The Flickering Torch Mystery by Franklin W. Dixon

said.
    The man strode out of his office and confronted Chet. “What do you want now?” he demanded in an irritated voice.
    â€œI’m looking for a tailpost, Mr. Mudd,” Chet replied.
    â€œA tailpost!” Mudd said with a look of astonishment. “What for? You don’t even have a fu—”
    The man stopped in confusion and his face turned red. Chet pounced on the blunder like a cat after a ping-pong ball. “Oh, I got my fuselage back, Mr. Mudd,” he said in an offhand manner. “Some clown swiped it and dropped it at a garbage dump. I found it later. So I’m back in business for some airplane parts. A tailpost, please.”
    Mudd’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “Look, where’re your pals?”
    Chet said coolly, “I couldn’t really guarantee where they are.”
    â€œOh, yeah?”
    â€œCome on, now, Mr. Mudd. I want to look around at some parts. You can see I’m alone, can’t you? Now how about a tailpost?”
    Joe whispered, “Chet’s doing a great job!”
    Mudd began talking again. “I don’t have any to fit your model fuselage.”
    â€œThat’s too bad,” Chet said. “Well, I’ll be needing wings later. Mind if I check around to see what’s here?”
    Mudd gave a sardonic laugh. “You’ll need wings all right, you fat brat. And a harp, too!”
    He moved toward Chet. Grabbing the boy’s arm, he twisted it around his back in a hammer lock. “I’ve stopped fooling with you,” Mudd snarled. “Where are those buddies of yours, and what are you snooping around for?”
    Joe tensed and made a move to spring up. Frank held him back. “Wait! Chet knows how to take care of himself.”
    Their friend’s short gasp of pain was followed by a rebel yell. Chet put his experience as a high school wrestler to good use. Swinging his body around, he flung the heavier Mudd over his back. The man hit the ground with a thud, then rose shakily to his feet.
    Chet confronted him in a wrestler’s defensive stance, feet wide apart, hands extended forward. At the same time he noticed that the chain had slipped over his head and fallen onto the ground.
    â€œWe’ll lose contact,” Joe hissed.
    â€œMaybe not,” Frank said. “Look!”
    A young man entered the junkyard. It was Seymour Schill! He bent over and retrieved the bug. Swinging it by the chain, he looked from Chet to Mudd.
    â€œCut the rough stuff, will you,” he said. “Who’s this kid you’re muscling?”
    â€œI’m no kid!” Chet said indignantly. “My name’s Chet Morton, and if this gorilla wants some more action, I’m ready for it!”
    â€œDon’t get physical,” Seymour said. “I’ve got nothing against you. I just want a few words with O. K.”
    He drew the man aside and spoke in a voice too low for Chet to hear. However, the bug dangling in his hand picked up every word.
    â€œThe boss has made up his mind,” Seymour said. “It’ll be Wednesday and Saturday.”
    â€œGood,” Mudd responded. “That suits me just fine.”
    â€œSame time, same place,” Seymour went on. Pausing for a moment, the guitarist added significantly, “Same number of rocks.”
    â€œNo!” Mudd’s voice was harsh. “Tell him no more rocks, understand!”
    â€œI understand. What’s the pitch?”
    â€œHard cash from now on!”

CHAPTER XII
    Jam Session
    THEIR conversation finished, Seymour and Mudd turned to Chet again. Seymour tossed the medal at him.
    Chet caught it on the fly and pulled it quickly over his head, vastly relieved that Seymour had not examined the medal closer.
    â€œChet’s heading back for the car,” Joe observed through the crack in the fence.
    â€œGood. We’ve made some headway,” Frank said. “Let’s join him.”
    The Hardys assembled