"Fiddlesticks! We made a fire 'most every day last summer."

And, owing to King's knowledge and experience regarding beach fires, his
father told him he might build one, and to be properly careful about not
setting fire to themselves.

Then they procured potatoes and apples from the kitchen, and raced back
to the beach.

"Why, where's our wood?" cried Marjorie.

Not a stick or a chip remained of their carefully gathered wood pile.

"Some one has stolen it!" said King.

"No, there's nobody around, except those people over there, and they're
grown-ups. It must have been washed away by a wave."

"Pooh, the waves aren't coming up near as far as this."

"Well, there might have been a big one."

"No, it wasn't a wave. That wood was stolen, Mops!"

"But who could have done it? Those grown-up people wouldn't. You can see
from their looks they wouldn't. They're reading aloud. And in the other
direction, there are only some fishermen,--they wouldn't take it."

"Well, somebody did. Look, here are lots of footprints, and I don't
believe they're all ours."