rider brought his machine to a stop and waited for the others to draw alongside. He was a tall, dark youth of sixteen, with a clever, good-natured face. His name was Frank Hardy.
"Where do we go from here?" he called out to the others.
The two remaining motorcycles came to a stop and the drivers mopped their brows while the two other boys dismounted, glad of the chance to stretch their legs. One of the cyclists, a boy of fifteen, fair, with light, curly hair, was Joe Hardy, a brother of Frank's, and the other lad was Chet Morton, a chum of the Hardy boys. The other youths were Jerry Gilroy and "Biff" Hooper, typical, healthy American lads of high school age.
"You're the leader," said Joe to his brother. "We'll follow you."
"I'd rather have it settled. We've started out without any particular place to go. There's not much fun just riding around the countryside."
"I don't much care where we go, as long as we keep on going," said Jerry. "We get a breeze as long as we're traveling, but the minute we stop I begin to sweat."
Chet Morton gazed along the shore road.
"I'll tell you what we can do," he said suddenly. "Let's go and visit the haunted house."
"Polucca's place?"
