The frame house at the corner of High and Elm Streets was quiet. An eighteen-year-old with dark brown hair and brown eyes sat at the kitchen table munching a donut and drinking orange juice. He was six feet one and weighed one hundred and seventy-five pounds--lithe and wiry. He wore a cotton, button down dress shirt, khaki pants, and penny loafers. Before him on the table was a copy of the Saturday morning Bayport Herald. He examined the front page of the sports section. A color photograph of four young men was accompanied by a headline, "Hooper, Hardys to Lead Bayport American Legion Starting Rotation."

Frank Hardy examined the photo. "I know exactly what Joe is going to say when he sees this," he thought to himself. Three young men in baseball uniforms stood next to each other, while a fourth knelt in the foreground. Biff Hooper, six feet three with blond hair, stood in the middle, his arms draped around the shoulders of two of his teammates, Frank and Joe Hardy. Kneeling in front, wearing his chest protector and shin guards, was the team’s catcher, Chet Morton. Three of the young men wore broad grins. Only Frank Hardy gazed out at the camera impassively.

"That’s a good shot of Joe," Frank thought. "But then, Joe always photographs well." Frank examined the photo of his six-foot tall, one hundred eighty pound brother. Blond haired and blue eyed, Joe took after his mother, while Frank resembled his father. Few people ever noticed any resemblance between the two brothers, who were born seventeen months apart. Their personalities were almost completely opposite, as well. Frank was quiet, cautious, and analytical, while Joe was ebullient, impulsive, and emotional.

"At least they didn’t make same mistake they made last fall," Frank thought. He remembered another picture from the preceding football season. The newspaper had reversed Biff and Frank’s names in a caption. By way of apologizing for the mistake, the reporter commented to the Hardys that Biff and Joe looked more like brothers than Frank and Joe. Biff and Joe thought that this was an occasion for much hilarity, and called each other "Big Brother" and "Little Brother" for weeks afterward.

The newspaper article read, "Bayport’s chances to repeat as Maryland State Champions have to be regarded as bright. Three of last year’s four starting pitchers return for their final season. Biff Hooper, Frank Hardy, and Joe Hardy, all to be seniors at Bayport High School this fall, show every indication of being in top physical form, if their performances in practice are indicative. All three young men are offensive threats as well as outstanding pitchers. Hooper, who led the Eastern Shore League in earned run average last year, will play first base when not on the mound. Frank Hardy, on the mound when Bayport won the championship last year, will also play third base. Joe Hardy, who led the league in both strikeouts as a pitcher and batting average, will double in center field."

"Well, we’ll see eventually," Frank thought. "A second championship is easier said than done." His reverie was interrupted by a loud thump coming from upstairs. Frank looked at his watch. "Nine forty-five. Sounds like baby bear is out of hibernation." Frank smiled to himself as he heard his brother’s feet tread heavily across the floor of the bedroom they shared. He remembered moving into this house when he was six and Joe was five. Their parents had initially put them into separate bedrooms, but they would repeatedly find Joe asleep in Frank’s bed in the morning. When their mother told Joe he should stay in his own bedroom, Joe would respond, "But you don’t understand! I have important things to tell Frank that can’t wait till morning!" The parents knew they were fighting a losing battle and put the two boys in the same room, and it had remained that way ever since.

Frank heard the running of water and a few minutes later the opening of the bathroom door. "Fra-ank!" Joe sang out.

Frank smiled to himself. "I know what’s coming next!" he thought.

"Fra-ank!" Joe yelled again, this time more insistently.

"In the kitchen!" Frank yelled in response.

Frank heard a series of thumps and thuds, indicating that his younger brother was coming down the stairs at his usual two at a time pace. In a moment, Joe, wearing a bathrobe, his blond hair damp and tousled, peered into the kitchen at his brother.

"Morning, bright eyes. Glad you decided to get up and share some of the day with us," said Frank.

"It’s not that late. Say, are you going to make us some breakfast?"

"Breakfast is right here in this box, young one. Mom got us some donuts before going to work."

"Donuts? Frank, I was hoping you’d make us some breakfast. Some French toast would be really fantastic! You know, Frank, nobody can make French toast like you!"

"I was hoping there would be a cherry red Porsche Boxster in the driveway for me this morning. You’ll have to live with your disappointment as I’ve lived with mine."

Joe groaned in protest, then leaned over his brother’s shoulder to look at the newspaper. "Anything good in the Herald?"

"Four funny looking guys in the sports section. Here."

Joe glanced at the picture. "All right!" he exclaimed, then paused. "Aw, gee whiz, Frank, you never smile! You really need to smile more!"

"So I’ve been told--about a hundred times, I think."

"Then why don’t you listen? You really do have a killer smile, Frank. You should let it out more. That‘s what all the girls say, anyway."

"Right. Thanks for the news bulletin. Anyway, I can’t smile on cue, unlike other people we won’t mention."

Joe grinned at his brother. "Biff and I could make you smile."

Frank grimaced. "Biff and you need to keep your hands to yourselves!"

Joe grabbed a powdered sugar donut and began to munch. "What’s on tap for today?"

"Prito’s for lunch, I suppose, just like every Saturday--if you can manage to get ready in time."

"Plenty of time, big brother, plenty of time," said Joe as he padded away to get dressed.

