"But it's all bunk!" said Ned to himself. "It's just nerves. I'm not going to speak of it. Tom has enough to worry about now."
However, he cast a quick look over his shoulder and even flashed his torch on the oak paneling, a move which caused Tom to ask:
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Ned, prevaricating just a little. But he felt he had a right to, since, as he reasoned, Tom Swift had been under a strain for several days getting the House on Wheels in shape for this test trip. There was no sense in adding to his worries, especially as it was such an intangible something that Ned had felt.
Yet he could not get over the sensation that he, too, as Tom had been, was being watched by sinister eyes somewhere within that deserted mansion. Eyes that were evil, that looked evil, and that hoped evil.
"Might have been bats," thought Ned. "Always have been bats in an old house. That's what it was—bats. I'll be getting them in my belfry if I don't get something to eat soon," he thought, with a noiseless chuckle.
Their footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the dark and eerie mansion, but nothing happened, save now and then a distant and ghostly hammering or clattering sound that plainly came from rattling windows, banging doors, and swinging shutters.
"Well," remarked Tom, with a sigh of relief, "we've proved that there's nobody around here to annoy us. Now for a good night's rest."
He stepped out of the front door, closely followed by Ned. The rain was coming down hard and the wind had once more risen to the proportions of half a gale. For a moment Tom and Ned stood on the big front porch. Then Ned remarked:
"We must have got turned around and come out the back way."