? They'll drain your battery."

"Oh," the man replied. "That's careless of me. No, let's just keep going."

Frank noticed the back left tire, the one the hitchhiker mentioned was busted. It looked fine to Frank. The man glanced at Frank's eyeline out of the corner of his eye.

"Mister," the Hardy boy said carefully, "What company do you work for? There's no sign on your jeep."

"Western Union," the man said coldly.

Frank, recalling the telegram delivery earlier that night and the surveillance car outside the Hardy house, shot him a look. The man gave a wolfish smile.

"No good deed goes unpunished, Hardy," the man growled.

"What do you—"

Before Frank could finish his question, the man dealt a stunning blow to the back of Frank's head. The Hardy youth immediately lost conscious, losing control of the wheel.

The Hardy sedan caromed towards the dark, snowy abyss off the side of the road!