Project Gutenberg's Pee-wee Harris on the Trail, by Percy Keese Fitzhugh
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Title: Pee-wee Harris on the Trail
Author: Percy Keese Fitzhugh
Release Date: May 2, 2005 [EBook #15750]
Last Updated: May 28, 2019
Language: English
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[Illustration: "WHO--WHO ARE--YOU?" PEE-WEE STAMMERED.]
PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL
BY
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
_Author of_
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS, THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS
ILLUSTRATED BY
H. S BARBOUR
Published with the approval of THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE LONE FIGURE 1
II A PATHETIC SIGHT 5
III THREE GOOD TURNS 9
IV THE FIVE REELER 15
V R-R-R-ROBBERS! 20
VI A MESSAGE IN THE DARK 24
VII LOCKED DOORS 28
VIII A DISCOVERY 32
IX THE TENTH CASE 36
X A RACE WITH DEATH 41
XI A RURAL PARADISE 45
XII ENTER THE GENUINE ARTICLE 48
XIII A FRIEND IN NEED 56
XIV SAVED! 61
XV IN CAMP 65
XVI FOOTPRINTS 74
XVII ACTION 80
XVIII THE MESSAGE 84
XIX PAGE TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FOUR 88
XX STOP! 92
XXI SEEIN' THINGS 97
XXII HARK! THE CONQUERING HERO COMES 104
XXIII PETER FINDS A WAY 109
XXIV DESERTED 114
XXV BEDLAM 122
XXVI THE CULPRIT AT THE BAR 128
XXVII SOME NOISE 134
XXVIII ON THE TRAIL 138
XXIX VOICES 142
XXX FACE TO FACE 146
XXXI ALONE 154
XXXII ON TO BRIDGEBORO 159
XXXIII HARK! THE CONQUERING HERO COMES BACK 165
XXXIV PEE-WEE HOLDS FORTH 169
XXXV SCOUTMASTER NED DOESN'T SEE 174
XXXVI MORE HARDLING 180
XXXVII HINTS 185
XXXVIII THE FIXER 192
XXXIX BETRAYED! 197
XL GUESS AGAIN 206
ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE
"WHO--WHO ARE--YOU?" PEE-WEE STAMMERED Frontispiece
HANDWRITTEN NOTE 27
"The road is closed," said Peter. 109
PEE-WEE BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE. 130
"WE'RE NOT MINERS, WE'RE SCOUTS!" PEE-WEE SHOUTED. 202
PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL
CHAPTER I
THE LONE FIGURE
The night was bleak and cold. All through the melancholy, cheerless day,
the first chill of autumn had been in the air. Toward evening the clouds
had parted, showing a steel-colored sky in which the sun went down a
great red ball, tinting the foliage across the river with a glow of
crimson. A sun full of rich light but no heat.
The air was heavy with the pungent fragrance of burning leaves. The
gutters along Main Street were full of these fluttering, red memorials
of the good old summer-time.
But there were other signs that the melancholy days had come. Down at
the Bridgeboro station was a congestion of trunks and other luggage
bespeaking the end of the merry play season. And saddest of all, the
windows of the stationery stores were filled with pencil-boxes and blank
books and other horrible reminders of the opening of school.
Look where one would, these signs confronted the boys of Bridgeboro, and
there was no escaping them. Even the hardware store had straps and tin
lunch boxes now filling its windows, the same window where fishing rods
and canoe paddles had lately been displayed.
Even the man who kept the shoe store had turned traitor and gathered up
his display of sneaks and scout moccasins, and exhibited in their places
a lot of school shoes. "Sensible footwear for the student" he called
them. Even the drug store where mosquito dope and ice cream sodas had
been sold now displayed a basket full of small sponges for the sanitary
cleansing of slates. The faithless wretch who kept this store had put a
small sign on the basket reading, "For the classroom." One and all, the
merchants of Main Street had gone over to the Board of Education and all
signs pointed to school.
But the most pathetic sight to be witnessed on that sad, chill, autumn
night, was the small boy in a threadbare gray sweater and shabby cap who
stood gazing wistfully into the seductive windows of Pfiffel's Home
Bakery. The sight of him standing there with his small nose plastered
against the glass, looking with silent yearning upon the jelly rolls and
icing cakes, was enough to arouse pity in the coldest heart.
Only the rear of this poor, hungry little fellow could be seen from the
street, and if his face was pale and gaunt from privation and want, the
hurrying pedestrians on their cheerful way to the movies were spared
that pathetic sight.
All they saw was a shabby cap and an ill-fitting sweater which bulged in
back as if something were being carried in the rear pocket. And there he
stood, a poor little figure, heedless of the merry throngs that passed,
his wistful gaze fixed upon a four-story chocolate cake, a sort of
edible skyscraper, with a tiny dome of a glazed cherry upon the top of
it. And of all the surging throng on Main Street that bleak, autumnal
night, none noticed this poor fellow.
Yes, one. A lady sitting in a big blue automobile saw him. And her
heart, tenderer than the jelly rolls in Pfiffel's window, went out to
him. Perhaps she had a little boy of her own....
CHAPTER II
A PATHETIC SIGHT
We shall pay particular attention to this sumptuous automobile which was
such as to attract attention in modest Bridgeboro. For one thing it was
of a rich shade of blue, whereas, the inhabitants of Bridgeboro being for
the most part dead, their favorite color in autos was black.
The car, indeed, was the latest super six Hunkajunk touring model, a
vision of grace and colorful beauty, set off with trimmings of shiny
nickel. The Hunkajunk people had outdone themselves in this latest model
and had produced "the car of a thousand delights." That seemed a good
many, but that is the number they announced, and surely they must have
known.
When one sat in the soft, spacious rear seat of the Hunkajunk touring
model, one felt the sensation of sinking into a--what shall I say? One
had a sort of sinking spell. You will pay particular attention to the
luxurious rear seat of this car because it was destined to be the couch
of a world hero, rivalling Cleopatra's famous barge which you will find
drifting around in the upper grade history books.
This was the only super six Hunkajunk touring car in Bridgeboro and it
belonged to the Bartletts who on this momentous night occupied its front
seat.
"Do look at that poor little fellow," said Mrs. Bartlett to her husband.
"Stop for just a second; I _never_ saw such a pathetic picture in my
_life_!"
"Oh, what's the use stopping?" said Mr. Bartlett good-humoredly.
"Because I'm not going to the Lyric Theatre and have that poor little
hungry urchin haunting me all through the show. I don't believe he's had
_anything_ to eat all day. Just see how he looks in that window, it's
_pathetic_. Poor little fellow, he may be _starving_ for all we know.
I'm going to give him twenty-five cents; have you got the change?"
"You mean _I'm_ going to give it to him?" laughed Mr. Bartlett, stopping
the car.
"He's just _eating_ the things with his _eyes_," said Mrs. Bartlett
with womanly tenderness. "Look at that shabby sweater. Probably his
father is a drunken wretch."
"We'll be late for the show," said Mr. Bartlett.
