Tug looked up startled. “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “You don’t suppose—you—say, do you believe it could have been Hal Harrison?”
Chip grinned. “Sure thing,” said he. “Found his name in the top of one of ’em.”
Tug and Walter looked at each other blankly, while Chip went on with his tale.
“When cookie wasn’t looking I just naturally examined those boots a little closer, and measured ’em with a bit of string. They’re just the size of those prints we found under Mother Merriam’s window, and there’s three nails missing from the soles of the right one!” he concluded dramatically. “Now what do you fellers think we’d better do?”
Tug sat down and idly began to throw chips. “Looks bad,” he ventured.
“Bad!” snorted Chip, “I call it open and shut, iron-bound, no-loophole evidence! Pat’s the thief, or I’ll eat my shirt.”
“Guess you’ll find Durant cookies better eating,” said Walter drily.
Chip looked a bit sheepish. Then he slipped a hand into a capacious pocket and brought forth three crisp brown discs. “They are pretty good,” he admitted as he passed one to each of the others. “Might as well admit that I followed Pat’s lead. Brought ’em along just to prove that I really was there, Walt’s such a doubter,” he explained ingenuously.
For a few minutes the boys munched the cookies in appreciative silence. When the last brown crumb had disappeared Chip returned to the subject.
“Well, Walt, what ought we to do?” he demanded.