Sure enough, on the smooth white sand they could see many footprints,
imprinted all over each other, as if scurrying feet had trodden all
around their precious wood pile.

"Oh, King, you're just like a detective!" cried Marjorie, in admiration.
"But it's so! These aren't our footprints!"

She fitted her spring-heeled tan shoes into the prints, and proved at
once that they were not hers. Nor did King's shoes fit exactly, though
they came nearer to it than Marjorie's.

"Yes, sir; some fellows came along and stole that wood. Here are two or
three quite different prints."

"Well, where do they lead to?" said practical Marjorie.

"That's so. Let's trace them and get the wood back."

But after leading away from them for a short distance the footprints
became fainter, and in a softer bit of sand disappeared altogether.

"Pshaw!" said King. "I don't so much care about the wood, but I hate to
lose the trail like this. Let's hunt, Mopsy."

"All right, but first, let's bury these apples and potatoes, or they'll
be stolen, too."

"Good idea!" And they buried their treasures in the nice, clean sand,
and marked the place with an inconspicuous stick.