Both boys were justifiably angry. On such a narrow, treacherous road there was danger enough when an automobile passed them traveling at even a reasonable speed, but the reckless and insane driving of the redheaded motorist was nothing short of criminal.
“If we ever catch up to him I’m going to give him a piece of my mind!” declared Frank. “Not content with almost running us down he had to shake his fist at us.”
“Road hog!” muttered Joe again. “Jail is too good for the likes of him. If it was only his own life he endangered it wouldn’t be so bad. Good thing we only had motorcycles. If we had been in another car there would have been a smashup, sure.”
The boys resumed their journey and by the time they had reached the curve ahead that enabled them to see the village of Willowville lying in a little valley along the bay beneath them, there was no trace of the reckless motorist.
Frank delivered the legal papers his father had given to him, and then the boys had the rest of the day to themselves.
“It’s too early to go back to Bayport just now,” he said to Joe. “What say we go out and visit Chet Morton?”
“Good idea,” agreed Joe. “He has often asked us to come out and see him.”
Chet Morton was a school chum of the Hardy boys. His father was a real estate dealer with an office in Bayport, but the family lived in the country, about a mile from the city. Although Willowville was some distance away, the boys knew of a road that would take them across country to the Morton home, and from there they could return to Bayport. It would make their journey longer, but they would have the