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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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York-Washington shuttle."
"Okay, but make it quick," said Joe, already on his way to his room to change.
Five minutes later he was back, wearing a pair of clean but very worn jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
"My good pair of spare jeans is missing," he said. “Guess who must have taken them."
“I found the same thing," said Frank, who had been forced to put on an old pair of corduroys rather than the pressed Levi's he saved for special occasions. When they got downstairs, their aunt Gertrude confirmed their suspicions.
"I don't know what's come over you boys," she said. "Used to be that you wore the same clothes for months, until they had to be peeled off you. Today you come back in fishing clothes, go out in your best jeans, come back in hunting clothes, and now you've made another change."
"It must be a stage we're going through," said Joe. "You could look it up in a psychology book," said Frank, and paused. "Look, Aunt Gertrude, could we ask a little favor?" "What is it?" she said.
"Could we borrow your 'car for the day?" asked Frank. "We have to take a little trip, and ours broke down."
"I don't wonder," said Gertrude with a small sniff of triumph. "I always said you boys were foolish, spending all that time with those ancient cars that Joe digs up. No surprise that they keep breaking down. That's why I keep trading mine in every two years for a new model. I never have the least trouble."
Joe didn't mention that the main reason his aunt never had car trouble was that she never drove over thirty miles an hour and seldom drove more than ten miles at a stretch. He just said, "Well, maybe this has taught us a lesson."
"I certainly hope so," replied Gertrude. "But, anyway, can we borrow your car?" asked Frank.
"Well ... " Gertrude pretended to be thinking it over. But as the Hardys well knew, she had never denied her favorite nephews anything they asked. "If you promise to be careful, and to drive very, very slowly," she said.
"Definitely," said Joe as Gertrude opened up her handbag.
"Of course," said Frank as she handed him the car keys.
It was true what used-car salesmen claimed about cars that were owned by timid, elderly ladies. Aunt Gertrude's car was in great shape, at least at the start of the drive to New York. By the time Joe drove it into the parking lot at La Guardia Airport in New York; several years had been taken off its operating life. But it had done its job. The Hardys were able to catch a shuttle flight to Washington just before the boarding ramp was wheeled away. And less than an hour later, they were hailing a cab at Washington National Airport.
As the cab drove up, Frank said, "Seventy eight sixty-four Ninth Street, Southeast, please and fast. It's an emergency."
The driver turned around to look at them. "You sure you want that address?"
Frank double-checked the address he had written down on a piece of paper. "That's it. Seventy-eight sixty four, Ninth Street, Southeast."
The driver shrugged. "Okay. It's your money," he said in a tone that clearly meant, "It's your funeral."
When they arrived at their destination, the Hardy boys saw why the cabbie had sounded so skeptical.
Seventy-eight sixty-four Ninth Street, South east, was in the middle of the Washington, D.C., slums, the part of the city that visitors to the capital seldom saw or wanted to see. The street was lined with decayed or abandoned buildings, and idle men lounged on street corners or in front of bars, looking as if they were aching to rip off any stranger. The air reeked with poverty and the violence that poverty bred.
"Want me to wait?" the cabbie asked. "You won't be able to hail a cab in this neighborhood. And you might not get one even if you phone."
"We'll take our chances," said Frank as he paid the man. "We might be awhile."
He waited until the cab drove off before he turned to Joe. "I wonder what our chances are. I've got a strong hunch we've fouled up. This doesn't exactly look like
"Okay, but make it quick," said Joe, already on his way to his room to change.
Five minutes later he was back, wearing a pair of clean but very worn jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
"My good pair of spare jeans is missing," he said. “Guess who must have taken them."
“I found the same thing," said Frank, who had been forced to put on an old pair of corduroys rather than the pressed Levi's he saved for special occasions. When they got downstairs, their aunt Gertrude confirmed their suspicions.
"I don't know what's come over you boys," she said. "Used to be that you wore the same clothes for months, until they had to be peeled off you. Today you come back in fishing clothes, go out in your best jeans, come back in hunting clothes, and now you've made another change."
"It must be a stage we're going through," said Joe. "You could look it up in a psychology book," said Frank, and paused. "Look, Aunt Gertrude, could we ask a little favor?" "What is it?" she said.
"Could we borrow your 'car for the day?" asked Frank. "We have to take a little trip, and ours broke down."
"I don't wonder," said Gertrude with a small sniff of triumph. "I always said you boys were foolish, spending all that time with those ancient cars that Joe digs up. No surprise that they keep breaking down. That's why I keep trading mine in every two years for a new model. I never have the least trouble."
Joe didn't mention that the main reason his aunt never had car trouble was that she never drove over thirty miles an hour and seldom drove more than ten miles at a stretch. He just said, "Well, maybe this has taught us a lesson."
"I certainly hope so," replied Gertrude. "But, anyway, can we borrow your car?" asked Frank.
"Well ... " Gertrude pretended to be thinking it over. But as the Hardys well knew, she had never denied her favorite nephews anything they asked. "If you promise to be careful, and to drive very, very slowly," she said.
"Definitely," said Joe as Gertrude opened up her handbag.
"Of course," said Frank as she handed him the car keys.
It was true what used-car salesmen claimed about cars that were owned by timid, elderly ladies. Aunt Gertrude's car was in great shape, at least at the start of the drive to New York. By the time Joe drove it into the parking lot at La Guardia Airport in New York; several years had been taken off its operating life. But it had done its job. The Hardys were able to catch a shuttle flight to Washington just before the boarding ramp was wheeled away. And less than an hour later, they were hailing a cab at Washington National Airport.
As the cab drove up, Frank said, "Seventy eight sixty-four Ninth Street, Southeast, please and fast. It's an emergency."
The driver turned around to look at them. "You sure you want that address?"
Frank double-checked the address he had written down on a piece of paper. "That's it. Seventy-eight sixty four, Ninth Street, Southeast."
The driver shrugged. "Okay. It's your money," he said in a tone that clearly meant, "It's your funeral."
When they arrived at their destination, the Hardy boys saw why the cabbie had sounded so skeptical.
Seventy-eight sixty-four Ninth Street, South east, was in the middle of the Washington, D.C., slums, the part of the city that visitors to the capital seldom saw or wanted to see. The street was lined with decayed or abandoned buildings, and idle men lounged on street corners or in front of bars, looking as if they were aching to rip off any stranger. The air reeked with poverty and the violence that poverty bred.
"Want me to wait?" the cabbie asked. "You won't be able to hail a cab in this neighborhood. And you might not get one even if you phone."
"We'll take our chances," said Frank as he paid the man. "We might be awhile."
He waited until the cab drove off before he turned to Joe. "I wonder what our chances are. I've got a strong hunch we've fouled up. This doesn't exactly look like
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