The House on the Cliff

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.”

A sound out in the bay attracted Frank’s attention and he looked out over the rolling sweep of waters. He could see a powerful motorboat plunging through the waves about a quarter of a mile out. It was just coming into view around the base of the cliff, and as Frank looked he saw the nose of still another boat emerging into sight. Each craft was traveling at high speed.

“Looks like a race!” remarked Joe.

The Hardy boys stopped their motorcycles and watched the two boats. But it was soon apparent that this was no friendly speed contest. The boat in the lead was zigzagging in a peculiar manner, and the pursuing craft was rapidly overhauling it. The staccato roar of the powerful boats was borne to the lads’ ears by the wind.

“See! The other boat is chasing it!” Frank exclaimed. He had caught sight of the figures of two men standing in the bow of the pursuing craft. They were waving their arms frantically.

The first boat turned as though it were about to head inshore at the cliff and then, apparently, the helmsman changed his mind, for at once the nose of the boat pointed out into the open bay again. But the moment of hesitation had given the pursuers the chance they wanted, and swiftly the gap between the racing craft grew smaller and smaller.

The Hardy boys saw that there was but one man in the foremost craft. He was bent over the wheel. In the other boat they caught sight of one figure who had snatched up an object that appeared to be a rifle.

Standing among the thickets at the base of the steepest slope, was a man.

He was very tall and he wore a black felt hat, the wide brim of which obscured the upper part of his face. His countenance was tanned and weatherbeaten, his lips were thin and cruel. He wore a short black jacket, and he stood with his hands plunged into the side-pockets and his feet spread wide apart, in the manner of a seaman.

He was standing there quietly, gazing at them without a shadow of expression on his sinister face, as motionless as a statue.

When he saw that he was observed he called out:

“Leave this place!”

Tony throttled down the engine. The three boys stared at the man in the black hat as though he were an apparition.

“Leave this place!” he repeated, in a curiously metallic voice.

“We aren’t doing any harm,” replied Frank.

“Not now,” said the stranger. “But don’t land here.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have to ask why. This is private property. You can’t land here. You’d better leave at once.”

The boys hesitated. As though to emphasize his commands, the man in the black hat reached suddenly into his pocket and whipped out a wicked-looking revolver. Then he folded his arms, tapping the barrel of the revolver against one shoulder very deliberately.

“Turn that boat around and get out of here!” he snapped. “Don’t come back. Don’t ever come back. Don’t ever try to land here. This is private property. If you ever do land here you’ll be shot.”

“I tell you this nonsense has gone far enough. He’ll sign, and he’ll sign right now, or I’ll know the reason why.”

The boys started. For the voice was none other than the voice of the man who had ordered them out of the cove that afternoon.

“That’s the stuff, chief!” returned someone. “Make him sign and promise to keep his mouth shut.”

“If he doesn’t he’ll never live to tell about it, that’s one thing sure!” snapped the first man coldly.

There was the sound of a switch being snapped, and then the boys could see a yellow beam of light beneath the door at their feet. From the sounds they judged that three or four men had entered the room beyond.

“Well, he’s still here,” said the man who had been addressed as “chief.” He strode across the room and the boys could hear a chair scrape on the board floor. “You’ll find that this is an easier place to get into than it is to get out of.”

A weary voice answered him. The tones were low. The boys could not make out the words.

“You’re a prisoner here and you’ll be a prisoner here until you die unless you sign that paper.”

Again the weary voice spoke, but, as before, the tones were so low that the words were indistinguishable.

“You won’t sign, eh? We’ll see about that!”

“Wait till he goes hungry for a few days and then he’ll think differently,” put in one of the other men. There was a hoarse laugh from his companions.