"I don't care anything about the show," his wife retorted. "Do you
suppose I want to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway or whatever it is?
If we get there in time for the educational films, that's all I care
about. You gave money for the starving children of France. Do you
suppose I'm going to sit face to face with a little boy--_starving?_"
"I can't see his face," said Mr. Bartlett, "but he looks as if he had
the Woolworth Building in his back pocket."
"Little boy," Mrs. Bartlett called in her sweetest tone, "here is some
money for you. You go into that store and--_gracious me_, it's Walter
Harris! What on earth are you doing here, Walter? I thought you were a
poor little--I thought you were hungry."
The sturdy but diminutive form and the curly head and frowning
countenance which stood confronting her were none other than those of
Pee-wee Harris, B.S.A. (Boy of Special Appetite or Boy Scouts of
America, whichever you please), and he stared her full in the face
without shame.
"That's the time you guessed right," he said. "I am."
CHAPTER III
THREE GOOD TURNS
"Give him the money," laughed Mr. Bartlett.
"I will do no such thing," said his wife. "I thought you were a poor
little starving urchin, Walter. Wherever did you get that sweater?"
"I don't believe he's had anything to eat for half an hour," said Mr.
Bartlett. "Well, how is my old college chum, Pee-wee? You make her give
you the twenty-five cents, Pee-wee."
"A scout can't accept money like that," said Mrs. Bartlett reprovingly,
"it's against their rules. Don't you know that?"
Pee-wee cast a longing glance back at the window of Pfiffel's Bakery and
then proceeded to set Mrs. Bartlett right on the subject of the scout
law.
"It--it depends on what you call rules; see?" he said.
"And on what you call hungry," added Mr. Bartlett.
"If--if you--kind of--want to do a good turn, I haven't got any right
to stop you, have I?" Pee-wee said. "Because good turns are the main
things. Gee whiz, I haven't got any right to interfere with those. I
haven't got any right to accept money for a service, but
suppose--suppose there's a jelly roll--"
"There is," said Mr. Bartlett, "but in two minutes there isn't going to
be. You go in and get that jelly roll as a favor to Mrs. Bartlett. And
hurry up back and we'll take you to the Lyric."
"I was going there anyway," Pee-wee said, "I want to see The Bandit of
Harrowing Highway, it's in five reels."
"Well, you come along with us," said Mr. Bartlett, "and then you'll be
doing two good turns. You'll be doing a favor to Mrs. Bartlett by buying
a jelly roll and you'll be doing a favor to me by making a party of
three to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway. What do you say?"
"Three's my lucky number," said Pee-wee. Then, suddenly bethinking
himself he added, "but I don't mean I want to get three jelly
rolls--you understand."
"Yes, we understand," said Mrs. Bartlett.
So it befell that Pee-wee, alias Walter Harris, scout of the first class
(in quality if not in quantity) found himself riding luxuriously down
Main Street in the rear seat of Mr. Bartlett's big Hunkajunk touring
car, eating a jelly roll with true scout relish, for it was now close to
eight o'clock and Pee-wee had not eaten anything since supper-time.
Having completed this good turn to Mrs. Bartlett he proceeded to do a
good turn to himself by bringing forth two sandwiches out of the pocket
usually associated with a far more dangerous weapon. This was his
emergency kit which he always carried. Morning, noon, or night, he
always carried a couple of sandwiches the same as motorists carry extra
tires.
And while he ate he talked. "Gee whiz, I'm crazy to see that picture,"
he said.
"We usually go for the educational films," said Mrs. Bartlett.
"I don't like anything that's got education in it," Pee-wee said. "Even
when I go to vaudeville I don't like educated monkeys and cats and
things. I like bandits and things like that. What's your favorite
thing?"
"Well, I like scouts," said Mr. Bartlett.
"Mine's ice cream cones," said Pee-wee. "Is this a new car? I bet I know
what kind it is, it's a Hunkajunk. I like hot frankfurters too. I can
tell all the different kinds of cars because a scout is supposed to be
observant. Do you like gumdrops? I'm crazy about those."
"But where did you get that sweater?" Mrs. Bartlett asked.
"Do you want me to tell you about it? It belongs to the man that takes
care of our furnace; he's got a peach of a tattoo mark on his arm. My
mother told me I had to wear a sweater so I grabbed that as I went
through the back hall. I always go out through the kitchen, do you know
why?"
"I think I can guess," said Mr. Bartlett.
"And the cap?" Mrs. Bartlett asked.
"You know the burglar that came to our house?"
"No, I never met him," said Mrs. Bartlett.
"I bet you don't like burglars, hey? He left this cap. He didn't get
anything and I got the cap so that shows I'm always lucky. My mother
doesn't want me to wear it. Gee whiz, she hates burglars. Anyway, it's
good and comfortable. My father says if he comes back for it I have to
give it to him."
"Well, you certainly don't look like Walter Harris, the boy scout I have
always known," said Mrs. Bartlett.
"Don't you care," said Pee-wee. "If you're a scout you're a scout, no
matter if you don't wear anything."
"Oh, how dreadful," said Mrs. Bartlett.
"I know worse things than that," said Pee-wee.
"Well, tell us about the scouts," Mr. Bartlett encouraged him.
"Shall I tell you all about them?"
"Surely, begin at the beginning."
"That's law one, it's about honor; do you know what that is?"
"I've heard of it," said Mr. Bartlett.
"A scout has to be honorable, see? That comes first of all."
"Before eating?"
"Eating is all the way through it."
"Oh, I see."
"A scout has to be so--kind of--you know, so honorable that nobody could
suspect him, see? If you're a scout that means that everybody knows
you're all right. There are a lot of other laws too."
"Well, here we are at the Lyric," said Mr. Bartlett, "so let's go in and
see what The Bandit of Harrowing Highway thinks about honor."
Leaving the car in front of the theatre the three elbowed their way
through the long, crowded lobby and soon Pee-wee Harris, scout, was no
longer in Bridgeboro but among rugged mountains where a man with a
couple of pistols in his belt and a hat as big as an umbrella reined up
a spirited horse and waited for a caravan and all that sort of stuff....
CHAPTER IV
THE FIVE REELER
And meanwhile something very real happened. Two men in khaki, but
without any pistols in their belts, rode slowly up to the front of the
Lyric Theatre in a big blue touring car and stopped.
It was one of those palatial cars "of a thousand delights," a new super
six Hunkajunk touring model. A couple of policemen, safeguarding the
public's convenience, had moved the Bartlett car beyond the main
entrance in the interest of late comers and it was in this vacated space
that the second medley of blue and nickel was now thoughtlessly parked.
No cars came along after it so there it remained with a little group of
admirers about it.
The few loiterers in the lobby glanced curiously at the two young men.
These strangers strode in laughing in a way of mutual banter, as if
their sudden decision to see the show was quite amusing to themselves.
No one recognized them; they must have come from out of town. They wore
khaki suits, with flapping brimmed hats of a color to match and their
faces were brown with the wholesome, permanent tan of outdoor life. They
seemed greatly amused with themselves and their breezy manner and
negligee which smacked of the woods attracted the attention of
Bridgeboro's staff of unpaid censors who hung out in and about the
Lyric's lobby. But little, apparently, did the strangers care what was
said and thought of them.
