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dropped his guitar. Biff shook his fist at the cyclist, who turned around and headed for them again.
    Nimbly the boys jumped aside, but the rider was not aiming at them. He took a leap at the guitar.
    Crunch! It was cut to pieces by the trail bike!

CHAPTER V
    A Strange Hiding Place
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    WHEN the trail bike smashed Joe’s guitar, cries of dismay came from the onlookers. Joe sprinted after the rider, but his flying legs were no match for the motorbike. It arrowed out of the camp gate and disappeared down the road.
    When Joe trotted back, Frank was gingerly picking up the pieces. He turned to his brother. “I’m afraid this is totaled.”
    Joe seethed with anger at the senseless act of destruction.
    Chet said, “Some nerve that creep’s got! He’s driving around on the main road without lights or even a vehicle registration. Someone’ll catch up with him sooner or later!”
    â€œThat someone’s going to be me!” Joe vowed. He took the remains of his instrument and tossed them into a trash can.
    The Hardys wondered whether the youth had a trailer in the area, and began to query the people who had gathered around to offer consolations to the Bayport Symphony. All were incensed over the vicious incident.
    Light from the big bonfire flickered across their concerned faces as they gave Frank and Joe some bits and pieces of information. Several campers had seen the blond youth before. One of them, a man from Texas, had warned him to use the unlicensed cycle only on the mountain trails.
    â€œBut of course he paid no attention to me,” the man said.
    A young woman pushed her way through the crowd and told Joe, “If you’re looking for that mean boy I may know where he’s staying.”
    â€œYou do?” Joe said in surprise. “Where?”
    The woman said that the day before the same trail bike had zipped past her on the highway, then turned onto a dirt road. “I saw it pull up to a camp,” she said. “It’s two and a half miles from here, off to the right.”
    Joe thanked her and decided to visit the place the next morning.
    That night Sherlock was tied up outside and the night passed quietly.
    â€œWhat are you going to tell that hoodlum when you see him?” Chet asked as he prepared breakfast.
    â€œNothing,” Joe replied. “I’m going to punch him in the nose.”
    â€œThat is if you find him,” Biff said. “Suppose he’s left already?”
    â€œCome on, Chet. Hurry up,” Joe said. “We can’t wait all day for the sausages.”
    Half an hour later they were ready to go. Frank drove out of the area and onto the highway. Exactly two and a half miles down the road Frank slowed, and the boys peered into the heavy growth of trees and brush on the right side.
    â€œLook, I see it!” Joe called out. “Turn here, Frank.”
    The lane, made by car wheels, was barely visible. Frank drove in slowly with twigs cracking under the tires. As they approached a small clearing they saw a trailer, the kind that normally sleeps two. No car was in evidence, but the trail bike was propped against a tree. Painted on the gas tank were two words: Vampire Trail.
    The only person in sight was the blond-haired youth. He was washing tin dishes in a pan of water. When the car drew nearer, he turned around. Joe got out first, walked up to him, and said, “I’m Joe Hardy. Who are you?”
    The boy pushed the hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Name’s Juice Barden. What do you want?” He had a thin face and light-blue eyes which blinked nervously. Joe judged him to be about eighteen years old.
    â€œLook, you broke my guitar last night,” Joe said.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo it’s no joke. You’re going to pay for it!”
    â€œNow there’s a real joke,” Juice said arrogantly. “You didn’t get out of the way fast