“I was just going to open that can of mushrooms,” answered Billy. “I’d had a pretty successful day and thought that now was my chance to celebrate.” “Did you sell some books?” Chub asked. “Well, something of that sort. I found a customer, in fact, two or three of them. But I guess those mushrooms bear a charmed life. Just as I’m going to stick my knife through the lid you come along and ask me to supper, and back go the mushrooms to the store-room. It’s funny, isn’t it? That’s the second time I’ve almost had them opened.” “Maybe the third time will be successful,” laughed Chub. Supper was late that evening, for Dick had two extra persons to provide for, and it was incumbent, besides, to set a rather more elaborate repast than usual. But when it was ready it proved to be well worth waiting for, and the fricassee of beef was delicious. Dick had learned the trick from a ranch cook out West. The ranch cook used to call it “frigasy de boof,” but he made it much better than he pronounced it. After supper Billy Noon and the Doctor got into a spirited discussion on the subject of Early Elizabethan Drama, a subject which didn’t greatly interest the others after the first ten minutes. But taken in connection with one thing and another, including the marked map seen in the cabin, Billy Noon’s knowledge of the subject in discussion set the boys wondering harder than ever that night after the guests had taken their departures. “Of course he isn’t a book agent,” snorted Chub contemptuously. “And what’s more, he isn’t staying around here for any good. I’ll just bet he was going to pull out a revolver this afternoon, even if he did have a handkerchief there!” But Roy and Dick weren’t willing to go so far as to suspect the Licensed Poet of wrong intentions. “Maybe he isn’t a book agent,” allowed Dick, “but that doesn’t mean that he’s a--a pirate or a ‘bad man.’” “Pirate!” answered Chub. “Who said anything about pirates? He might be looking around the country to see what was worth swiping, mightn’t he?” “A burglar? Pshaw,” said Roy, “you’re daffy! Why, any one could see he’s too much of a gentleman for that. Besides, you crazy chump, burglars don’t take all that trouble. They just go and find out where there’s stuff worth stealing and steal it. Why, he’d starve to death before he got anything!” “Well, then, what--” began Chub stubbornly. “Bless you, _I_ don’t know,” yawned Roy. “But he’s no burglar; I’ll bet anything on that.” “He swiped our butter and our bread,” said Chub. “Shucks! That was just a sort of joke. Look at the way he talked back at the Doctor about those old play-writers! Think burglars know about--what was it, Dick?” “Early Elizabethan Dramas,” answered Dick glibly. “Some might,” answered Chub, warming to the argument. “Look at that fellow in the book.” “Raffles? Pshaw, that was just fiction; I’m talking about real burglars.” “Well, it’s mighty funny,” grunted Chub. “And I think we ought to ask him point-blank what he’s up to.”