One of them bought the tickets, to the hearty indignation of the other,
and they disappeared into the terrible fastnesses along Harrowing
Highway where they tumbled boisterously into a couple of seats off the
center aisle, "right within pistol shot of the bandit," as one of them
laughingly remarked to the other.
In the last reel the bandit was captured by a sheriff's posse, the young
school teacher from the east whom he had villainously kidnapped was set
free and went to live on a ranch with the hero who also carried several
pistols, and the detective whom the millionaire had sent from the east
(and who likewise carried several pistols) became a train robber and
nearly killed the millionaire whom he met in the middle of the desert
(carrying pistols) and who killed him instead and was in turn mortally
wounded by the partner he had ruined and who had nothing left but
several pistols.
And then Scout Harris fell asleep, and slept through the first part of
the educational films. In a kind of jumbled dream he saw President
Harding (with pistols) receiving a delegation of ladies (all armed) and
then he felt a tapping on his shoulder.
"Walter," Mrs. Bartlett whispered pleasantly, "if you don't care about
these pictures why don't you just go out and curl up in the back of the
car and have a _real_ good nap. Then when we come out we'll all stop and
have some cream before we go home and we'll leave you at your house."
Pee-wee was too sleepy to answer; his mind was awake to but two things,
ice cream and pistols. In a kind of stupor he looked to make sure that
Mrs. Bartlett was not armed and then, dragging himself from his seat he
stumbled up the aisle, through the lobby, across the sidewalk, and
tumbled into the rear seat of the big car that seemed waiting to receive
him. He was just awake enough to realize that the night was cold and he
pulled the heavy blanket over him and was dead to the world.
Many adventures awaited this redoubtable young scout but one terrible
ordeal he escaped. In this he was, as he had said, lucky. For the very
next picture on the screen after he had made his half-conscious exit,
showed a lot of children in Europe being fed out of the munificent hand
of Uncle Sam. And Pee-wee could never have stayed in his seat and
quietly watched that tormenting performance.
CHAPTER V
R-R-R-ROBBERS!
Scout Harris never knew exactly when he passed out of the realm of
dreams into the realm of wakefulness, for in both conditions pistols
played a leading part. He was aware of a boy scout holding Secretary
Hoover at bay with two pistols and Mr. Ellsworth, his scoutmaster,
rescuing the statesman with several more pistols. And then he was very
distinctly aware of someone saying,
"How many pistols have you got?"
"Twenty-seven," another voice answered.
"I've got forty-three and two blackjacks," said the first voice.
"You're wrong," said the other.
"I jotted them down," the first voice replied.
"We should worry," the other one laughed.
At this appalling revelation of seventy pistols between them, to say
nothing of two blackjacks, there seemed indeed very little for the
speakers to worry about. But for Scout Harris, whose whole stock of
ammunition consisted of a remnant of sandwich and the almost naked core
of an apple, there seemed much to worry about.
Pee-wee realized now that he was awake and being borne along at an
excessive rate of speed. He knew that he was in Bartlett's big Hunkajunk
car and that the dark figures with all the firearms on the front seat
were not Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett.
Trembling, he spread the robe so as the more completely to cover his
small form including his head. For a moment he had a wild impulse to
cast this covering off and scream, or at least, to jump from the
speeding car. But a peek from underneath the robe convinced him of the
folly of this. To jump would be to lose his life; to scream--well, what
chance would he have with two bloodthirsty robbers armed with seventy
pistols and two blackjacks? There were few boy scouts who could despatch
an apple core with such accuracy of aim as W. Harris, but of what avail
is an apple core against seventy pistols?
He could not hear all that was said on the front seat but the fragments
of talk that he did hear were alarming in the last degree.
"--best way to handle them," said one of those dark figures.
"I've got a couple of dead ones to worry about," said the other.
Pee-wee curled up smaller under the robe and hardly breathed. Indeed two
dead ones was something to worry about. Suppose--suppose _he_ should be
the third!
"One for me, but I'm not worrying about him," said the other.
"We'll get away with it," his companion commented.
Then followed some talk which Pee-wee could not hear, but he felt
certain that it was on their favorite topic of murder. Then he overheard
these dreadful, yet comparatively consoling words:
"Trouble with him is he always wants to kill; he's gun crazy. Take them
if you want to, but what's the use killing? That's what I said to him."
"Steal--"
"Oh sure, that's just what I told him," the speaker continued; "steal
up--"
"Step on it," the other interrupted, "we're out in the country now."
The big super six Hunkajunk car darted forward and Scout Harris could
hear the purring of the big engine as the machine sped along through the
solemn darkness. A momentary, cautious glimpse from under the big robe
showed him that they were already far from the familiar environs of
Bridgeboro, speeding along a lonely country road.
Now and then they whizzed past some dark farmhouse, or through some
village in which the law abiding citizens had gone to their beds.
Occasionally Pee-wee, peeking from beneath the robe, saw cheerful lights
shining in houses along the way and in his silent terror and
apprehension he fancied these filled with boy scouts in the full
enjoyment of scout freedom; scouts who were in no danger of being added
to some bloody list of dead ones.
That he, Pee-wee Harris, mascot of the Raven Patrol, First Bridgeboro
Troop, should have come to this! That he should be carried away by a
pair of inhuman wretches, to what dreadful fate he shuddered to
conjecture. That _he_, Scout Harris, whose reputation for being wide
awake had gone far and wide in the world of scouting, should be carried
away unwittingly by a pair of thieves and find himself in imminent peril
of being added to that ghastly galaxy of "dead ones." It was horrible.
Pee-wee curled up under the robe so as to disarm any suspicion of a
human form beneath that thick, enveloping concealment and even breathed
with silent caution. Suppose--_suppose_--oh horrors--suppose he should
have to sneeze!
CHAPTER VI
A MESSAGE IN THE DARK
Pee-wee seldom had any doubts about anything. What he knew he _knew_.
And what is still better, he knew that he knew it. No one ever had to
remind Pee-wee that he knew a thing. He not only knew it and knew that
he knew it, but he knew that everybody that he knew, knew that he knew
it. As he said himself, he was "absolutely positive."
Pee-wee knew all about scouting; oh, everything. He knew how and where
tents should be put up and where spring water was to be found. He did
not know all about the different kinds of birds, but he knew all about
the different kinds of eats, and there are more kinds of eats than there
are kinds of birds. How the Bridgeboro troop would be able to get along
without their little mascot was a question. For he was their "fixer."
That was his middle name--"fixer."
And of all of the things of which Pee-wee was "absolutely positive" the
thing of which he was the _most_ positive was that two thieves connected
with the "crime wave" were riding away in Mr. Bartlett's big Hunkajunk
"touring model" and carrying him (a little scout model) along with them.
