"Anything else missing?" asked Reade, as Dick looked among the supplies.
"Yes," Prescott raged; "one of the bottles of Worcestshire sauce and two of the tins of corn. Oh, it's a two-legged thief that has spoiled our supper!"
"Perhaps you were too sure about Rip being off in Canada," grinned
Reade.
"Fred Ripley would hardly steal food," Prescott retorted. "Rip is seldom really hungry. Tom, I'd give a dollar to know just who was hanging around this camp."
"I'd give two dollars to know," snapped Reade, "but I'd take the money from the camp treasury."
"Queer that the fellow didn't take the potatoes, too," mused Dick, turning back to the stove.
"The potatoes weren't done," suggested Reade wisely, "and probably our visitor didn't think it wise to wait until they were. The hulled corn will serve his purpose very well, though."
"It was a mean trick to play on us," quivered Dick.
"Of course it was—-unless the thief were really very hungry," answered Tom.
"In that case, I don't believe I'd blame the fellow so much,"
Dick admitted. "But now, what are we going to have for supper?"