“I don’t think so,” repeated Mr. Swift’s son.

“Who do you think took it then?”

“Andy Foger!” was the quick response.  “I believe he and his cronies did it to annoy me.  They have been trying to get even with me-or at least Andy has—­for outbidding him on this boat.  He’s tried several times, but he hasn’t succeeded—­until now.  I’m sure Andy Foger has my boat,” and Tom, with a grim tightening of his lips, swung around as though to start in instant pursuit.

“Where are you going?” asked Mr. Jackson.

“To find Andy and his cronies.  When I locate them I’ll make them tell me where my boat is.”

“Hadn’t you better send some word to your father?  You can hardly get to Sandport now, and he’ll be worried about you.”

“That’s so, I will.  I’ll telephone dad that the boat—­no, I’ll not do that either, for he’d only worry and maybe get sick.  I’ll just tell him I’ve had a little accident, that Andy ran into me and that I can’t come back to the hotel for a day or two.  Maybe I’ll be lucky to find my boat in that time.  But dad won’t worry then, and, when I see him, I can explain.  That’s what I’ll do,” and Tom was soon talking to Mr. Swift by telephone.

The inventor was very sorry his son could not come back to rejoin him and Ned, but there was no help for it, and, with as cheerful voice as he could assume, the lad promised to start for Sandport at the earliest opportunity.

“Now to find Andy and my boat!” Tom exclaimed as he hung up the telephone receiver.

CHAPTER XV

A DISMAYING STATEMENT

Trouble is sometimes good in a way; it makes a person resourceful.  Tom Swift had had his share of annoyances of late, but they had served a purpose.  He had learned to think clearly and quickly.  Now, when he found his boat stolen, he at once began to map out a plan of action.

“What will you do first?” asked Mr. Jackson as he saw his employer’s son hesitating.

“First I’m going to Andy Foger’s house,” declared the young inventor.  “If he’s home I’m going to tell him what I think of him.  If he’s not, I’m going to find him.”

“Why don’t you take your sailboat and run down to his dock?” suggested the engineer.  “It isn’t as quick as your motor-boat, but it’s better than walking.”

“So it is,” exclaimed the lad.  “I will use my catboat.  I had forgotten all about it of late.  I’m glad you spoke.”

He was soon sailing down the lake in the direction of the boathouse on the waterfront of Mr. Foger’s property.  It needed but a glance around the dock to show him that the red streak was not there, but Tom recollected the accident to the steering gear and thought perhaps Andy had taken his boat to some wharf where there was a repair shop and there left it to return home himself.  But inquiry of Mrs. Foger, who was as nice a woman as her son was a mean lad, gave Tom the information that his enemy was not at home.