“That’s not so,” Red denied hotly. “The biscuits were perfect when Mr. Hatfield and I went to gather wood. Someone stole ’em!”
“It may have been that tramp who hid out in the house,” Brad said thoughtfully. “For all we know, he may still be around somewhere.”
“Just wait until I meet him again!” Midge declared, scraping the last bit of egg from his tinfoil cup plate. “I’ll give him a piece of my mind!”
“Maybe it wasn’t the tramp,” speculated Chips. He poked the coals with a stick, and having stirred the flames, tossed a crumpled ball of foil to the fire.
“Who else could it have been?” demanded Fred. “We’ve seen no one on this road. Only cars that whiz past at twenty-five miles an hour.”
Chips had fastened his gaze upon the unpainted dwelling owned by the Widow Jones. The old house was some distance away, but visible through the trees.
“Remember that runaway boy?” he reminded the Cubs. “He was taken back to Mrs. Jones’ House, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Hatfield. Squatting beside the fire, he had listened with interest to the speculation of the Cubs.
“Well, I’ll bet a cent he went off with our food!” Chips announced. “Let’s go to the house and find out!”
“Yeah!” cried Midge. “We aren’t going to let him get by with it, are we?”