h appeared with two baskets of dishes. He then
brought up three folding tables and proceeded to set them up,
next bringing on campstools. Dr. Bentley had overlooked nothing.
Last of all paper lanterns were strung from the trees, and just
at dark these were lighted.

Potatoes were set to boil in a kettle. Embers were raked down
and corn still in the husks was set in the embers and covered
up to roast. Some of the girls sliced more tomatoes than the
whole party could eat. Cucumbers, too, were prepared.

Fish were broiled on grates over the fires. All was ready just
before dark.

Dick gave the launch man a hearty invitation to join them at supper,
the latter shaking his head, expressed his thanks and hurried
away.

What an appetizing meal it was! Nothing seemed to have gone wrong.
It was a merry party indeed that sat down around the tables.

Suddenly there came an interruption. "Camp! Oh, I say---camp!"
called a gruff voice from the road.

"Here!" called Dick, rising from the table. "Who is it?"

"Any girls there?" demanded the same voice.

"Several," Dick acknowledged.

"Having a picnic, are you?" demanded the strange voice.

"The best ever!" Dick replied heartily.

"Lots of fresh vegetables, too, eh?"

"Ye-es," Dick assented slowly, and with a peculiar feeling. He
recalled the laughing talk of the girls about "stealing," and
now wondered what was about to happen.

"I guess they're the girls I want, then," continued the voice
of the unseen speaker.

Dick & Co. felt a swift spasm of uneasiness, for that voice sounded
as though it might belong to the law.

A moment later a roughly dressed man moved down into the circle.

"My name is Dobson," said the new comer, looking hard at the girls.
"I reckon you were in my truck garden this afternoon, weren't
you?"

"Why---er----ye-es," admitted Laura, the first to find her voice.
She rose and faced Mr. Dobson with a look of budding uneasiness.

"Took lot of my vegetables, didn't you?" pressed the farmer.

"Ye-es," faltered Laura, "but-----"

"Excuse me, miss, but there aren't many kinds of 'buts' about a
transaction of that kind," insisted the farmer.

Here, Dr. Bentley, who had looked less concerned than anyone else
present, broke in:

"Your name is Dobson?" he asked.

"Not Gibson, then?" pressed the doctor.

"Course my name isn't Gibson, if it's Dobson," retorted the farmer.
"There is a man named Gibson who lives 'bout a quarter of a mile