“Seems to me you know a lot about them!” said Roy. “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. [Illustration: “At their feet lay the still smoldering remains of a small fire”] “He’s gone,” said Harry disappointedly. “Yes,” answered Dick. “He spent the night here, I guess, although there isn’t any sign of a tent or anything. Perhaps he slept in his boat.” “Well,” said Roy, “we won’t have to hide the grub when we leave camp. That’s one comfort.” “Maybe he will come back.” Harry spoke at once questioningly and hopefully. “Guess not,” answered Dick. “I suppose he has gone on down the river.” “Maybe he didn’t like our butter,” suggested Chub. “I’ve thought sometimes myself that it wasn’t all it should be. He can’t have been gone very long, though, fellows; look at the fire.” “Well,” said Roy, “he’s gone, and that’s enough for us.” They went on finally along the beach and so back to camp. They had planned a trip to the hills after huckleberries. Harry knew a place where there were just millions of them, she declared; and so as soon as camp was cleaned up they set out for the west shore at a point a mile or so above Coleville, armed with an empty lard-pail, two tin cans which had once held preserved peaches, and a pint measure. It was a long walk, made more so by the fact that Harry had forgotten just how to reach the spot, and it was well on toward eleven before they began picking. But Harry’s startling tales of the fruitfulness of the locality proved in no wise exaggerated. “Thunder!” exclaimed Chub, as he pushed back his cap and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, “there’s just slathers of ’em!”