The monkey man was caught between the Hardys!
He shrieked in rage and defiance. “You won’t get me!”
With that, he crashed through the screen of an open second-floor window. Instantly Frank dropped to the ground. A moment later he heard a scream, a bang, and a thump coming from downstairs. He dashed inside to find the monkey man picking himself up from the hall floor at the bottom of the stairs. Aunt Gertrude stood nearby, brandishing an umbrella.
“Crashed right into me!” she gasped.
Frank made a dive for the intruder. Then Joe, halfway between the first and second floors, leaped from the stairway and landed on the monkey man’s back. As the trio rolled over and over, the trapped prowler, though small, fought with the fury of a wild animal. His arms and legs writhed like snakes as he tried to escape the Hardys’ steel grip.
Disheveled and bruised, the boys finally subdued the monkey man, and sat astride him. Mrs. Hardy had called the police and soon a squad car roared up. A lieutenant entered and snapped handcuffs on the prisoner.
Chief Collig arrived minutes later, having received word of the fracas at his home.
“Do you know this man, Chief?” asked Frank as the monkey man glowered at his captors.
“I’ll say. He’s on the wanted list. His name is Monk Smith, an ex-con.”
Frank and Joe told Collig of Smith’s trash-can assault on them in New York. “We figure,” Joe added in a low voice, “he fits in somewhere with the bridge mystery Dad was working on.”
The chief turned to the prisoner. “Who put you up to this caper, Monk?”
Smith only scowled, and would not reply to this question or to any others.
“Okay, take him down to the lockup,” Collig instructed finally. “Maybe he’ll sing there.”
The police chief said that the ex-con would be held without bail for a few days, in order to give the Hardys a better chance to work incognito in Kentucky.
After the police car had sped off, the boys took down the rope. “This might come in handy,” Joe said as he coiled the light nylon and put it in his suitcase.
The monkey man was caught between the Hardys!
In a short time the brothers said good-by again to their mother and Aunt Gertrude.
Joe grinned. “This time we’re really Kentucky-bound.”
He and Frank took a taxi to the bus terminal, and caught the next trip out. Settling back in the comfortable seats, the weary young sleuths soon fell fast asleep as the bus hummed along the dark highway.
The next day found the Hardys’ pals leaving Bayport as arranged, separately and at different times: first, Tony; next, Chet; third, Biff; and Phil was last to depart. Their arrival times were spaced so that over the weekend, each made his way independently to the construction shack of John Losi.
Mr. Prito’s trusted assistant was expecting them, and without delay assigned the four to their respective jobs. Monday, their first day at work, was a busy one. It was not until Tuesday morning that the Bayporters became worried about the delayed arrival of the Hardy boys. Chet rested on his shovel next to a pile of dirt alongside a section of freshly poured concrete.
“Where are Frank and Joe?” he wondered. “They left before any of us did.”
Among the swarms of workers in the densely wooded area Chet could make out his three cohorts. Tony, stripped to the waist in the hot sun, was repairing a tractor by the roadside. Biff was driving a concrete mixer, while Phil Cohen, busy writing on a clipboard, stood near an abutment of the bridge under construction.
A brusque voice at his elbow startled Chet.
“We’ll never build this road with you leaning on your shovel, buster.”
The newcomer, a sandy-haired, hard-eyed man, told Chet he was Bond Deemer, the regular hiring agent. “I just got back this morning before Losi left. When did you come on the job?”
Somewhat taken off guard, Chet stammered, “Well, ah, we—I—got here late Saturday, when Mr. Losi hired me.”
“What’s your name?”
Chet gulped. “Chet Ball.”
“Okay,” said Deemer. “I expect a full day’s work. Understand?”
Deemer strode off and Chet resumed shoveling. The hefty boy glanced up now and then at his strange surroundings. Across from the road site, set among the pine trees, were five trailers. Four were used as bunkhouses and the fifth, much larger, contained the kitchen and commissary.
Despite his gloomy mood, Chet felt hunger pangs. “Wish it was chow time,” he thought. The nearest town, Boonton, was too far away for a quick hop to obtain a sack of hamburgers.
