The Bombay Boomerang by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

the water as it became lighter, bore the name Nanda Kailash, and underneath her home port, Bombay.
    The taxi stopped at a gate where the guard told the boys they would have to proceed on foot. They saw mobile cranes handling massive bales of jute. Piles of debris covered much of the dock—broken crates, empty barrels, lumber, and other fallout of unloading activity. A big red barge, rocking at the dockside behind the freighter, was receiving part of the cargo for transportation across the harbor.
    â€œPlenty of action around here,” Joe observed.
    Dark-skinned workmen from the Nanda Kailash, wearing navy-blue sweaters, bustled between the deck and the dock. Frank asked one how to get aboard. The man, giving them a suspicious stare, pointed to a steep metal stairway extending up the side of the ship.
    â€œClimb we must,” Frank quipped. He took hold of the white rope railings on either side and started up the steps, feeling them sway under his weight. Joe followed close behind.
    They were halfway up the stairs, with a steep drop to the dock beneath them, when Frank suddenly jerked to one side and yelled, “Duck, Joe!”
    His brother swung out on one railing in a reflex action. A huge bale of jute came hurtling down, barely missing them and landing on the dock with a heavy thud.
    Joe took a deep breath. “Wow! Was that, or was it not accidental?”
    â€œYour guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. “Anyway, let’s get up on deck before we’re treated to an encore.”
    The long deck extended toward the bow on the right, to the stern on the left. The boys had paused to inspect a bulletin board where the names of the ship’s officers were posted when a steward asked what business they had on board. After listening to their explanation, he led them down a narrow corridor to a large cabin.
    â€œThis is the chief officer’s quarters,” he said in a soft Indian accent. “Please sit down. I will inform him of your arrival. Would you prefer tea or coffee? ... Coffee? ... A few moments, please.”
    Frank and Joe glanced around the room. They were surprised at the degree of comfort it reflected. The paneled walls and furniture seemed to be mahogany. A couch, three chairs, and a table were covered in a gay multicolored print. One cabinet held a radio and record player.
    On the opposite side of the cabin was a built-in bunk with a drawer in its base, flanked by a desk on which lay a volume entitled Rough Logbook. Nautical pictures hung on the wall opposite the porthole.
    â€œNice pad,” Joe murmured. “Life at sea must have its compensations.”
    The door opened. A dark, good-looking man came in. Shaking hands with the boys, he introduced himself in excellent English as Chief Officer Jal Agopal, substituting for the captain, who was ashore.
    The steward appeared holding a tray with a white coffeepot, three cups, milk and sugar. Deftly setting a cup and napkin at three places on the table, he withdrew.
    Jal Agopal took a sip of coffee, then inquired what he could do for his visitors. “Naturally I am anxious to aid Admiral Rodgers in every possible way,” he said.
    â€œPerhaps the first thing I should mention,” Frank replied, “is an incident that happened when we were coming aboard.” He described the bale of jute that nearly knocked them off the ladder.
    The chief officer expressed his apologies, adding that he was as mystified as they were. “You must have noted that the cranes swing cargo over that part of the ship. But I’ve never known that kind of thing to happen before. I will make an investigation.”

    â€œDuck, Joe!” Frank yelled
    Joe asked about the crew.
    â€œWe carry fourteen officers and thirty-six men,” Agopal replied. “I’m not familiar with the personal background of each one of them. All I can say is that every man is skillful at his particular job on the freighter. If there is