"My goodness! you can't go home that way," said Bobby Blake, faintly.
He did not laugh at all. The situation had suddenly become tragic instead of comic. Fred could not walk back to Clinton in his bathing-trunks—that is, not until after dark.
"I wish I had hold of that Ap Plunkit," repeated Fred Martin. "He did it," he added.
"Oh, we don't know—"
"Of course we do. He sneaked along there after us and found my clothes, and ran away with them—every one. And your shoes and stockings, too!"
"No he didn't, either!" cried Bobby, suddenly, staring up into the tall tree over their heads.
"Eh?"
"There are the shoes and stockings—shoes, anyway," declared Bobby, pointing.
It was a chestnut tree above their heads. It promised a full crop of nuts in the fall, for the green burrs starred thickly the leafy branches.
Whoever had disturbed the chums' possessions had climbed to the very tip-top of the chestnut and hung the two pair of shoes far out on a small branch.