Chet’s eyes roved to the wide, gushing stream and the bridge, built halfway across. This was the one, he knew, that twice had collapsed, and now the crew was busy pushing its construction for the third time.
Almost unconsciously, Chet again paused in his work. How could they do any sleuthing without Frank and Joe? he asked himself disconsolately.
“Hey, Ball!” A lantern-jawed man hopped off the cement mixer and strolled toward Chet.
“Wh-who, me?”
“Your name is Ball, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. Angan,” Chet replied hastily.
It hadn’t taken the newcomers long to learn that Robert Angan was the foreman, and a rough task-master at that!
“Look, Ball, you’re not paid to stand there like the Statue of Liberty! Get to work!”
Embarrassed, Chet dug his shovel deep into the loose dirt. “That’s right,” Angan needled. “Act like you’re alive!”
A few minutes later Chet straightened up to ease his aching back. Across from him he spied two sturdy youths in dungarees hauling a large log on their shoulders. Chet bravely restrained a whoop of joy. Frank and Joe Hardy!
Frank, in the lead, gave a slight nod of recognition as he and Joe proceeded toward the bridge. Chet started to whistle, and dirt flew furiously from his shovel.
“Hey, Ball, that’s more like it!” yelled Angan.
A shrill blast from a steam whistle signaled the noon hour. Trucks and construction vehicles ground to a halt, and all the workmen headed toward the commissary. Meals were eaten on long, rough-hewn tables inside the trailer. Many of the old-timers sat together, talking and joking as they ate.
Frank, Joe, and their friends managed to find seats near one another, but chattered casually as if they had just met. Across from the Hardys sat a tall hillbilly youth. He had large hands and a long neck, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed.
“My name is Jensen—Joe Jensen,” Joe Hardy said, extending a hand.
The youth looked up shyly from under a shock of brown hair. “Mine’s Willy Teeple.”
“Live around here?” asked Joe.
“Yup.”
The Hardys could see that Willy was not one for conversation. The sentences he spoke were barely longer than one or two words. The foreman, Angan, who happened to be at the boys’ table, seemed to take great delight in riding the work men.
“See here, Gonzales,” he said to Tony. “If you don’t get that tractor fixed pretty soon, you’ll be heading back south of the border!”
“Yes, sir!” Tony replied.
“Don’t sir me!” Angan shot back. “Just do what you’re hired for.”
“Yes, Mr. Angan.”
“As for you, Jensen, you dumb Swede”—Angan turned to Joe—“I noticed you bothering the guys with questions. What are you? A reporter?”
With difficulty Joe held back a retort and mumbled, “Sorry.”
Chet, ravenous, reached for a third piece of bread. He changed his mind abruptly as Angan stared at him.
“We don’t like heavyweights on our crew!” the foreman said pointedly.
Having finished, Chet rose to leave. As he neared the end of the bench where Angan sat, Chet accidentally jostled the man’s elbow, and the cup of coffee he held spilled over the table.
“Dummy!” roared Angan, jumping up. With one hand he grasped the front of Chet’s work shirt and twisted it un
til the buttons nearly popped. His other fist cocked back. “For two cents I’d—”
Without warning, Willy Teeple’s big hands grasped the foreman’s wrist in a viselike grip.
“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Angan,” Willy said softly.
CHAPTER XI
Jailbird Language
WILLY TEEPLE’S grasp prevented Angan’s fist from sailing to its mark on Chet’s jaw. The foreman released him and swung on Willy. At the same instant, Bond Deemer ran over and forced himself between the two.
“What’s the idea of interfering, Teeple?” Deemer thundered. “Angan handles the men around here.”
The hillbilly backed off, his face showing no resentment. “Okay, Mr. Deemer,” he said.
Chet, meanwhile, had stood by half stunned by the foreman’s sudden violence. His pals had found it hard not to go to his aid. To their surprise, Angan turned to Chet apologetically.
“I’m sorry, Ball,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. But we’re in an awful mess around here and my nerves are on the raw edge.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Angan,” replied Chet, relieved.