What should he do? Being a scout, he took council of his wits and
decided to write on a page of his hikebook a sentence saying that he was
being carried away by thieves, giving his name and address, and cast
this overboard as a shipwrecked sailor puts a message in a bottle. Then
someone would find the message and come to rescue him.
But with what should he weight his fluttering message, so that it would
fall in the road? Pee-wee was a scout of substance and had amassed a
vast fortune in the way of small possessions. He owned the cap of a
fountain pen, a knob from a brass bedstead, two paper clips, a horse's
tooth, a broken magnifying glass, a device for making noises in the
classroom, a clock key, a glass tube, a piece of chalk for making scout
signs, and other treasures. But these were in the pockets of his scout
uniform and could be of no service to him in his predicament.
The only trinket which he had was the fragment of a sandwich. Having
reduced this, by a generous bite, to one-half its size, he wrote his
note as well as he could without moving too much. One deadly weapon he
had with him and that was a safety pin. With this he now pierced the
piece of sandwich to the heart, linking it forever with that note
written tremblingly in a moment of forlorn hope and utter darkness,
under the kindly concealment of the buffalo robe.
On the opposite page is the note and how it looked.
Having cast this last message out upon the road he withdrew his arm
cautiously back under the robe and lay as nearly motionless as possible,
prepared for the worst.
If he should never be heard of again, it would seem both touching and
appropriate, that this memento of him should be a morsel of food (which
he loved) fastened with a safety pin which was the weapon that he always
carried.
[Illustration: [Handwritten note] I am being kidnapped by thieves who
are stealing Mr. Bartlett's car. I don know where I am. If anybody find
this please take it to my house Bridgeboro Walter Harris Scout Br]
CHAPTER VII
LOCKED DOORS
Like the ground-hog, Pee-wee did not emerge again until the occasion was
more propitious. For fully an hour the car ran at high speed which
afforded him some hope that the strong arm of the law might intervene.
But the strong arm of the law was apparently under its pillow in
delicious slumber. Not a snag did those bloody fugitives encounter in
their flight.
At last the car slowed down and Pee-wee could feel that it was turning
into another road. His unwitting captors were evidently either nervous
or sleepy, for they talked but little.
The car proceeded slowly now, and when our hero ventured to steal a
quick glimpse from under his covering he perceived that they were going
along a road so dark and narrow that it seemed like a leafy tunnel. The
somber darkness and utter silence of this sequestered region made the
deed of these outlaws seem all the blacker. There was now no doubt
whatever of the criminal nature of their bold enterprise. For surely no
law-abiding, civilized beings lived in such a remote wilderness as now
closed them in.
Soon the car came to a stop, and Pee-wee's thumping heart almost came to
a stop at the same time. Suppose they should lift the robe? What would
they do? And quite as much to the point, what should _he_ do? A sudden
impulse to throw off his kindly camouflage and run for all he was worth,
seized him. But he thought of those seventy pistols and two blackjacks
and refrained. Should he face them boldly, like the hero in a story book
and say, "Ha, ha, you are foiled. The eyes of the scout have followed
you in your flight and you are caught!"
No he would not do that. A scout is supposed to be cautious. He would
remain under the buffalo robe.
Presently he heard the unmistakable sound and felt the unmistakable
feeling of the car being run into some sort of a shelter. The voices of
the thieves sounded different, more hollow, as voices heard in small
quarters indoors. A little suggestion of an echo to them.
Pee-wee Harris, scout, did not know where he was or what was going on,
but he _felt_ that four walls surrounded him. The plot was growing
thicker. And it was suffocating under that heavy robe, now that there
was no free air blowing about it.
"Where's the stuff?" one of the men asked.
"On the back seat," said the other.
Pee-wee trembled.
"Oh, no, I guess it's on the floor," the man added. "I think I put the
silver cup under the back seat--"
Pee-wee shuddered. So they had been stealing silver cups.
"Either there or--oh, here it is."
Pee-wee breathed again.
Then he heard no more voices. But he heard other sounds. He heard the
creaking of a heavy rolling door. He heard a sound as if it were being
bolted or fastened on the inside. Then he heard the slamming of another
door and a muffled, metallic sound as of someone locking it on the
outside. Then he heard footsteps, fainter, fainter.... Then he heard a
sound which seemed to him familiar. He could not liken it to anything in
particular, but it sounded familiar, a kind of clanking, metallic sound.
Then he heard a voice say, "Let me handle her, give her a shove, hold
her down, that's right."
Pee-wee's blood ran cold. They were killing someone out there; some poor
captive maiden, perhaps....
Then he heard no more.
CHAPTER VIII
A DISCOVERY
The ominous sound of doors rolling and of clanking staples and padlocks
told Pee-wee all too conclusively that he was a prisoner, and he was
seized with panic terror at the thought of being locked in a dungeon
where he could hardly see his hand before his face.
As to where he was, he had no guess more than that he was miles and
miles from home. But along with his fright came a feeling of relief that
he was no longer in company of those two scoundrels who were unwittingly
responsible for his predicament. They would probably not return before
morning and he would have at least a little breathing spell in which to
consider what he should do, if indeed he could do anything.
The departure of his captors gave him courage and some measure of hope.
Freedom he did not hope for, but a brief respite from peril was his.
Time, time! What the doomed crave and pray for. That, at least was his.
He had presence of mind enough to refrain from making any sound, for the
thieves might still be in the neighborhood for all he knew. The last he
had heard of them they had been talking of "handling her" and "giving
her a shove" and he did not want them to come back and "handle" _him_.
So he sat on the rear seat of the big Hunkajunk car ready to withdraw
beneath the robe at the first sound of approaching footsteps. If he had
been free to make a companionable noise, to whistle or to hum, or to
listen to the friendly sound of his own movements he would have felt
less frightened. But the need of absolute silence in that dark prison
agitated him, and in the ghostly stillness every creak made the place
seem haunted.
If he could only have seen where he was! He knew now something of the
insane terrors of dark and solitary confinement. So strongly did this
terror hold him that for a minute or two he dared not stir upon the seat
for fear of causing the least sound which the darkness and strangeness
of the place might conjure into spectral voices.
There is but one way to dispel these horrors and that is by throwing
them off with quick movement and practical resolve.
He jumped down out of the car, and groping his way through the darkness
stumbled against a wall. Moving his hand along this he found it to be of
rough boards. Indeed, he had a more conclusive proof of this by the fact
that a large splinter of the dried wood pierced his finger, paining
acutely. He pulled it out and sucked the bleeding cut, then wound his
handkerchief around it. One discovery, at least, he had made; the
building, whatever it was, was old. The smell of the board sides
informed him of that much. And there was no flooring.
He now stood thinking, wondering what he should do next. And as he
paused he heard a sound near him. A sound as of quick, low breathing. In
the open such a sound would not have been audible, but in the ghostly
darkness of that strange prison he could hear it clearly when he
listened. Sometimes he could distinguish the momentary pauses between
the breaths and sometimes the faint sound seemed continuous. As he
listened in silent, awful terror, the thumping of his heart seemed to
interrupt the steady, low sound.
It was not normal breathing surely, but it was the sound of breathing.
