The House on the Cliff

By Franklin W. Dixon.

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I

The Haunted House

Three powerful motorcycles sped along the shore road that leads from the city of Bayport, skirting Barmet Bay, on the Atlantic coast. It was a bright Saturday morning in June, and although the city sweltered in the heat, cool breezes blew in from the bay.

Two of the motorcycles carried an extra passenger. All the cyclists were boys of about fifteen and sixteen years of age and all five were students at the Bayport high school. They were enjoying their Saturday holiday by this outing, glad of the chance to get away from the torrid warmth of the city for a few hours.

When the foremost motorcycle reached a place where the shore road formed a junction with another highway leading to the north, the 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?”

“Sure. We’ve never been out there.”

“I’ve passed it,” Frank said. “But I didn’t go very close to the place, I’ll tell you.”

Jerry Gilroy, who was a newcomer to Bayport, looked puzzled.

“Where is Polucca’s place?”

“You can see it from here. Look,” said Chet, taking him by the arm and bringing him over to the side of the road. “See where the shore road dips, away out near the end of Barmet Bay. Do you see that cliff?”

“Yes. There’s a stone house at the top.”

“Well, that’s Polucca’s place.”

“Who is Polucca?”