“I’ve read,” answered Harry oracularly.
“Well, I’ll bet you anything this poet isn’t very sensitive,” scoffed Chub. “Any fellow who will swipe your butter can’t be suffering much that way!”
“I don’t believe we ought to accuse him of swiping anything, either,” said Harry. “Swiping is a very—very ordinary word, Chub.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Chub. “You must want us to thank him for stealing our grub and invite him to dinner!”
“I think it would be very nice to invite him to dinner. I’ve never met a real poet.”
“Well, if we do,” said Dick grimly, “I’m for hiding the solid silver.”
They reached Point Harriet without finding trace of the quarry, although whenever Snip barked in the woods Chub insisted that the poet was treed. They turned homeward and passed the Grapes and Hood’s Hill. Then, as they scrambled down to Outer Beach, Roy gave a shout. [At their feet lay the still smoldering remains of a small fire.] The sand between the fire and the edge of the water was trampled, and marks showed where a boat of some sort had been pulled partly out of the water. But there was no one in sight.
[“At their feet lay the still smoldering remains of a small fire”]