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 near by 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!”