“I—I think I was shot—” muttered the stranger. He motioned weakly toward his side.
Frank leaned over.
“Why, there’s blood on his coat!” he exclaimed.
A hasty examination showed that the stranger was right. There was a bullet wound in his right side. It was evidently not serious, merely a flesh wound, but it had bled freely and the man was weakened.
Gently, the boys helped removed his clothing, and with warm water and a sponge the farmer bathed the wound. The bullet had passed right through the fellow’s coat after searing a path across his side. Disinfectant was then applied, the stranger gritting his teeth with pain, and after that the bandages were put in place.
“Now we can put him to bed. Can you walk, stranger?”
The man made an effort to rise, and then fell back weakly upon the couch.
“I’m afraid—I can’t!”
“All right, then, we’ll carry you. Give me a hand with him, lads.”
Between them, they carried the wounded man upstairs into a plain but comfortably furnished room. Here he was put to bed and covered with warm blankets. With a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes.
“He’s weak from loss of blood. That’s mostly what’s the matter with him,” the farmer said. “We’ll let him have a good sleep.”
They left the room, and when they went out into the kitchen again the Hardy boys told the farmer and his wife of the strange adventure they had just been through. The farmer listened thoughtfully.
“Queer!” he observed. “Mighty queer!” Then, glancing significantly at his wife, he said: “What d’you think of it, Mabel?”
“I think the same as you, Bill, and you know it. Most like it’s been another of them smuggling mix-ups.”
The farmer nodded. “I’ve an idea it’s somethin’ like that.”
“Smuggling!” exclaimed Frank.
“Sure! There’s quite a bit of smuggling goes on around Barmet Bay, you know. Leastways, there has been in the past few months. That’s been my suspicions, anyway. I’ve seen too many motorboats out in the bay of late, and I’ve heard too many of ’em prowlin’ around at night. If it’s not smugglin’ it’s some other kind of unlawful business.”
“Do you think this fellow may have been shot in some kind of a smugglers’ quarrel?”
The farmer shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. It ain’t safe to say anythin’ when you don’t know for certain. But I wouldn’t be a mite surprised.”
Mr. and Mrs. Kane, as they introduced themselves, were just about to have dinner, and they invited the Hardy boys to stay. This the lads were glad to do, as they were very tired by their exertions of the morning, and were already feeling the pangs of hunger.
They sat down to the simple but ample meal, typical farm fare of roast beef and baked pork and beans, with creamy mashed potatoes, topped off with a rich lemon pie, frothy with meringue, and fragrant coffee. During the meal they discussed the strange affair of the bay. The Hardy boys did not mention their experiences at the Polucca place, for they had learned that one of the chief requisites of a good detective is to keep his ears open and his mouth shut and to hear more than he tells. At that, one mystery was enough for one dinner.
“I’d like to find out more about this affair,” said Frank, when the meal was concluded and Mr. Kane sat back luxuriously in his chair and puffed at his pipe. “Perhaps that fellow is awake now.”
“Wouldn’t do any harm to see. You might ask him some questions. I’m just as curious about it as you are yourself.”
They went upstairs. The stranger was sleeping when they looked into the room, but the slight noise they made awakened him and he gazed at them dully.
“Feeling better?” Joe asked.
“Oh, yes,” replied the stranger weakly. “I must have lost a lot of blood, though.”
“That was when they shot at you just before the boat blew up,” said Frank.
The man in the bed nodded, but said nothing.
“What’s your name, stranger?” asked Mr. Kane bluntly.
The man in the bed hesitated a moment.
“Jones,” he said, at last.
It was so evidently a false name that the Hardy boys glanced at one another, and the farmer scratched his chin doubtfully.
“How come you to be in such a mess as this?” he asked, at last. “What were they shootin’ at you for?”
“Don’t ask me, please,” said the mysterious Jones. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you anything.”
“I suppose you know these young fellers saved your life?”
“Yes—I know—and I’m very grateful. But don’t ask me any questions. I can’t tell you anything about it.”
“You won’t even tell them? Not after they saved your life?”
Jones shook his head stubbornly.
“I can’t explain anything about it. Please go away. Let me sleep.”
Frank and Joe signaled to the farmer that it would be best if they withdrew, so they left the room and closed the door. When they went back downstairs the farmer was grumbling to himself.
“I’m hanged if he ain’t the most closemouthed lad I’ve ever seen!” he declared. “You saved his life and he won’t tell you why he come to be racin’ around the bay in a motorboat with fellows shootin’ at him.”
“He must have some good reason. It’s his own business, after all,” reflected Frank. “We can’t force him to explain anything.”
“He’s in with them smugglers, that’s what he is!” declared Mr. Kane, with conviction.
“I guess we had better be getting back home. Do you mind keeping him here? We can have him moved to a hospital.”
The farmer shook his head.
“Smuggler or not, he stays here until he gets better. Nobody ever said Bill Kane turned a sick man out of doors, and nobody ever will. He stays here until he gets better.”
“We’ll come back in a day or so and see how he is getting along,” Joe promised.
“He’ll have the best of care here. Whether it’s smugglin’ or not that he’s been mixed up in, it doesn’t matter. My wife and
