By the time they reached Barmet, the sky was cloudier than ever and there was a hint of rain, so the boys determined that they would not stay long in the village. They made a landing at the wharf and got out to stretch their legs, being greatly pleased in the meantime by the complimentary remarks passed by such villagers as were about at the time, on the appearance of their boat.
These were not empty compliments, for the Barmet people prided themselves on knowing a good boat when they saw one and there was nothing grudging in their approval of the Sleuth. Two old fishermen sat on the wharf with their feet dangling over the water and discussed the motorboat in every detail from bow to stern, agreeing that she combined strength and appearance in a remarkable degree. When they had finally affixed their seal of approval to the Sleuth they refilled their pipes and settled down to an endless series of reminiscences concerning boats that they had once sailed.
"The sky's beginning to look black," pointed out Frank to his brother after they had listened to a number of these tales. "I guess we'd better be starting."
Joe moved away reluctantly, for he was fascinated by the highly colored yarns of the two old salts. But when he glanced at the lowering horizon he realized that Frank's apprehensions were justified and that it would be better for them to start back to Bayport without delay.
They got into the boat and were just about to cast off when there came a sudden interruption.
A man came running down the road leading to the dock. He was waving his arms and shouting.
"Hi! Hey there! Wait for me!"
Somewhat puzzled, the Hardy boys waited. They did not recognize the man; he was a complete stranger to them. He was stout and thick-set, florid of face and red of hair, and as he ran out on the wharf he panted from his exertions.
"Whew!" he exclaimed, mopping his brow with a bright silk handkerchief. "I nearly missed you."
"What do you want?" Frank asked.