The Arctic Patrol Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

said.
    â€œWhen do we start?” Gummi asked.
    â€œAs soon as Rex Mar finds a boat,” Joe replied.
    â€œAnd you and I will have to work up disguises,” Frank put in. “We’ll go down to the barbershop right now and have our hair dyed. Gummi, can you get us some old seamen’s clothes?”
    â€œSure. I have some at home. Come on over when you’re finished.”
    The boys parted at the elevator in the lobby, and Frank and Joe went to the barbershop in the basement, where they had their hair dyed a reddish color. False eyebrows and cheek pads completed their disguise. Grinning contentedly, they took a taxi to Gummi’s house.
    â€œBoy, if I didn’t know better, you could have fooled me,” he said admiringly. “Here, put these on!” He handed them well-worn work clothes.
    â€œLet’s go down to the harbor and see if we can spot our friend Mar,” Frank suggested when they had changed.
    â€œGood idea. We can try our disguise on him,” Joe said.
    All three scrambled into Gummi’s jeep. On the way, the Icelandic boy said, “One more thing. Don’t speak English when those thugs are around!” He taught them a few Icelandic words, which, if muttered repetitively, would fool any foreigner.
    They parked the car in the busy harbor area and strolled along the waterfront.
    â€œLook!” Joe said said after a while. “Isn’t that Rex Mar over there?”
    â€œRight. He’s checking out a trawlerl” Frank exclaimed.
    Mar was dickering with a sailor aboard a small fishing boat. Then he turned, smiled, and stepped back onto the dock.
    â€œLet’s go!” Frank said, and they walked directly toward the approaching seaman. Mar showed no sign of recognition. When they passed him, Frank deliberately stumbled into him. The man teetered back. Frank mumbled a few Icelandic words, and the boys walked on.
    Out of earshot, Joe let out a muted whoop. “We did it, Frank! That old salt didn’t recognize us at all!”
    The boys turned to see Mar sizing up the trawler. She was about thirty-five feet long, broad of beam, with a squat, sturdy look. As the old fellow turned to go, the boys accosted him.
    Mar’s eyebrows nearly raised to the peak of his cap as Frank revealed their identity. Then Gummi was introduced. They shook hands.
    â€œWe saw you make a deal,” Frank said. “When do we set sail?”
    â€œThis afternoon, if you’re ready.”
    â€œWe are. Okay, Gummi?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWe will meet on board at five o’clock,” Mar said, then hastened off to lay in supplies.
    At five-thirty that afternoon the little boat named Asdis churned out of Reykjavik Harbor and along the coast in the direction of Snaefellsjokull. Once safely at sea, Frank and Joe removed their cheek pads and eyebrows and fell to helping skipper Mar with chores on the deck.
    By eight o’clock a stiff wind kicked up white-caps on the sea, and the boat began to rock. On the bridge, Mar regaled Frank and Joe with stories of Iceland.
    On the wall behind the wheel was the Icelandic coat of arms. It showed a shield, which Frank recognized as the insignia on Icelandic coins. Standing on the right side of the shield was a giant, holding a staff. On the left side was a bull. Over the top loomed a dragon and a huge bird.
    â€œWhat does it mean?” Frank asked.
    â€œThere’s a legend behind it,” Mar said, and Gummi nodded. As the storm worsened, the Hardys were told the story of a bad Viking king named Haraldur Gormsson, who wanted to conquer Iceland.
    â€œBut he realized he must send a scout to look the place over,” the old seaman explained, “so he sent his lieutenant, who turned himself into a whale to swim around the island.”
    â€œLike a spy submarine,” Joe said.
    Leaning against the side of the cabin for balance, Gummi laughed. “There was plenty of magic in those times. Same