“You know what’ll happen if our bad luck continues,” Angan said, looking about in appeal to the onlooking workmen. “The Prito company will be penalized five hundred dollars a day for every day extra it takes to finish this job beyond the time we’ve contracted for.”
Tony spoke up. “I guess that would just about put Mr. Prito out of business, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Angan replied, “and Prito’s a good guy.”
“Okay, break it up,” Deemer ordered impatiently. “Back to work.”
With a scuffle of heavy boots, the workmen filed out of the commissary. On the way Chet thanked Willy for coming to his rescue. The gangling youth gave a quick nod and turned off. Soon power shovels were chugging and earth-moving equipment went bouncing over the rough, unfinished portions of the highway. Working together, Frank and Joe found an opportunity to discuss the work gang.
“It’s hard to tell who’s friend or foe,” Joe remarked. “But I guess it’s too soon to form any suspicions.”
The Hardys agreed that Angan, although hot-tempered, seemed to be regular.
“He was actually sorry for Mr. Prito,” Frank observed.
“Deemer’s not especially good-natured, either,” said Joe. “But he seems okay.”
The Hardys’ contact with their pals for the rest of the day was brief and surreptitious.
“Anything new?” Frank asked as he passed close to Chet.
“No.”
The same question, whispered in passing, to Phil, Biff, and Tony also produced a negative reply.
After the evening meal was finished, Frank drew his brother aside. “We’ve got to do some sleuthing tonight,” he said.
The Hardys sauntered amid the workmen lounging about, some smoking, others chatting in front of the bunk trailers. Frank sat on a tree stump while Joe flopped on a grassy knoll nearby. Soon they were casually approached by Tony.
“Hi, there,” he said in a loud voice. “How do you like working here?” Then, in lowered tones, he added, “What took you both so long?”
In a nonchalant manner, but with a guarded voice, Frank explained that he and Joe had stopped to investigate the town of Boonton.
“We thought we’d give the rest of you fellows a chance to get settled on the job before we showed up,” Joe put in, adding that they had checked in with Mr. Losi just before he had left for Bayport earlier that morning. The brothers had learned that no one named Felix was on the work force.
Frank told of the equipment they had brought. “We’ve got the binoculars, a nylon rope, and a miniature short-wave radio set hidden in a large cinder block under our bunk trailer.”
“Good,” Tony said with a smile. “The rest of us only brought muscles. And do we need ’em!”
As it grew dark, cool air settled down from the hills and the tired workers drifted away to turn in for the night.
Frank and Joe were billeted in a trailer away from the rest of their pals, with Frank’s bunk located above Joe’s. Near midnight the Hardys, careful not to awaken their bunk mates, sneaked outside and noiselessly made their way to the neighboring trailer, housing Angan and Deemer. Voices came from inside.
Joe stood on his brother’s shoulders and peered through one of the windows. Angan was sleeping. Deemer was sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing cards with two men. Willy Teeple looked on sleepily.
As one of the workmen turned his head, Joe ducked out of sight and dropped to the ground. The Hardys pressed close to the metal wall of the trailer and listened intently. The language of the card players was interspersed with many slang words which the boys had never heard before. It certainly was not the jargon of their Bayport High School crowd! The young sleuths made mental notes of the odd expressions.
Pair of bins; oiler; half stamp; clobby joint; long nit; bath in the canal; bice; baron.
“What kind of lingo is that?” Joe whispered.
Suddenly there was shuffling of feet and Deemer said in a loud voice, “Willy, you be the long nit tomorrow.”
“They’re breaking up!” Joe muttered. He and Frank hastened to their own bunks and quietly climbed in.
Next morning, as the Hardys dressed, Frank whispered to his brother, “Joe, I think I have it solved. I remember Dad speaking about convict lingo, and some of those words last night sounded like jailbird slang.”
“Good night!” Joe exclaimed. “We may be in a hornet’s nest of ex-cons.”
The workday started early and the Hardys were assigned by Angan to carry planks for the carpenters who were building concrete forms to be used for the bridge’s support columns. They spotted their four buddies as they passed by. Frank and Joe also noted that Willy Teeple was nowhere to be seen.
