“Joke, nothing! That place is haunted. Come on.” And with a roar, Chet’s motorcycle leaped forward as he headed down the lane toward the main road. Joe, after looking behind and motioning to his brother to stay with the party, followed him. Soon the three motorcycles were speeding down the lane. And from the haunted house came peal after peal of that same demoniacal laughter, as though mocking their flight. Then, as they rode on through the streaming rain and the haunted house was lost to sight among the wet and sodden trees, the laughter died away. When they reached the main road the boys turned their motorcycles in the direction of Bayport and for more than five minutes the machines rocked and swerved as they sped along through the muddy ruts. The boys were soaked to the skin and water dripped from the peaks of their caps into their eyes. The rain poured down with redoubled violence and the others could scarcely see Chet’s machine through the misty downpour. Chet was making such good time back to Bayport that they found it difficult to keep up with him. Frank Hardy was still dissatisfied. He had really wanted to remain behind and probe the mystery of the house on the cliff further. He held no stock in the ghost theory. The shrieks and the mocking laugh, he was sure, were of human origin. But what could have been the motive? It may have been that some boys had been in the house when they arrived and had simply seized the opportunity to play a joke on them. “In that case,” he muttered to himself, “the story will be all over the Bayport high school by Monday and we’ll be kidded within an inch of our lives for running away. We should have stayed behind.” Something told him, however, that this was no ordinary schoolboy prank. The incident of the fallen ceiling had unnerved him slightly. It was only by good luck that none of them had been seriously hurt. Of course, it may have been entirely accidental, but it seemed to have happened at a strangely opportune time. Then the recollection of the shrieks and the mocking laugh came back to him again and he shivered as he recalled the maniacal intensity of the tones. “If it was any fellow like ourselves he was a mighty good actor,” Frank said to himself. “I’ve heard of a person’s blood running cold, but I never knew what it meant until I heard those yells.” Suddenly his motorcycle began, as he termed it, “acting up.” It coughed, lurched, back-fired explosively, and then the engine died. “What a fine time for a breakdown,” Frank said, as he dismounted. Joe drew up alongside. “What’s the matter?” he called. “Engine broke down.” “Gosh, aren’t you lucky!” exclaimed Joe, grinning. “There’s a shed over at the side of the road. Bring it over under cover.”