Frank shook his head and chuckled. "Sure would be dull around here without that one around," he thought. Frank continued to read the rest of the paper while waiting for his brother. A short time later he heard the mailman delivering the mail through the slot in the front door. He finished his donut and drank the last of his orange juice before going to sort the mail.

Frank noticed two envelopes from Bayport High School. "About time grades got here," Frank thought. He peeled open the envelope addressed to Franklin Hardy. The sheet inside read, "Semester G.P.A.--4.0000. Cumulative G.P.A.--3.9889."

"No unpleasant surprises there," Frank thought with satisfaction. "Now if baby brother came through, we can have a great summer!" Then Frank yelled, "Joe! Mail call! Grades are here!"

Joe thundered down the stairs just as he had earlier. He wore a navy blue New York Yankees t-shirt with a white, interlocking NY on the chest, faded blue jeans, and sneakers.

Frank shook his head in mock disgust. "Do you have to wear that thing every weekend?"

"Frank, the Yankees are winners. I am a winner. It amazes me that someone with your intellect still roots for those losers, the Orioles."

"We live in Maryland."

"But we were born in New York."

"I think you root for the Yankees just to get my goat!"

"That is a happy by-product of my choice. Now let’s have those grades."

Frank held his brother’s envelope high in the air, out of his reach. "Are you sure you’re ready for this--emotionally and physically?"

Joe made a couple of unsuccessful grabs for the envelope. "Come on, Frank! I’ve been worrying over this for days!"

"I don’t think you’ve ever worried a day in your life. Say please!"

Joe frowned at his brother, then grinned. "If you don’t give my grades, I’ll tickle you!"

Frank’s eyes widened. Without saying another word, he handed over his brother’s envelope.

Joe tore open the envelope, then punched the air in triumph. "Yes! Frank, check it out! Chemistry, A-. Trig, A-. French, A-. American History, B+. English, B+. Semester G.P.A.--3.5333. Frank, that’s the best I’ve ever done!"

Frank grinned happily at his younger brother. "Way to go, kid. I knew you could do it. I knew that if you worked hard, you could pull it off. I knew--"

"But did you know this?" Joe shouted. He ducked down, grabbed his brother around his legs, tossed him over his shoulder, and began to carry him upstairs to their room. Frank dropped the rest of the mail on the floor.

"Hey! Put me down, you big goofus!" Frank protested. He laughed as Joe bore him upstairs like a trophy, yelling and whooping all the way.

When they got to their bedroom, Joe yelled, "Down you want? Down you go!" He tossed Frank onto his bed with a resounding thud. Before Frank could get up, Joe was on top of him. "And now, it’s time for a tickling!"

"No! No! Ahh! Stop it! Stop it!" Frank squirmed, laughed, and yelled as his brother dug his fingers into Frank‘s ribs. Joe kept up his attack until he heard his brother gasping for air. "No. . . .please. . .enough!"

Joe pinned Frank’s wrists down and grinned at his helpless brother. "I think you were overdue for that!"

Frank tried to catch his breath as tears trickled down his cheeks. "You said. . .you wouldn’t. . tickle me!" he protested.

"No, I said if you didn’t give me my grades, I would tickle you. I didn’t say what I would do if you gave them to me. Frank, I‘m worried about you. You‘re not as sharp as you used to be." Joe eased off his brother, then rumpled his hair. "See what you get for not making me French toast?"

"I’ll remember that next time."

Joe pulled Frank up into a sitting position and draped an arm around his shoulder. "I really couldn’t have done this without your help. Thanks, big brother!"

"You’re welcome, I think. May I please be excused?"

"Yes, sir."

"I’ll check out the rest of the mail. I hope there’s no more good news. I don’t think I could take it."

Frank went back downstairs and picked the mail up from the floor. There was a post card from his father in Seattle. Fenton Hardy was a well-known private investigator who had worked for several years on the New York City police department. Deciding that New York was no place to raise a family, he resigned and moved to the Eastern Shore of Maryland. The years had demonstrated, however, that Maryland presented its own opportunities for adventure and danger, not only for Fenton Hardy, but for his sons as well. Both Frank and Joe followed the father’s career with great interest, and showed every sign of wanting to follow in their father’s footsteps. In spite of the fact that Mr. Hardy’s work often took him to all over the country, he and his sons remained extremely close.

"Bills, bills, and more bills. Junk, junk--hello, what’s this?" Another envelope was addressed to Mr. Franklin Hardy--this one from the Bayport chapter of the American Legion. Frank opened the envelope.

The letter inside read,

"Dear Frank,

"We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to represent Bayport at Maryland Boys State this summer. Several outstanding young men applied for this honor. Given your distinguished record in academics, athletics, and civic mindedness, we believe that you will represent our community well. More information will be forthcoming regarding your transportation to the campus of the University of Maryland in College Park, where this year’s Boys State will be held. Congratulations, Frank.

Very truly yours,

William Connor

Commandant, American Legion Post 3709"

"Well, well. Looks like I’ll be spending a few days apart from baby brother," Frank thought. "I hope he can handle it. Come to think of it, I hope I can handle it."

Joe bounded down the stairs again, hair finally combed. "Gosh, Frank, you’d better straighten yourself up before we leave. You’re a mess!"

"Thanks for noticing."

"Any more good mail?"

"Yeah. You remember I applied to go to Boys State? Well, I made it."

"Fantastic! When does it take place?"

"End of June."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Eight days."

Joe frowned slightly. "Kind of long, isn’t it?"