Then, with Joe helping and in imminent danger of upsetting the boat, he managed to drag the stranger to the side of the craft.
The fellow was a dead weight, for he had lapsed into unconsciousness when Frank seized him, but somehow they contrived to get him into the boat, and there he lay, sprawled helplessly, more dead than alive.
“We’d better get him to shelter some place and revive him,” said Joe. “We can’t do much for him here.”
“How about that farmhouse down the bay?”
“The very place. Where is it?”
They finally located the farmhouse, a snug little building back off the main road some distance down the bay. It meant considerable rowing, but there was a life at stake.
The blazing motorboat nearby was a roaring mass of flames. Then it began to sink beneath the waves. There was a great hissing sound and a heavy cloud of steam as the craft sank lower and lower into the water, its blazing embers blackening to the touch of the sea. Swiftly, at last, the boat disappeared. Its stern seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then it slid quickly down into the waves and the only trace was a widening pool of oil and scattered wreckage on the surface of the water.
But the Hardy boys were too busy to give more than passing notice to the spectacle. Their immediate problem was to get the stranger under shelter.
Frank decided that there was no necessity for first aid. The man had been conscious when he rose from the water the first time, so there could not be much water in his lungs. He had simply given in to exhaustion and fatigue resulting from his long struggle in the waves.
They headed the boat down the bay, in a direct line with the little farmhouse, which they could see nestling among the trees. They had already spent much energy in rowing out to the rescue of the stranger, but they fell to the new task with a will. Rowing with machine-like precision, they felt the little boat respond to every effort, and it fairly leaped along. This time they had the wind and the waves with them and they made good time.
The man they had rescued lay face downward in the bottom of the boat. He was a slim, black-haired fellow. His clothes, which of course were soaked with water, were cheap and worn, the sleeves being frayed at the cuffs. They could not see his face, but they judged him to be young. He was still unconscious.
Frank let Joe take his oar for a moment, and crouched down beside the stranger. He turned the man over and the limp form lolled about as helplessly as a bag of salt. As they had surmised, he was a young fellow, with sharp, clean-cut features. He wore a cheap shirt, open at the throat.
Frank pressed his ear to the fellow’s chest and listened for signs of life. Finally he straightened up, with a mutter of satisfaction.
“His heart’s beating all right,” he told Joe. “He’s alive, at any rate. Just all in. He’ll come to after a while.”
He returned to his oar and the little boat skimmed over the waves on toward the farmhouse in the distance.
The boys rowed until the muscles of their arms were aching, but at last they drew near the shore and finally the pebbles grated underneath the keel. Frank leaped out and dragged the boat part way up on the beach. Then, between them, they carried the unconscious man up the rocky shore toward the farmhouse.
They found a path that led through a field up to the back door of the house, and although their burden was heavy they managed to carry the still figure, limp and motionless, across the field.
A gaunt, kindly-faced woman came hurrying out of the house at their approach, and from the orchard nearby came a man in overalls. The farmer and his wife had seen them.
“Laws! what’s happened now?” asked the woman, wide-eyed, as they came up to her.
“This man was mighty nearly drowned out in the bay,” explained Frank. “We saw your house—”
“Bring him in,” boomed the farmer. “Bring him indoors.”
The woman ran ahead of them and held the door open. With the farmer giving aid, the boys carried the unconscious man into the house and placed him on a couch in the comfortably furnished living room. The farmer’s wife glanced dubiously at the stream of water that dripped from the victim’s clothes, for she was a tidy soul and she had just scrubbed the floor that morning, but her better nature overcame her housewifely instincts and she hastened out to the kitchen to prepare a hot drink.
“Best rub his hands,” suggested the farmer. He was a burly man with a black beard. “It’ll bring the blood back to his cheeks. One of you take off his boots and we’ll wrap his feet up in warm flannels.”
For the next five minutes the house was a scene of excitement as the farmer and his wife bustled about and the Hardy boys rubbed industriously at the hands and feet of the unconscious man, trying to restore him to consciousness. At last there was a sign of reviving life.
The man on the couch stirred feebly. His eyelids fluttered. His lips moved, but no words came. Then the eyes opened and the man stared at them, as though in a daze.
“Where am I?” he muttered faintly.
“You’re safe,” Frank assured him. “You’re with friends.”
“Pretty—near—cashed in—didn’t I?”
“Yes, you pretty nearly drowned. But you’re all right now.”
“It was Snackley!” said the stranger, as though talking to himself. “Snackley got me—the rat!”
VI
Snackley
At that moment the farmer’s wife appeared, bringing a drink of hot ginger and water, which the man on the couch gulped down gratefully.
“We’ll put him in the spare room, Mabel,” decided the farmer. “He needs a good warm bed more’n anything else
