The House On The Cliff by Franklin W. Dixon

Chapter 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 just now. I'll look after him, if these boys here will help me."

"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.