“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.”