of seaweed, and
farther on some driftwood, and in the distance a pier, built out far
into the ocean.

"Did you ever _see_ such a place?" cried Marjorie, in sheer delight.

"Well, I was at the seashore last year," said King, "while you were at
Grandma's."

"But it wasn't as nice as this, was it? Say it wasn't!"

"No; the sand was browner. This is the nicest sand I ever saw. Say,
Mops, let's build a fire."

"What for? It isn't cold."

"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.
"B