At midmorning the workmen paused for their coffee break. This gave Frank the chance he had been waiting for. He hastened to his bunk trailer, crawled beneath it, and removed the small radio. Concealing it under his shirt, Frank hurried back to Joe and slipped him the set.
“Quick!” Frank whispered. “Nobody is working on the bridge now. There’s a good hiding place underneath the abutment. Contact Radley and ask him about those strange words.”
While Frank stood guard some distance away, Joe nonchalantly ambled over to the bridge. He made sure no one was looking, then ducked underneath, turned on the transmitter, and called Radley in Bayport.
After a few tense minutes of waiting, Joe got through to his father’s operative. He spoke rapidly, asking about the odd vocabulary the boys had heard the night before.
“That’s con language, all right,” Radley said. “Joe, be extra careful!”
Radley translated the words which Joe carefully memorized:
Joe thanked Radley and signed off. Then he thought in surprise “So that’s why Willy’s not on the job today—he’s lookout for that con bunch.”
Joe secreted the short-wave radio in his clothes and started to climb out from under the bridge. Suddenly he stopped short. Nearly concealed behind an empty cement bag were three sticks of dynamite! Joe examined them gingerly. They were not as yet connected with any detonating device.
“So that’s next on the gang’s list—blow up the bridge!” Joe thought, picking up the sticks. Just then he heard the familiar birdcall whistle used by the Hardy boys to warn each other.
Before Joe had a chance to move, Robert Angan scrambled down the slope. He glared angrily at Joe. “So you’re one of the guys making trouble for us!” Angan said, and snatched the dynamite sticks. “Where’d you get these?”
Joe pleaded innocence, explaining that he had gone under the bridge to cool off during the break and had spotted the explosives there.
“That’s a great story,” the foreman snorted. He hid the dynamite sticks in his shirt so that the others would not notice them. Then he marched Joe directly to the project shack. Bond Deemer was working on some papers.
&n
bsp; Angan produced the explosives. “Caught Jensen here with it.”
Deemer was speechless for a moment, then he stormed, “You sneak. You’ll go to jail for this.”
“But I had nothing to do with this dynamite!” Joe protested. “Remember, I just started work yesterday. Somebody else put these sticks under the bridge.”
“Listen, Jensen,” Angan said, “I had you pegged for a troublemaker the minute you showed up here.”
Deemer’s anger had receded. He tapped his pencil and looked thoughtfully at Joe. “We can’t afford to lose men on this job. Angan, I believe the kid’s telling the truth about the explosives.”
“Okay,” said Angan, pacing nervously. “It’s your responsibility, Deemer. But one false move” —he pointed at Joe—“and you’re through!”
This time Angan assigned Joe to learn to run a grader machine. “So I can keep you in sight,” he said.
Later, the foreman approached Frank. “You there, Teller!” he called. “I want you to learn how to handle a pan.” He pointed to a huge high-wheeled earth-carrying machine stopped beside the road and Angan called up to the driver, “Yancy, teach this kid how to operate it, then he can spell you.”
Frank climbed on to the monster machine, the rubber tires of which were taller than he. He found Yancy to be a bluff individual, sun-tanned, with bulging arm muscles and a broad face.
The machine started to bounce along, and Yancy readily explained its mechanics to Frank. After the machine had dropped a load of dirt by the side of the road, Yancy turned to his new assistant. “You got an easy job, kid. You must know the baron.”
“Who?” Frank could have bitten off his tongue. From that moment on, Yancy said not a word and it was all work and no talk.
Several times Frank tried to start a friendly conversation, but with no luck.
At the end of the day’s work, the Hardys met beside the swift-moving stream to wash up.
Frank told his brother of Yancy’s clamming up after he had asked who the baron was.
“Do you know where Yancy’s bunk is, Joe?”
“Yes, in Deemer’s trailer.”
“Then I think I’ll do a little eavesdropping tonight,” Frank said.
The Mystery of the Spiral Bridge Page 6