The Masked Monkey Read Free

of pancakes at an alarming rate. He also drank two glasses of milk. Then he leaned back with a pleased expression. “That was just great,” he said as the women cleared the table. “Thanks very much.”
    â€œOkay,” Joe said. “What’s the big deal you mentioned on the phone yesterday?”
    Chet rolled his eyes. “You guys ever hear of golf ball scavenging?”
    â€œNegative,” Frank said. “What is it? A new hobby?”
    â€œNo, a get-rich-quick scheme. Duffers keep dunking golf balls in water hazards on most of the golf courses. Scavengers retrieve them and sell them. I’m a scavenger, and I’ll cut you in if you’re interested.”
    â€œWe might be,” Frank said, “when we have the time.”
    â€œWe’ve got to go back to Granite City this afternoon,” Joe told Chet.
    â€œYou can’t do that!” Chet protested. “I’m counting on you. Hold everything. You’ve got this morning free, right?”
    Frank and Joe nodded.
    â€œOkay,” Chet went on. “That’s enough time to start operations. Let’s go.”
    The three climbed into Chet’s jalopy and drove to the farm outside of Bayport where he lived. On the way, Chet explained how golf balls were retrieved.
    â€œMany amateur divers and frogmen,” he said, “descend into water hazards to scour the bottom. Professionals, however, don’t go into the water. They use suction pumps and underwater vacuum cleaners.
    â€œAbout sixty million balls are recovered every year,” Chet stated, “and are resold for about fifteen million dollars.”
    Frank whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”
    â€œEnough to buy several golf courses,” Joe remarked.
    â€œSure,” Chet said. “And I aim to get my share of the dough from the golf courses around Bayport.”
    At the Morton farm the three transferred to a small truck. In the back was a very large box with a gasoline engine attached. Lines of small holes showed on one side, and a long hose dangled from one corner.
    â€œDad’s letting me use his pickup,” Chet said. “I spent a week building the retriever. Come on. Let’s go to the nearest course and see how my suction pump works.”
    When they arrived at the Bayport links, Chet explained his gadget to the club’s golf pro. He was willing to let the boys have a try at the water hazard, providing they gave him half the golf balls they recovered.
    The trio then drove to a pond at the third hole. Chet turned on the engine, pushed the nozzle of the hose down through the water, and began to vacuum the bottom.
    A mixture of mud and water, sucked through the hose into the container, spewed out through the side holes and back into the pond. Loud rattling came from inside.
    â€œThose are the golf balls!” Chet exulted. “They’re too big to go through the holes, sothey’re banging against the sides. We’ve struck it rich!”
    â€œThe pump works like a charm,” Joe admitted. “Chet, for once you’ve come up with something practical.”
    About an hour later the pro rode up in a golf cart. He told them the recovery operation would have to wait until early evening because some golfers were impatient to play the third hole.
    Chet wound up the hose and opened a door at the top of the container. Frank and Joe peered in. Several hundred golf balls—dirty and muddy from their stay in the pond, but otherwise in good condition—were piled up inside.
    â€œWe can sell these for a good profit,” Chet said, “when we’ve cleaned them.” After turning over half of the take to the golf pro, the boys tossed the rest into the back of the pickup to dry off, and drove to Bayport.
    As they went through the main intersection, a wild uproar broke out behind them. Horns blew. People shouted.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Chet muttered. “I didn’t go