Franklin W. Dixon

Two bright-eyed boys on motorcycles were speeding along a shore road in the sunshine of a morning in spring.

Three powerful motorcycles sped along the shore road that leads from the city of Bayport, skirting Barmet Bay, on the Atlantic coast.

Aunt Gertrude’s favorite word was “don’t” and she persisted in treating her nephews as though they were but a grade advanced from kindergarten.

“You’ll pay for this, let me tell you. My plane is wrecked and I was mighty near killed just because a couple of fool boys didn’t know enough to stop.”

The waves were tossing like white-crested monsters seeking to devour them.

“There’s nothing I’d rather see coming into the house than more pie-plates. More pie-plates mean more pie.”

Eighty-five people, but ninety-four lives. The ship’s cat was drowned too.

It was a Saturday afternoon in June, one of those warm, drowsy days when even the leaves of the trees seem too indolent to stir.

Driven by a stiff breeze from the west, a trim little iceboat went scudding over the frozen surface of Barmet Bay.

Frank looked blankly at Joe.

Under the lowering sky that heralded the approaching storm, the grounds of the Polucca place were far from inviting.

Aunt Gertrude was a pessimist of the first water.

“You must have a pretty bad case of nerves to make your breath smell so strong,” rejoined the farmer calmly.

Aunt Gertrude was formidable. Her word was law.

The mill wheel turned slowly, creaking painfully as though it objected to being forced to labor again after its long rest.

If ever a fish smelled fishy, it was that fish.

“No, it ain’t agin’ the law, but it’s agin’ common sense.”

Camping is for summer time.

“Sure, I heard a horn,” admitted Billers. “But,” he added triumphantly, “I didn’t see no car.”

A weird shriek, quavering as if with terror, rang out from the upper part of the haunted house!