He was certain of that. He thought it was over near the car.
CHAPTER IX
THE TENTH CASE
The thought that there was a living presence in that spooky dungeon
struck terror to Pee-wee's very soul. He could not bring himself to
move, much less to speak. But he could not stand idly where he was, and
if he should stumble over a human form in that unknown blackness....
What could be more appalling than that? Was this uncanny place a prison
for poor, injured captives? Was there, lying just a few feet from him,
some suffering victim of those scoundrels? What did it mean? Pee-wee
could only stand, listening in growing fear and agitation.
"Who's there?" he finally asked, and his own trembling voice seemed
strange to him.
There was no answer.
"Who's there?" he asked again.
Silence; only the low, steady sound; punctuated, as it seemed by his own
heart beats.
"Who--is--is anybody there?"
Then, suddenly, in a kind of abandon, he cast off his fears and groped
his way with hands before him toward the low sound. Presently his hand
was upon something round and small. It had a kind of tube running from
it. He felt about this and touched something else. He felt along it; it
was smooth and continuous.
And then he knew, and he experienced infinite relief. His hand was upon
the spare tire on the rear of the car. The air was slowly escaping in
irregular jerks from the valve of this tire, making that low sound, now
hardly audible, now clearer and steadier, that escaping air will
sometimes cause when passing through a leaky valve. The darkness and
Pee-wee's own thumping heart had contributed to the horrible illusion
and he smiled in the utter relief which he experienced by the discovery.
But one other discovery he had made also which gave him an inspiration
and made him feel foolish that he had not had the inspiration before.
The little round thing that he had felt in about the center of the tire
was the red tail light of the car; he realized that now. And this
discovery reminded him that he could have all the light he wanted by the
mere touching of a switch.
"That shows how stupid I am," said Pee-wee. He was so relieved and
elated that he could afford to be generous with self accusations. "One
thing sure, it shows how when you hunt for a thing you find something
else, so if you're mistaken it's a good thing."
This was logical, surely, and he now proceeded to avail himself of the
benefit of his chance discovery. Presently this dank, mysterious, spooky
dungeon would be bathed in welcome light. Pee-wee climbed into the front
seat and moved his hand across the array of nickel dials and buttons on
the instrument board. There seemed to be a veritable multitude of little
handles and indicators for the control of the Hunkajunk super six
touring model. Not even a wireless apparatus, with which Pee-wee's
scouting experience had made him familiar, had such a variety of shiny
little odds and ends.
Having no knowledge of these things he moved his hand among them
cautiously, fearful lest some inadvertent touch might cause the car to
go careering into the board wall. He bent his head close to the
instrument board in search of printed words indicating the purpose of
the various buttons, but the darkness was too dense for him to see
anything but the shiny nickel. At the same time his wandering foot,
conducting an exploration of its own, came against a little knob.
Pee-wee never knew precisely what he did to cause the startling
occurrence which followed. There were two switch buttons, side by side,
and in one a small key had been left. Evidently he decided that this was
the lighting switch. He was just able to decipher the word IGNITION
above it. But alas, the word ignition means SPARK on an auto.
Whether he purposely, in curiosity, stepped on the button in the floor
he never knew. In nine cases out of ten it would have required more
effort to start the Hunkajunk touring model. But this was the tenth
case. In a frantic effort to stop the power, or perhaps in groping with
his hand, he pulled down the spark lever, and the six cylinder brute of
an engine awoke to life!
Out of the exhaust pipe in back poured the fatal volume of gaseous
smoke which spells death, horrible and suffocating, when locked and
barred doors and windowless walls enclose the wretched, gasping victim
as in a tomb.
CHAPTER X
A RACE WITH DEATH
In close confinement it is all over in a minute in these cases. The
victim is poisoned and suffocated like a rat in a hole. Surprising as it
may seem, this deadly poison works faster than its victim can act. And
with darkness for its ally the only hope lies in presence of mind and
quick action.
Pee-wee Harris was a scout. Laugh at him and make fun of him as you
will, he was a scout. He was at once the littlest scout and the biggest
scout that ever scouting had known. He boasted and bungled, but out of
his bungling came triumph. He fell, oh such falls as he fell! But he
always landed right side up. He could save the world with a blunder. And
then boast of the blunder.
He was not a motorist, he was a scout. Wrong or right (and he was
usually wrong), he was a scout. He was a scout with something left
over. Like a flash of lightning he jumped into the car and shut off the
switch, but the imprisoned air was already heavy with the deadly fumes
and his head swam. Shutting off the switch would not save him; nothing
would save him unless his mind and body acted together with lightning
swiftness.
Say that he made a "bull" of it in starting the engine, and you are
welcome to say that of him. But after that the spirit and training of
the scout possessed him. _You_, with all respect to you, would have died
a frightful death in that black prison.
Pee-wee Harris, scout, tore his handkerchief from around his cut finger,
unscrewed the cap of the radiator, dipped his handkerchief into the
hole, bit off two small pieces of the warm, dripping cloth, and stuffed
them into his ears. The wet handkerchief he stuffed into his mouth. And
so Scout Harris gained a few precious moments, _only a few_, in which to
make a desperate effort to find a way out!
You would have forgotten about the radiator full of water, I dare
say....
Roy Blakeley (Silver Fox Patrol and not in this story, thank goodness)
said, long after these adventures were over, that a handkerchief stuffed
in Pee-wee's mouth was a good idea and that it was a pity it had been
removed. But Pee-wee Harris was a scout, he was a couple of scouts, and
he saved his life by scout law and knowledge. And there you are.
Acting quickly he now groped his way around to the rear of the car. It
was odd how quickly his mind worked in his desperate predicament. His
eyes stung and his throat pained him and he knew that he had won only
the chance of a race with death. But what more does a scout want than a
fighting chance? His wits, spurred by the emergency, were now alert and
he recalled that the men who had stolen the car had rolled one door shut
and slammed another. So perhaps the rolling door had been barred inside.
Where the small door was he did not know, and there was no time now to
make a groping exploration of the sides. The rolling door must be in
back of the car, he knew that.
He was dizzy now and on the point of falling. His wrists tingled and his
head ached acutely. Only his towering resolve kept him on his feet.
Groping from behind the car he touched the boards and felt along them
for some indication of the door. Presently his hand came upon an iron
band set in a large staple through which was inserted a huge wooden
plug. This he pulled out and hauling on the staple slowly rolled open a
great wide door.
A fresh gust of autumn wind blew in upon him, a cleansing and refreshing
restorative, as if it had been waiting without to welcome the sturdy
little scout into the vast, fragrant woods which he loved. And the
bright stars shone overhead, and the air was laden with the pungent
scent of autumn. It seemed as if all Nature, solemn and companionable,
was there to greet the little mascot of the Raven Patrol, First
Bridgeboro Troop, B.S.A.
The car of a thousand delights had so far afforded very few delights to
Pee-wee Harris.
CHAPTER XI
A RURAL PARADISE
Pee-wee looked about him at an enchanted scene. He seemed to have been
transported to a region made to order for the Boy Scouts of America.
