Biff Hooper, in his craft, the Envoy, had devised a way of steering with his foot while sprawled on the side cushions.
In a motorboat close by, the Napoli, sat Tony Prito, whose dark hair, olive skin, and sparkling eyes indicated his Italian parentage even more emphatically than his name. In the third craft were two lads who need no introduction to readers of previous volumes in this series.
The boy at the wheel, a tall, dark, handsome lad of about sixteen, was Frank Hardy, and the other, a fair, curly-headed fellow about a year his junior, was his brother Joe. These boys were the sons of Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous private detective who lived in Bayport.
"I didn't expect to see you fellows out on the bay this afternoon," shouted Biff Hooper, raising his head over the side of his boat.
"Where did you think we'd be?" called back Frank. "Up in the attic, studying?"
"Thought you'd be out in your car," and Biff grinned widely.
There was a laugh from Tony Prito, and the Hardy boys also laughed with great good-humor. Their car was a standing joke among their chums, and, as Chet Morton put it, "standing" joke described it exactly, for it seldom moved.
"Never mind," returned Joe. "That old car served its purpose, anyway. We used it only as bait."
"It was mighty good bait," said Tony. "You caught some big fish with that old crate."
"It has earned its keep," Frank called back. "We're going to put it on a pension and let it stay in our garage for the rest of its life, without charge."