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!"