That a pair of auto thieves should have brought him to this rural
Paradise seemed odd enough.
As he gazed about and looked up at the quiet star-studded sky his fears
were all but dispelled. For were not the friendly woods and water near
him? They seemed like rescuing allies now. In the soft, enveloping arms
of those silent woods he would find safety and shelter, and so he should
find his way home through their dim concealment.
The building in which the car had been left was an old weather-beaten
shack, which, judging from the sawdust all about, might once have been
used as an ice-house. This seemed likely, for it stood near the shore of
a placid lake in the black bosom of which shone a myriad of inverted
stars and through which was a golden path of flickering moonlight. The
ice-house, or whatever it was, had never been painted and the grain stood
out on the shrunken wood like veins in an aged hand.
At a respectable distance from the woods near the shore where Pee-wee
stood was a sizable village, or young town, big enough to have traffic
signs and parking zones and a main street and a movie show and such like
pretentious things. Between this town and the shore were a few outlying
houses, but mostly sparse woodland. To the north the woods were thicker.
The lights of this neighboring town formed a cheery background to the
dark, silent lake shore. This town was West Ketchem and the chief
sensation in West Ketchem during the last few years had been the
destruction by fire of the public school, a calamity for which every boy
went in mourning.
Across the lake, Pee-wee could see other and fewer lights. These
belonged to a smaller village in which nothing at all had ever happened,
not even the burning of its school. Far from it. The school stood there
in all its glory, under the able supervision of Barnabas Wise and
Birchel Rodney, the local board of education.
About in the center of the lake, Pee-wee saw a small red light.
Sometimes there seemed to be two lights, but he thought that one was the
reflection of the other in the water. The light seemed very lonely, yet
very inviting out there. He supposed it was on a boat. Perhaps some one
was fishing....
But in all this surrounding beauty and peacefulness, Pee-wee saw no sign
of the murder of any captive maiden. His eagle eye _did_ see where a
boat had been drawn up on shore, and if any "shoves" and other cruel and
abusive "handling" had been administered by those scoundrels with
seventy pistols, it must have been to that poor defenseless boat. Or
perhaps they were out in the middle of the lake at that very minute
sinking their victim.
Anything might happen--in the mind of Scout Harris.
CHAPTER XII
ENTER THE GENUINE ARTICLE
At another time Pee-wee would have delighted to linger in this scout's
Utopia. But his chief thought now was to take advantage of his fortunate
escape. He had not the faintest idea where he was, more than that he was
a full two hour's ride from home. That would be a long and lonely hike,
even if he could find his way in the darkness.
He tried to recall the names of the various lakes in New Jersey and in
the neighboring state of New York, and he recalled a good many, but that
did not help him to identify this one. So he started up toward the town
in the hope of identifying that.
The village petered out toward the lake; there were but a few houses. It
was about eleven or twelve o'clock or after and the good people in the
straggling cottages thereabout had put out their lights and retired to
slumber before that wicked hour.
There was a stillness and gloom about these uninviting, dark houses; a
cheerlessness not to be found in the densest woods. They made Pee-wee
feel lost and lonesome, as the dim, silent wilderness could never do.
Soon he reached the town, and there in the center of a spacious lawn was
something which, in his loneliness and uncertainty, seemed the picture
of gloom. The ruin of a building which had been burned to the ground.
What a fire that must have been to witness! Better far than The Bandit
of Harrowing Highway! Over a partly fallen arch, under which many
reluctant feet had passed, Pee-wee could just make out the graven words:
WEST KETCHEM PUBLIC SCHOOL.
West Ketchem. So that was where he was. But he had never heard of West
Ketchem. The fame of this lakeside metropolis had not penetrated to
surging Bridgeboro. At least it had not penetrated to the surging mind
of Scout Harris. He tried to recall West Ketchem on the map of New
Jersey in his school geography.
But evidently West Ketchem had scorned the geography. Or else the
geography had scorned West Ketchem.
Undecided what to do, Pee-wee lingered a few moments among the mass of
charred timbers, and desks ruined and laid low, and broken blackboards,
all in an indiscriminate heap.
"I bet the fellers that live here are glad," he said to himself. "That
isn't saying they have to believe in fires, except camp-fires, but
anyway after it's all over they've got a right to be glad."
The situation of the school seemed to have been a sort of compromise
between the claims of the lake and the claims of the town. It was not
too far from the town and not too far from the lake. Perhaps it had been
built within sight of the lake so that the West Ketchem student body
could see it while at their lessons. A kind of slow torture.
Pee-wee had never before seen the familiar realities of school life thus
brought low and lying in inglorious disorder at his feet. It gave him a
feeling of triumph and had a fascination for him. Damp smelling books
were here and there among the ruins, histories, arithmetics, algebras
and grammars. He could tread upon these with his valiant heel. A huge
roll call book (ah, how well he knew it even in the darkness) lay
charred and soggy near the assembly-room piano. Junk heaps had always
had a fascination for Pee-wee and had yielded up some of his rarest
treasures. But a school, with all its disciplinary claptrap reduced to a
junk heap! He could not, even in this late hour and strange country,
tear himself away from it.
But another influence caused him to hesitate. What should he do? There
were hardly any lights in the town now. He was a scout and he could not
reconcile himself to the commonplace device of going to someone's house
and asking for shelter. His scout training had taught him self-reliance
and resource, and here was the chance to apply them, to go home, to find
his way without anyone's help. The lonely road called to him more than
the dark houses did.
But how about the car? Mr. Bartlett's stolen car? Would it be the way of
a scout to go home and tell about that? He had come in the car,
Providence had made him its guardian, and he would take it back again
and say, (or words to this effect) "Here is your super six Hunkajunk
car, Mr. Bartlett; they tried to steal it but I _foiled_ them! I was
disguised as a buffalo robe."
There was only one difficulty in the way of this heroic course and that
was that he could not run the car. Never again would he touch one of
those frightful nickel things on the instrument board. So, wishing to
handle this harrowing situation alone, with true scout prowess and
resource, he kicked around among the ruins of that tyrannous and fallen
empire, and tried to devise some plan.
Suddenly he heard a sound near him. He paused in the darkness, his scout
heel upon a poor, defenseless crumpled spelling book. Thus he stood in
mingled triumph and agitation, his heart beating fast, every nerve on
edge.
"Who--who's there?" he said.
He moved again, and was startled as his foot slipped off the charred
timber on which he was walking. The brisk autumn wind was playing havoc
among the debris, blowing damp pages over faster than anyone could turn
them. It played among a burned chest of old examination papers,
scattering them like dried leaves. Correct or incorrect, they were all
the same now. Pee-wee liked this roving, unruly wind, having its own way
in that dominion of restriction. He liked its gay disregard of all this
solemn claptrap.
But now he heard clearly the sound of footsteps among the ruins,
footsteps picking their way as it seemed to him, through the uncertain
support of all that various disorder. Groping, careful footfalls.
"Who's there?" he asked. And the only answer was a gust of wind.
