Nearly at the end of the boardwalk, on a bench, was a large and handsome French doll. It was dressed as a baby, with a long white frock, a lacy cap and a knitted pink sacque.
"Oh, look at that!" cried Dotty. "I know whose it is; it belongs to that little golden-haired child at the hotel."
"That's so," said Tod. "The kiddy must have left it here. I saw her lugging it around this morning, and it was about all she could do to carry it. Shall we take it back to her?"
"Yes," said Dotty; "I'd just as lieve carry it."
"You bet you'll carry it, if either of us does. Do you s'pose I'd go round lugging a wax infant?"
"It isn't wax," said Dotty, picking it up; "it's light as a feather. It's one of those celluloid things, but I never saw such a big one before. Yes, I'll take it back to little Yellowtop. If it's left here somebody will steal it. Shall we turn back now?"
"No; come on to the end of the walk and let's have a look at the fishermen."
They went on and soon reached their destination. It was a picturesque place, but the cabins were deserted and only a few empty boats were in sight. The beach was littered with old fish nets and various sorts of rubbish, while a few piers ran out into the sea.
"Everybody's gone fishing," said Tod. "Nothing much to see here; let's go back."
"Let's go out to the end of that pier," said Dotty. "There's no danger, is there?"