“Wait a bit,” exclaimed Dick. “Here’s something on the other side; it’s been rubbed out, but I can see the words ‘set’ and ‘Billings,’ and there are some figures, I think.” “‘Seth Billings,’” pondered Roy. “It isn’t ‘Seth Billings,’ is it?” “No, I don’t think so; I can’t see any h. Here, you see what you can make of it.” Roy took the paper and scrutinized it closely, but was unable to decipher any more than Dick. “Well, ‘Seth Billings’ wants to keep away from this camp in future,” said Chub, “or he will get his head punched.” “I don’t think his name can be Seth Billings,” said Harry, “because he signed that verse ‘N. W.’” “‘W. N.,’” Chub corrected. “Not that it matters, though. He was probably going by in a boat and saw the camp and just naturally snooped around and helped himself to--say, do you suppose he’s taken anything else?” There was a concerted movement toward the tent and a rapid inventory of their property. Nothing was missing, however; or so, at least, it seemed until Dick raised the cover of the tin bread-box. Then: “Bread, too,” he said dryly; “and here’s another sonnet in the bottom of the box. Listen to this: “What’s the good o’ butter When it can’t be spread? Hence I am your debtor For half a loaf of bread. “W. N.” Chub burst into a laugh and the others joined him. “He’s a joker, he is!” he gasped. “As far as I’m concerned he’s welcome. But I wouldn’t want him to visit us every day; we’d be bankrupt in a week!” “But who is he?” puzzled Roy. “Any one know a ‘W. N.’?” They all thought hard but without solving the riddle. “Oh, he’s probably a tramp or--or something like that,” said Roy. “Tramps don’t usually pay for what they take with verses,” Chub objected; “and his rhymes aren’t bad, you know, all except ‘butter,’ and ‘debtor’; that’s poetic license with a vengeance.” “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.”