ut 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.

Then they set out to hunt their lost wood. The beach, though flat and
shelving at the water's edge, rose in a low bluff farther back, and this
offered among its irregular projections many good hiding-places for
their quarry.

And, sure enough, after some searching, they came suddenly upon three
boys who sat, shaking with laughter, upon a pile of wood.

The two Maynards glared at them rather angrily, upon which the three
again went off in peals of laughter.

"That's our wood!" began King, aggressively.

"Sure it is!" returned the biggest boy, still chuckling.

"What did you bring it over here for?"

"Just for fun!"

"H'm, just for fun! And do you think it would be fun to carry it back
again?"

"Yep; just's lieve as not. Come on, kids!" And that remarkable boy began
to pick up the sticks.

"Oh, hold on," said King. "If you're so willing, you needn't do it! Who
are you, anyway?"

"Well," said the biggest boy, suddenly straightening himself up and
bowing politely to Marjorie, "we're your neighbors. We live in that
green house next to yours. And we're named Tom, Dick, and Harry. Yes, I
know you think those names sound funny, but they're ours all the same.
Thomas, Richard, and Henry Craig,--at your service! I'm Tom. This is
Dick, and this is Harry."

He whacked his brothers on the shoulder as he named them, and they
ducked forward in polite, if awkward salutation.

"And did you really take our wood?" said Marjorie, with an accusing
glance, as if surprised that such pleasant-spoken boys could do such a
thing.