Could it be those thieves in search of him? Or might it be the ghost of
some principal or teacher lingering still among these remnants and
reminders of authority?
Step, step--step.
Then from around the corner of a charred, up-ended platform appeared a
face. A face with a cap drawn low over it. And presently a dark form
emerged.
"Who--who are--you?" Pee-wee stammered.
"I'm a teacher as was here," the stranger said. "You needn't be scared
of me, kiddo."
"I was just kind of looking around," Pee-wee explained apologetically.
"Here's a pencil fur yer," the stranger said. "I jes' picked it up."
Pee-wee accepted this as a flag of truce, and felt somewhat reassured. A
man who would give him a pencil surely meant no harm. He had as much
right to be there as Pee-wee had.
"If you were a teacher here I shouldn't think you'd say 'as was,'"
Pee-wee ventured, "But gee whiz," he added, "I don't care how you say
it." No teacher had ever before called him kiddo and he rather liked it.
"Maybe you taught manual training, hey?" Pee-wee said. "Because they're
kind of different."
"There's where you hit it," said the stranger.
"Manual training?"
"Right the first time, and I'm just sort of collecting some of my junk."
"That's one thing about me, I'm good at guessing," Pee-wee said. "I
kinder knew you were that. Manual training, that's my favorite study
because it isn't a study at all. I made a bird-house, I did, in manual
training, a dandy big one."
"Bird-houses is a good thing to make," said the manual training
teacher.
Pee-wee could not see his new acquaintance very well or the bundle which
he carried. If the teacher had been after his junk he seemed to have
been fortunate in finding it, for he had collected a considerable amount
of booty. Indeed, he had but a minute before succeeded in disinterring
the safe which had been in the principal's office, but here he had met
with disappointment. He had, however, hit upon a microscope of some
value from the equipment of the student laboratory and he had found a
lady's handbag which he seemed to think worth keeping.
"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked of Pee-wee.
CHAPTER XIII
A FRIEND IN NEED
"Do you want me to let you into a secret?" Pee-wee said. "I know where
there's a stolen automobile. Maybe you'd like to help me take it back to
its owner, hey? If you do you'll get an honourable mention in our
troop-book. I was carried away in it by two thieves who didn't know I
was in the car, because I was disguised, sort of, under the buffalo
robe. Do you want to help me foil them?"
The manual training teacher seemed interested but a bit incredulous. He
looked Pee-wee over and said, "what's all this?"
"Maybe you don't believe me but it's true," Pee-wee said. "Do you know
how to run a car?"
"Anything from a flivver up," said the stranger.
"Shh," said Pee-wee, "this one is away, way up. It's a super six
Hunkajunk, it belongs to a man where I live, in Bridgeboro, New Jersey."
"Well, what are you doing here?" the manual training teacher asked.
"I was kind of kidnapped accidentally. They did it but they didn't know
it. They've got pistols and blackjacks and things and I heard them talk
about stealing. I bet I'd have heard a lot more only my head was under
the buffalo robe. If you'll help me we can circum--what do you call
it--you know--circum--"
The teacher did not know. But his interest was aroused at this whispered
tale of armed bandits and of a big stolen car. Pee-wee completed the
tale in breathless excitement. He told all, from the beginning. "They
locked it in," he concluded, "and went away; but one of the doors, the
big one, was locked on the inside and I opened it. Anybody can take the
car out. Those men have gone away across the lake. If you'll drive it to
Bridgeboro you can stay at my house and have breakfast and I'll tell Mr.
Bartlett that you helped me, and gee whiz, they'll thank you a lot.
Maybe you know about scouts because manual training teachers know a lot
about scouts on account of scouts making bird-houses and all things like
that, and so maybe you know about good turns. That'll be a peach of a
good turn. And if I tell about it you'll get a kind of a medal from our
troop with your name on it. What's your name? Mine's Walter Harris, but
the fellows in my troop call me Pee-wee, but I should worry about them.
Will you help me? What's your name?"
"Mr. Swiper," said the stranger, rather thoughtfully; "let's go and look
it over."
He was certainly considering the proposition and Pee-wee accompanied him
back to the lake, keeping up a running fire of enthusiastic
encouragement and representing to him the delight and self-satisfaction
of circumventing a pair of scoundrels. "They've got pistols and
everything," he said as a clincher, "and if they'd steal a car they'd
kill somebody, wouldn't they?"
"Seventy pistols is a good many," said Mr. Swiper, incredulously.
"Sure it is," said Pee-wee excitedly; "it's more than Jesse James had. I
guess they belong to a big band of thieves, hey? Maybe they've got
a--a--a haunt on the other side of that lake, hey? Now you can see it's
good to go to the movies, hey? Because we could never circum--foil them
if I hadn't, hey? They drove it right away from in front of the theater.
Anyway," he added excitedly as he trotted along, "I'm glad I met you
because now I don't have to wake up the police or anything, hey? And I
bet Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett will be surprised when they see us bringing it
back, won't they? I'll show you where we have our meetings."
Mr. Swiper was not carried off his feet by Pee-wee's excited talk. He
was thoughtful and preoccupied.
"That's one thing I have no use for--thieves," Pee-wee said. "Gee whiz,
I never took a ride with thieves before. But anyway it's going to be all
right now. We'll just toot the horn in front of the house when we get
there, hey? And I'll say--I'll say--'Here's your car Mr. Bartlett.' And
then I'll introduce you to him, hey? And I bet he'll--anyway, you
wouldn't take anything, would you? Money or anything like that?"
"Don't insult me," said Mr. Swiper.
"I didn't mean it," Pee-wee said apologetically; "scouts are like that,
they won't take anything for a service, but eats don't count, you can
take eats. But I mean money----"
"Don't speak of money again," said Mr. Swiper.
CHAPTER XIV
SAVED!
Thanks to Pee-wee, the door of the rustic lakeside garage stood
invitingly open.
"I won't--I won't say anything about money; gee whiz, you needn't have
any fear," Pee-wee said, making a play for his companion's good-will;
"gee, I wouldn't do that--I wouldn't. But you could take a medal,
couldn't you? A scout good-will medal?" he added anxiously.
"Maybe," said Mr. Swiper.
"Gee, you'll _have_ to take it," said Pee-wee; "our scoutmaster will
make you."
Before entering the building, Mr. Swiper made an inspection of the
lonely neighborhood, and looked out across the still, dark lake.
"That's where they went?" he asked.
"Sure, they won't see us," Pee-wee said reassuringly.
But the manual training teacher was not going to take any chances with
a crew of ruffians--not he.
"Even if they should see us or hear us," Pee-wee encouraged, "they
wouldn't dare come after it, because it isn't theirs. They thought
nobody would ever find it in here. It's good I was on the inside, hey?"
"That's the place to be," said Mr. Swiper.
"You bet it is," said Pee-wee. "Were you ever locked in a place?"
To this purely personal question, Mr. Swiper made no reply. Instead he
walked about the car thoughtfully, then climbed into the front seat and
turned on the dash-light. He seemed to know what he was doing. Pee-wee
did not wait but excitedly climbed in beside him.
