“Are you too tired?” asked Dick. Harry assured him that she wasn’t a bit tired, and they took their places. Roy and Chub made a very appreciative “gallery,” applauding everything, even mis-strokes. In the end Dick proved his assertion by getting himself beaten seven games to five, and the four, stopping at the Cottage for Harry to get her coat, raced down to the landing and paddled across to camp in the highest of spirits. The camp-fire had gone out in their absence, but Dick soon had it going again. And then the stove was lighted and he set about getting supper, Harry, as usual, volunteering to assist and becoming wildly enthusiastic over the frying of the potatoes, so enthusiastic that she allowed them to burn under her nose. It mustn’t be imagined from this, however, that her culinary efforts always ended in disaster, for there had been several batches of doughnuts--unflavored--which had turned out excellently, and even now the party was finishing a recent baking of vanilla cookies. Doughnuts and cookies, however, were prepared at the Cottage; when it came to camp cookery Harry wasn’t an unqualified success; perhaps there was too much to distract her attention. Chub declared that he preferred his potatoes well browned and the others said that it didn’t matter a bit. Harry, who had been suddenly plunged into deepest woe by the calamity, recovered her spirits sufficiently to suggest tentatively that perhaps it was better to have them too well done than not done enough. Dick and Roy were about to agree heartily to this sentiment when a shout from Chub who had been sent to the “larder” for the butter interrupted them. “Somebody’s swiped almost half the butter,” he called, “and left a piece of poetry.” “Swiped the butter!” exclaimed Dick. “Left a piece of poultry!” cried Roy. “Yes,” answered Chub as he came up, a plate of butter in one hand and a very dirty slip of paper in the other, “helped himself to about half a pound of it, and left this in the tub.” And he fluttered the paper. “What is it?” asked Harry, as they crowded around him. “Poetry, verse,” answered Chub, “and the craziest stuff you ever read.” “Oh, I thought you said poultry,” said Roy. “What does it say?” “Thanks for your hospitality Which I accept, as you can see. When I possess what you have not Pray help yourself to what I’ve got. “W. N.” “Well, what do you think of that?” gasped Roy when Chub had finished reading. “Of all the cheeky beggars!” “Let’s see it,” said Dick. He took the paper and looked it over carefully. It appeared to be the half of a page from a pocket note-book. It was traversed by pale blue lines and the lower corners were curled as though from much handling. The writing was small and the letters well formed. “Do you reckon it’s a joke?” asked Chub. “Who could have done it?” inquired Roy. “We don’t know any one around here, now that school is closed.”