young Tim, the thief!"

It was an old boat that Wort looked into as he stood upon the stairs
leading down into the dock. It was a boat badly battered, like its owner.

"If the red paint could be got off Tim's nose and put on his boat, it
would be better for both," thought Wort.

Old Tim was fixing a net in the stem of his boat. Young Tim was in another
part of the dock, hunting amid the muddy flats for relics.

"There she is!" said Wort to himself. He had detected a dipper in the
bottom of the boat. "Now is my chance," thought Wort. He reached down to
the coveted dipper. It was a venerable piece of tinware.

"That's too old to be ours," reflected the daring Wort. "Let me turn it
over and see if there is a mark on the bottom. Bah, an old worm! That is
not our dipper."

"Here, you thief! what are you meddlin' with that property for?" roared a
voice.

It was Old Tim. His face was red as a boiled lobster, and as he crooked
his bare arms and rested them on his hips, they looked like the claws of a
mammoth lobster ready to crawl out and seize any offender.

"Guess I'll go," thought Wort, and off he hurried to tell the club his
ill-success, and that their detective in search of a thief had been called
one.