Marjorie at Seacote | Page 5

fashion, the
two raced through the house from attic to cellar, though there really
wasn't any attic, except a sort of low-ceiled loft. However, they climbed
up into this, and then down through the various bedrooms on the
second floor, and back to the first floor, which contained the large
living-room, a spacious hall, and the dining-room and kitchen.
"It's all right," said King, nodding his head in approval. "Now outside,
Midget."
Outside they flew, and took stock of their surroundings. Almost an acre
of ground was theirs, and though as yet empty of special interest, King
could see its possibilities.
"Room for a tennis court," he said; "then I guess we'll have a big swing,
and a hammock, and a tent, and----"
"And a merry-go-round," supplemented Mr. Maynard, overhearing
King's plans.

"No, not that, Father," said Marjorie, "but we can have swings and
things, can't we?"
"I 'spect so, Mopsy. But with the ocean and the beach, I doubt if you'll
stay in this yard much."
"Oh, that's so; I forgot the ocean! Come on, Father, let's go and look at
it."
So the three went down to the beach, and Marjorie, who hadn't been to
the seashore since she was a small child, plumped herself down on the
sand, and just gazed out at the tumbling waves.
"I don't care for the swings and things," she said. "I just want to stay
here all the time, and dig and dig and dig."
As she spoke she was digging her heels into the fine white sand, and
poking her hands in, and burying her arms up to her dimpled elbows.
"Oh, Father, isn't it gee-lorious! Sit down, won't you, and let us bury
you in sand, all but your nose!"
"Not now," said Mr. Maynard, laughing. "Some day you may, when I'm
in a bathing suit. But I don't care for pockets full of sand. Now, I'm
going back to home and Mother. You two may stay down here till
luncheon time if you like."
Mr. Maynard went back to the house, and King and Marjorie continued
their explorations. The beach was flat and smooth, and its white sand
was full of shells, and here and there a few bits of seaweed, and farther
on some driftwood, and in the distance a pier, built out far into the
ocean.
"Did you ever see such a place?" cried Marjorie, in sheer delight.
"Well, I was at the seashore last year," said King, "while you were at
Grandma's."
"But it wasn't as nice as this, was it? Say it wasn't!"

"No; the sand was browner. This is the nicest sand I ever saw. Say,
Mops, let's build a fire."
"What for? It isn't cold."
"No, but you always build fires on the beach. It's lots of fun. And we'll
roast potatoes in it."
"All right. How do we begin?"
"Well, we gather a lot of wood first. Come on."
Marjorie came on, and they worked with a will, gathering armfuls of
wood and piling it up near the spot they had selected for their fire.
"That's enough," said Marjorie, for her arms ached as she laid down her
last contribution to their collection.
"You'll find it isn't much when it gets to burning. But never mind, it
will make a start. I'll skin up to the house and get matches and
potatoes."
"I'll go with you, 'cause I think we'd better ask Father about making this
fire. It might do some harm."
"Fiddlesticks! We made a fire 'most every day last summer."
And, owing to King's knowledge and experience regarding beach fires,
his father told him he might build one, and to be properly careful about
not setting fire to themselves.
Then they procured potatoes and apples from the kitchen, and raced
back to the beach.
"Why, where's our wood?" cried Marjorie.
Not a stick or a chip remained of their carefully gathered wood pile.
"Some one has stolen it!" said King.

"No, there's nobody around, except those people over there, and they're
grown-ups. It must have been washed away by a wave."
"Pooh, the waves aren't coming up near as far as this."
"Well, there might have been a big one."
"No, it wasn't a wave. That wood was stolen, Mops!"
"But who could have done it? Those grown-up people wouldn't. You
can see from their looks they wouldn't. They're reading aloud. And in
the other direction, there are only some fishermen,--they wouldn't take
it."
"Well, somebody did. Look, here are lots of footprints, and I don't
believe they're all ours."
Sure enough, on the smooth white sand they could see many footprints,
imprinted all over each other, as if scurrying feet had trodden all around
their precious wood pile.
"Oh, King, you're just like a detective!" cried Marjorie, in admiration.
"But it's