rgo of West Indian rum.

Some of these facts, of course, had appeared in the newspapers. Others
had not been made public. But, far from New York City as they were and
not interested in reading about news events, for they had their own
interest to engage their attention, the boys were not familiar with
the situation. What they had been told came as a tremendously
interesting revelation.

"Very well," continued Jack, as Bob and Frank prepared to listen;
"remembering what we heard last night about the liquor smugglers, it
certainly seems likely, doesn't it, that the man who has bought the
haunted Brownell house, built a secret radio plant and introduced a
radio-controlled airplane into our exclusive neighborhood, may be
involved with the smugglers?"

"Righto, Jack," Frank declared. "But what's your proposal?"

"Simply that we do a little investigating on our own account."

"If you intend to propose that we go nosing around the Brownell place,
trying to spy and snoop, I vote against it," declared Bob. "I ran away
yesterday, after discovering that radio plant, because I felt danger
in the air. With a wire fence built to keep out intruders and with New
York gunmen posted in the woods, I have a feeling it wouldn't be
healthy to do any investigating. If I were tiny as Frank
here"--reaching over to rumple his chum's hair--"it might do. They
couldn't hit me. But, as it is, I'd make a fine target."

Jack smiled and nodded agreement.

"Agreed on that," he said. "Dad always tells me it is only a foolhardy
idiot who puts his head into danger unnecessarily. But that isn't the
kind of investigating I had in mind."

"Then what?" asked Frank.

"Well, first of all, this is a fine day for flying," answered Jack,
pointing out the open window, to where warm sunshine lay over the
country and the sparkling sea in the distance. "You fellows lie abed
so long. You haven't had a chance yet to see what an ideal day it is;
warm, cloudless, and with hardly a trace of wind."

"What's flying got to do with it?" asked Bob. "We saw yesterday about
all we can see from the air. Any more flying over there will make
somebody suspicious."

"I was thinking of a little trip to Mineola," said Jack. "Then we can
leave the old bus on the flying field there and motor into the city in
an hour. Once in the city we might ask Mr. McKay, your father's real
estate friend, who the fellow is who has bought the old Brownell
house."

"Then what, Hawkshaw?"