“No, but you always build fires on the beach.  It’s lots of fun.  And we’ll roast potatoes in it.”

“All right.  How do we begin?”

“Well, we gather a lot of wood first.  Come on.”

Marjorie came on, and they worked with a will, gathering armfuls of wood and piling it up near the spot they had selected for their fire.

“That’s enough,” said Marjorie, for her arms ached as she laid down her last contribution to their collection.

“You’ll find it isn’t much when it gets to burning.  But never mind, it will make a start.  I’ll skin up to the house and get matches and potatoes.”

“I’ll go with you, ’cause I think we’d better ask Father about making this fire.  It might do some harm.”

“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.”

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.”