WE didn't have any idea who took our things and there didn't seem to be any way of finding out. The ground in the woods was carpeted with pine needles, which left no trace of footprints.
We thought that maybe those girls that we had chased had taken our dinner to get even, and it might have been the Summer Street boys, or maybe the Gingham Ground Gang.
We scattered, like Skinny told us, and gradually worked out from the center, crawling on our hands and knees, and watching every inch of the ground and the bushes.
We didn't get any trace at all until I found a potato. Then Skinny, who was a little ahead of me and at one side, gave a groan and yelled:
"Here's my wishbone. They've eaten all my fried chicken."
It always makes Skinny mad to have somebody eat his fried chicken.
Farther on we found pieces of eggshell and then more, as if somebody had peeled an egg while walking and thrown the shells on the ground.
We knew then that there was no chance of getting our dinners back, but we followed the trail, just the same.
After a time we came to the queerest looking tracks, where somebody had stepped on a soft piece of ground. Benny found them first.
"The spoor!" he yelled. "The spoor! I've found the spoor."