“Well, we’ll call him the Licensed Poet,” said Dick, “and have our supper. We ought to be thankful that he didn’t take more than he did. There were two whole loaves of bread there besides the half loaf; it was decent of him to take the half.”
“For that matter,” observed Roy, “it was decent of him, I suppose, not to swipe the tent and the cook stove. After this we won’t dare to leave the camp alone.”
“Supper! Supper!” cried Chub. “We can talk about it just as well while we’re eating. Come on, Harry; take the head of the table, please.”
“No, I’m not going to sit at the head,” Harry declared. “There’s a horrid old root there. I’m going to sit here, right by the preserve.”
Of course there was just one all-absorbing topic of conversation, and that was “W. N.,” “Seth Billings,” or “The Licensed Poet,” as he was variously called. Harry advanced a theory to account for the difference between the initials signed to the verses and the name on the reverse of the paper which found instant favor. The theory was that there had been two visitors, that “W. N.” had written the verses, and that “Seth Billings” had supplied the leaf out of his note-book. That explanation was very plausible, and, while it didn’t begin to explain all they wanted to know, it brought a measure of relief.
As the twilight fell Harry became fidgety and evinced a disposition to start abruptly at slight noises and to glance continually over her shoulder toward the edge of the woods, and long before her accustomed hour for leaving she decided that she would return to the Cottage, pleading that the tennis had made her very tired and sleepy. Chub grinned skeptically but said nothing, and he and Roy took Harry home, accompanying her all the way up the hill and only turning back when the lights of the Cottage were in sight across the campus.
“Shall we fasten the tent-flap?” asked Roy when they had undressed under the swinging lantern and were ready to dispense with its feeble radiance.
“What’s the use?” yawned Chub. “If Seth Billings wants to steal us I guess he will do it anyhow.”
“I’d like to see what he’d write after he’d stolen you and had a good look at you,” said Roy as he blew out the lantern. For once Chub made no retort, for he was already fast asleep.
They awoke the next morning to find the sky swept clear of clouds and the sunlight burnishing the green leaves. There was a dip in the blue waters of the cove and a race back to the tent where three tingling bodies were rubbed dry and invested with clothing. Then Dick, who could dress or undress while Roy or Chub were getting ready to do it, went whistling out to start the fire. In a moment the whistling ceased abruptly and there was silence. Then the tent flap was pushed back and Dick appeared in the opening holding forth a square of birch bark on which lay four good-sized fish.