from the Atlantic, and here the Hardy boys attended high school and dreamed of the days when they, too, should be detectives like their father.
As they sped along the narrow shore road, with the waves breaking on the rocks far below, they discussed their chances of winning over their parents to agreement with their ambition to follow in the footsteps of their father. Like most boys, they speculated frequently on the occupation they should follow when they grew up, and it had always seemed to them that nothing offered so many possibilities of adventure and excitement as the career of a detective.
“But whenever we mention it to Dad he just laughs at us,” said Joe Hardy. “Tells us to wait until we’re through school and then we can think about being detectives.”
“Well, at least he’s more encouraging than mother,” remarked Frank. “She comes out plump and plain and says she wants one of us to be a doctor and the other a lawyer.”
“What a fine lawyer either of us would make!” sniffed Joe. “Or a doctor, either! We were both cut out to be detectives and Dad knows it.”
“As I was saying, the help we gave him in that forgery case proves it. He didn’t say much, but I’ll bet he’s been thinking a lot.”
“Of course we didn’t actually do very much in that case,” Joe pointed out.
“But we suggested something that led to a clue, didn’t we? That’s as much a part of detective work as anything else. Dad himself admitted he would never have thought of examining the city tax receipts for that forged signature. It was just a lucky idea on our part, but it proved to him that we can use our heads for something more than to hang our hats on.”
“Oh, I guess he’s convinced all right. Once we get out of school he’ll probably give his permission. Why, this is a good sign right now, isn’t it?