The Secret of Pirates' Hill

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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THE SECRET OF PIRATES' HILL
In a series of hair-raising adventures both on land and undersea the teen-age brother detectives pit their wits against some of the most ruthless criminals they have ever encountered.
It all starts when Frank and Joe are skin diving just for fun and the thrill of exploring the undersea world. Suddenly, deep in the waters that flow near the foot of Pirates' Hill, a mysterious skin diver fires a spear through Frank's air hose.
From this moment on, danger is never far away. The very lives of the boys are at stake as they, with the help of their pals Chet Morton and Tony Prito, uncover a mystery involving an old Spanish cannon and a fabulous sunken treasure. Again, Franklin W. Dixon has woven a suspense-filled story that will thrill his many fans.
A rocket was streaking directly toward them
!
Copyright © 1972,1956, by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group, New
York. Published
simultaneously
in Canada. S.A.
THE
HARDYB0YS®
is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:72-77108
eISBN : 978-1-101-07650-7

http://us.penguingroup.com

CHAPTER I
Underwater Danger
“DON'T forget, Frank, any treasure we find will be divided fifty-fifty!” Blond, seventeen-year-old Joe Hardy grinned. He checked his skin-diving gear and slid, flippers first, over the gunwale of their motorboat.
“I'll settle for a pot of gold,” retorted Frank.
He was similarly attired in trunks, air tank, and face mask, and carried a shark knife. The boys had anchored their boat, the Sleuth, off a secluded area of dunes, which ran beneath a low, rocky promontory called Pirates' Hill.
“Here goes!” said Frank as he plunged into the cool waters of the Atlantic. Together, the Hardys swam toward the bottom.
Suddenly Joe clutched his brother's arm and pointed. Twenty feet in front of them and only a short distance from the surface was another skin diver in a black rubber suit. The barbed shaft of a spear gun he held was aimed in their direction!
As the man pulled the trigger, Joe gave Frank a hard shove, separating the boys. The arrow flashed between them and drifted away.
“Wow! What's that guy trying to do?” Frank thought as the diver moved off. “He couldn't possibly have mistaken us for fish!”
Motioning for his brother to follow, he swam toward the diver. But the spearman, with powerful strokes, shot to the surface. Apparently he did not want to be questioned.
Pointing, Frank indicated to Joe, “Up and after him!”
As they popped above the waves, they looked about. The Sleuth lay twenty feet away. But the spearman was nowhere in sight.
Frank and Joe lifted their face masks. “Where did he go?” Frank called out.
“Beats me,” Joe replied, treading water and gazing in all directions.
Conjecturing that the stranger must have swum slightly beneath the surface and taken off toward shore, the Hardys decided to give up the chase and resume their diving.
“Down we go,” Joe said as he readjusted the straps that held the air tank on his back. “But keep your eyes open for that spearman.”
“Right.”
Again the boys submerged. There was no sign of the other diver. “He sure got away from here fast,” Frank thought. “I wonder who he is.”
Long, strong strokes with their rubber-finned legs forced the boys downward through seaweed gardens. Small fish swished in and out among the fronds. Seeing no interesting objects to salvage, Frank signaled Joe to head for deeper water. Air bubbles rippled steadily upward.
Moments later Frank felt a sudden jar and his face mask was nearly ripped off. He clawed desperately to put it back in place, but realized that his air hose had been ripped. Frantically he tried to move up, but unconsciousness swept over him.
Joe, who had seen the whole episode, was horror-struck. Another shaft from a spear gun had zipped through the murky deep. From the vast amount of bubbles rising through the water, Joe knew that his brother's life was in danger.
With powerful strokes, he reached Frank's side. Towing the limp form with one hand, Joe headed for the
Sleuth's
anchor line, dimly visible in the distance. Working his fins as violently as possible, he fought his way toward it for what seemed an eternity.
Finally he reached the rope and pulled himself to the surface. Joe tore off Frank's headgear, holding his face above the waves. Then he pushed him into the boat and scrambled aboard.
Quickly Joe laid his brother in a prone posi. tion and applied artificial respiration.
Minutes passed before Frank stirred. Joe continued his treatment until he heard a moan, then a feeble question.
“Where—? What happened?”
“We were shot at again and you were hit,” Joe said, helping Frank sit up.
“The same diver?”
“Must have been. Probably he was hiding behind an underwater rock,” Joe replied.
“That guy must be crazy!” Frank said, after filling his lungs with deep drafts of air.
“I can't figure him out,” Joe mused. “Do you suppose he's looking for sunken treasure and wanted to keep us away?”
“I never heard anybody talk about sunken treasure off Bayport,” Frank said.
“No,” Joe agreed. “Well, pal, I think you've had enough for one morning. Let's go home.”
He pulled up anchor and started the motor. Two miles away on Barmet Bay was the boathouse where the boys kept the Sleuth. As. they turned toward the bay entrance, Joe grinned ruefully. “I wish we could have kept that spear for a clue,” he remarked, “but it passed clean through your air hose and disappeared.”
“I did notice one thing when we chased the diver,” said Frank. “There was a yellow band around that black swim cap he wore.”
Frank realized his air hose had been ripped!
“Pretty slim clue. You feeling okay, Frank?”
Frank said he felt a bit nauseous, but otherwise recovered from the shock. “Hey,” he added, “there's someone waiting for us at the dock!”
Drawing closer, they saw a man about thirty-five years old. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had wiry black hair. He stood motionless, his legs braced apart, looking intently at them.
Joe ran the Sleuth into the boathouse and the brothers stepped ashore.
“Good morning,” the stranger said as they came outside. “My name's Clyde Bowden. I'm from Tampa, Florida. I assume you're the Hardys?”
“That's right,” Frank replied as the trio shook hands. “What can we do for you?”
“A detecting job.”
“Let's hear about it,” Frank said.
The Hardys, star athletes at Bayport High, were the sons of Fenton Hardy. Formerly a crack detective with the New York City Police Depart ment, Mr. Hardy was now an internationally famous private investigator. Frank and Joe often helped their father on his cases and also had solved many mysteries on their own.
Their first big success was The Tower Treasure, and only recently they had had several hair-raising adventures in tracking down The Clue in the Embers. Now they were excited about the prospect of tackling a new mystery.
“How did you know where to find us?” Joe asked.
“I just left your home on Elm Street,” Bowden replied. “Learned from your mother I might meet you here.”
“While we stow our diving gear and get into some clothes, suppose you tell us about your case,” said Frank.
The boys put their skin-diving equipment in a locker of the
Sleuth,
then pulled on shirts, dungarees, and sneakers.
They listened intently as Bowden explained that he was searching for an early eighteenth-century cannon known as a Spanish demiculverin. It was supposed to be in the vicinity of Bayport.
“A Spanish cannon in Bayport?” Joe asked unbelievingly.
“Although I'm not in a position to tell you how I know about the cannon, I'm certain that with your assistance I can locate it,” Bowden answered.
As they drove toward the Hardy home, Frank asked the man for the dimensions of the cannon. Bowden described it as being nine feet long and weighing 3,200 pounds. “It fires an eight-pound shot,” he added.
“What do you want the old cannon for?” Joe asked.
Bowden smiled. “Believe it or not, I'm helping to outfit the pirate boats to be used in the famous Gasparilla Exposition in Tampa this year,” he replied. “All the details, including the guns, must be authentic.”

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