Hide-and-Sneak by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

because of the extra safety precautions he had to take. In a short while, though, he managed to bare the necessary wires and touch them together. The hot-wired engines roared to life.
    Joe got behind the wheel and steered the Sleuth back to the docks. “Buckmaster messed things up, but I got her working again,” he shouted to the others.
    â€œThe radio?” Frank demanded.
    Joe just shook his head.
    Frank turned to Andy and Hal. “All right, you two. Remember what you promised.”
    The two boys ran up the stairs.
    â€œWhat did they promise?” Joe asked.
    â€œTo call the cops at the first pay phone they reach,” Frank said.
    â€œYou think they’ll actually do that?” Joe turned to Chet. “You should follow them.”
    Chet stubbornly shook his head. “I got you into this whole thing in the first place. I’m sticking with you to the end.”
    Joe grinned. “Then hop aboard,” he said. “We’ve got a jet boat to catch.”
    Joe stayed behind the wheel and swung the Sleuth out of Shipwreck Cove and into the bay. He spotted the faintest phosphorescence in the water, the remains of a boat’s wake, and set off in that direction.
    Soon, Joe sighted the jet boat. But even his best steering efforts couldn’t bring them any closer.
    If only the wiring hadn’t been damaged, he thought. If we had managed to get free just a few minutes earlier . . .
    Frank came up beside Joe. “We’re not going to catch them, Joe.”
    â€œNo,” Joe said, with a hint of disappointment in his voice.
    Frank pointed off to the left. Bright lights glared on the water. This was where the Jolly Roger had gone down. Several harbor police patrol craft clustered around the site. “If we could get them to help . . .”
    â€œHow?” Joe demanded. “We have no radio to call for help. Anyway, by the time we convince them, Buckmaster will be out to sea.”
    â€œYou think he’s getting away?” Chet asked Joe. He turned to Frank. “Too bad you didn’t include a couple of emergency rockets, Frank. With some of those, we could at least take a shot at him.”
    Joe jumped as if he’d been slapped. “Rockets!” he repeated. “Frank, take the wheel!”
    He went to the hatch that led to the engines, calling over his shoulder, “Chet, we’ve got a gas can on board. Try to find it. And get some rope.”
    A few minutes later, can in hand, Joe siphoned some fuel out of the Sleuth ’s tank into the container. Chet had tied one end of the rope to a cleat at the rear of the boat. Now he was tying the other end around the handle of the can. Joe rummaged in a locker, looking for one more thing.
    â€œHere it is,” he said, opening a heavy-duty plastic case. Inside were a flare gun and an emergency flare. “One rocket, coming up!” He broke the gun open, put in the flare, and snapped it shut. “Okay, Chet, let her go.”
    Chet threw the fuel can into the Sleuth ’s wake. The rope went taut. Now the can was bouncing along behind them like a tiny water-skier.
    Joe rested the flare gun on the stern of the boat. “Wish me luck,” he said. “We get only one shot.”

17 Naval Maneuvers
----
    The flare gun bucked in Joe’s hand as he pulled the trigger. Like a bolt of searing brilliance, the burning flare whizzed across the water just like the rocket Chet had wished for.
    It hit the can dead on. The flash was pretty impressive, the noise was even better, and the burning trail stretching behind them was the icing on the cake.
    As if in response, sirens suddenly whooped, and the harbor police boats roared into action.
    The patrol craft quickly caught up with the boys’ boat. “Heave to!” an amplified voice ordered. “I repeat, heave to!”
    The face over the bullhorn was familiar: Officer Nelson, surely redder in the face than ever.
    Joe shook