The motorcycles rounded a bend in the road and before the boys lay a wide stretch of open highway, descending in a gradual slope. To their right lay Barmet Bay, sparkling in the afternoon sun. At the bottom of the slope was a grassy expanse that opened out on the beach, the road at this point being only a few feet above the sea level. The little meadow was a favorite parking place for motorists, as their cars could regain the road easily, but to-day there was not an automobile in sight.
"Look at that," said Frank. "No one here on a nice afternoon like this."
At that moment, however, the appearance of a man who came running up from the beach and across the grass, belied his words.
"Some one's here all right," remarked Joe. "And he seems in a hurry about something."
As the boys rode down the slope they could see the man hastening out into the middle of the road, where he stood waving his arms.
"Looks like Isaac Fussy, doesn't it?" said Chet.
"The rich old fisherman?"
"Yes, it's Fussy all right. Look at him dancing around. Wonder what's the matter."
In a few moments the boys had drawn near enough to see that the old man who was waving at them so frantically was indeed the wealthy and eccentric old fisherman known as Isaac Fussy. He was a queer old fellow who lived by himself in a big house on the outskirts of Bayport, and who spent much of his time on the bay. Just now he was evidently in a state of great agitation, shouting and waving his arms as the boys approached.
The motorcycles came to a stop.