"Gee willikins, what's this, Somers—all our grub chucked ashore—what does it mean?"
"The boat has gone," puffed John Hackett, coming up at this instant.
It was an excited group that crowded to the very edge of the water. Torches and lanterns were held aloft, but they revealed nothing.
"Well, this is a pretty mess!" cried Hackett, furiously. "Listen to that sound, growing faint in the distance. Somebody has sized us up for a fine lot of ninnies."
"What will my uncle say?" wailed Nat.
He paced up and down and shook his fist in the air.
"The finest motor boat in Wisconsin, too," he groaned.
"Both crowds have been followed," declared Sam Randall.
"There is a mystery about this whole thing," cried Bob. "Why did the thieves pile our stuff on shore, instead of taking it with them?"
"Can't imagine," muttered the poet laureate, scratching his head in a vain endeavor to get an idea; "it's a puzzle."