"And don't let any one know what you are going to write," said Mattie Helms. "Then it will be a surprise."
Jess whispered that she didn't see who was going to be surprised, but Margy was busily writing and told her to hush.
After some thought and a little bickering, due to the impatience of one or two of the writers who didn't like to have to wait for the pencil, the nine slips of paper were ready to be put in the box. The lid fitted tightly and, once in place, seemed quite likely to stay there for fifty years, if the box was not found before that time.
It was low tide, and Fred had to go out several yards before he thought it safe to fling the box. He threw it as far as he could and it fell with a satisfying splash.
"I wish I knew who was going to find it," sighed Carrie. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I don't think it makes much difference," Polly declared, and Fred said that he hoped an Eskimo found the box and ate the papers.
"Say," Artie remarked matter-of-factly, "there's somebody sitting at our fire."
Artie spoke as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world, but Carrie was at once excited.
"I left my sweater!" she cried. "If that's a tramp, he'll steal it."
Ella said nothing, but Polly remembered the little beaded bag she had seen.