"I don't want any advice from you," said the chief, crushing his subordinate officer with a frown. "Here--put the cuffs on this bird and lock him up." There was a jingle of handcuffs as they were clapped about Paul Blum's wrists. The man protested, but he was quickly silenced by the chief. "We're going to keep you until the Secret Service men get here," said Fenton Hardy. "Perhaps they'll have more to tell." Chief Collig and Constable Riley trudged off, with Paul Blum between them. Fenton Hardy turned to his sons with a smile of approval. "Good work!" he said. "You haven't lost any time making good use of the new boat, I see." "I only wish we could have got hold of that roll of counterfeit bills he threw overboard," said Frank disconsolately. "Well, it can't be helped now--although that would have cinched the case against Blum. He has been operating in this neighborhood for over a week. But I expect the Secret Service men will have enough evidence to have him punished." The fog was beginning to lift and the Hardy boys had no further doubt of their ability to locate the boathouse. They felt they had enough of motorboating for one morning, so they said good-bye to their father and left the wharf, guiding the _Sleuth_ safely to the boathouse. "If every trip we have in the _Sleuth_ is as exciting as that one, we'll have no reason to kick," Frank remarked, as he shut off the engine. CHAPTER XIV CON RILEY GUARDS A PACKAGE Officer Con Riley was at peace with the world. His heart was full of contentment and his stomach was full of pie. The sun was shining and one of the aldermen had just given him a fairly good cigar. His beat had been free of crime for a week. His wife had gone to the country for a visit and she had taken the children with her. Hence, Con Riley's feeling of deep and lasting satisfaction with the world. Even the boys, his natural and hereditary enemies, had not tormented him for several days. Perhaps, he argued, it was because they were up to their ears in work, preparing for examinations. If that was the reason, Con Riley decided that examinations were good things and should be encouraged. As he sauntered along the shady side of Main Street, leisurely swinging his club and gravely responding to the greetings of, "Good afternoon, officer," he reflected that there were worse occupations in life than being on the Bayport police force. He was well content with his lot just then. He exchanged salutations with the traffic cop on the main corner and mentally congratulated himself because he was not a traffic cop; the job exposed one to all manner of weather, from cold, drenching rains to sizzling heat. No, he was just as glad he was on the beat.