"Gee whiz, a feller's got to have nerve to steal a car, hasn't he?" he
asked, unable in his elation to keep still.
"That's what," said Mr. Swiper briefly.
"It--it kind of--sort of--makes us feel like thieves, taking it,"
Pee-wee commented, looking about him rather fearfully, "but anyway we've
got a right to, that's one sure thing.... Haven't we?"
"Sure."
"And it's all right, that's one sure thing. Oh boy, I'm glad I met you
and you'll get as much credit as I do, that's sure. Anyway, we've got a
right to take it away from the thieves, I hope. Gee, nobody can deny
that. Anyway, I guess _you_ don't feel scary."
"Guess they won't follow us," said Mr. Swiper. "Not if they know what's
well for them. Thieves don't come after you, they run away from you."
"You bet they do," said Pee-wee, delighted at his new friend's rather
generous contribution to the talk.
The engine now purred softly, the silent shifting into reverse gear told
the young rescuer that a practiced hand was at the wheel. Slowly the big
car backed out of the building and around till it headed into the dark
over-grown road.
"You didn't put the lights on," Pee-wee said.
"Time enough for that," said his companion, who seemed quite accustomed
to driving in the dark.
Presently the big super six Hunkajunk touring model was rolling silently
along through the woods, rescued, saved! Soon to be restored to its
rightful owner by W. Harris, scout, B.S.A.
By the dash-light, Pee-wee obtained a first glimpse of his companion's
face. There was nothing in particular about him, save a long, diagonal
scar on his face which Pee-wee thought might have been caused by some
tool in the ruined manual training room. The young man had also very
short hair; it was so short, in fact, that it seemed almost like no hair
at all. It was like a convict's hair.
CHAPTER XV
IN CAMP
The light which Pee-wee had seen across the water was not on a boat as
he had supposed. It was on a small island the very name of which would
have delighted his heart, for it was called Frying-pan Island, because
of its rough similarity of form to that delightful accessory of camp
life. If Scout Harris could have eaten a waffle out of such a frying-pan
he would have felt that he had not lived in vain.
This frying-pan, instead of being filled with fat, was filled with
woods, and a little to the west of the center, where an omelet might
have nestled in its smaller prototype, three tents were concealed in the
enshrouding foliage. Down at the end of the handle of this frying-pan
was good fishing, but it was marshy there, and sometimes after a heavy
rain the handle was completely sub-merged. From an airplane the three
white tents in the western side of the pan might have seemed like three
enormous poached eggs; that is, provided the aviator had an imagination.
It was upon the shore of this little island that the two young men who
had driven the automobile from Bridgeboro pulled their boat ashore about
ten minutes after they had all unknowingly locked Scout Harris in their
makeshift lakeside garage. Considering that they were cut-throats and
ruffians and all that sort of thing, their consciences seemed singularly
clear, for they laughed and chatted as they made their way along the few
yards of trail which led to their lair, or den, or haunt, or cave, or
whatever you care to call it.
They were greeted by a chorus of boys who jumped up from around the
camp-fire where they had been seated making demands upon them for news
and booty.
"How about it? Can we stay here?"
"What kept you so long?"
"Did you get the silver cup?"
"I bet you didn't find out?"
"I bet you ate supper in a restaurant."
"We made rice cakes."
"Did you get the cup?"
"Let's see it."
"They didn't get it"
"Yes they did."
"I bet they didn't."
"I bet they did."
"Look at the smiles on their faces."
"I bet we have the town hall wished on us."
"I bet it's the fire-house."
"I feel it in my bones we have to go to school."
"Let's see the cup."
"Did you eat?"
"What is this, a questionnaire?" asked one of the arrivals, the one who
had driven the car.
"Let's hear the worst."
"Break it gently."
"We thought your new junk wagon broke down."
"Don't say anything against his new junk Wagon or he'll never tell us
anything."
"Did you put the baby to bed?"
"Yes and locked him in."
"What kept you so late?"
"We got mixed up with a Bandit of Harrowing Highway."
"Who's he?"
"He's a villyan."
"A which?"
"A movie play."
"That's a nice thing for two scoutmasters to go and see. Your two troops
are ashamed of you."
"If our two troops don't shut up--"
"We'll shut up--come on, _altogether_!"
Followed a welcome silence.
"We've gone to a lot of trouble today for you kids," said one of the
scoutmasters. "We've got the cup but we had to wait a couple of hours
for it. The merchants in the great metropolis of Bridgeboro are so slow
that a turtle would be arrested for speeding there. Poke up the fire,
Nick, we're cold, and I'll tell you all about our adventures. We've made
a day of it, huh?"
The scout whom he called Nick jogged up the waning blaze while others
brought a fresh log, and soon the camp-fire was roaring a warming,
hearty welcome home to the weary scoutmasters. One of these (who was
evidently young enough to be addressed by his Christian name, for they
called him Ned) sat on an old grocery box and related the happenings of
the day, while the others sprawled about, listening. Occasionally his
fellow scoutmaster (Safety First they called him) contributed a few
words.
"Well, the first thing we did when we got ashore was to--"
"Get out of the boat?" a scout asked. There was surely not much
constraint between scouts and scoutmasters in this outfit.
"We went up to town and saw the school board; at least we saw Mr. Cram.
He says everything's upside down and they don't know what they'll
do--says there won't be any school for a month anyway. (Cries of
despair.) They can't use the town hall and they can't use the fire-house
and they're talking of using the old Wilder mansion. We told him if
there wasn't going to be any school till the middle of October or so,
we'd like to bunk right here on the island and study nature. He said,
'Go to it.' So there's no school for a month (murmurs of disappointment)
and we've got to chip in and get some more groceries.
"We squared things with your parents and most of them are glad to get
rid of you. How about that, Safety First? Corby's sister is giving a
party and hopes he'll stay away. Let's see now; oh yes, we bought some
fishing tackle.
"Then we got some gas and started for Bridgeboro after the cup. We went
after that cup like Sir Thomas Lipton. The jewelry man didn't have the
engraving finished so we dropped in at a movie show and saw a fellow
with a lot of pistols. How many pistols were there, First Aid? We
counted them off coming back in the machine, there were seventy. Crazy
stuff. That's the kind of stuff you kids fall for. Well, after the
pistol shooting was over we got the cup and started back and here we
are. Any questions?"
"Let's see the cup."
We left it in the machine. We'll get it in the morning. Now look here,
you scouts. I want every last one of you to try for that cup. There are
half a dozen of you that need to wake up. There are a few dead ones
here; Harry, the crack shot--yes you--I'm looking right at you--I want
you to can all this stuff about killing animals and get busy and do the
best scout stunt of the season and win that cup. Understand? I was
saying to Safety First on the way home that a fellow gets more fun
stealing up on an animal and piking him with a camera than he does
poking around with an old air gun that he saw advertised in _Boy's
Life_. That's what! I'm talking to you straight.
"Now here's a silver cup and it looks pretty swell all engraved with our
patrol names and we drove way to Bridgeboro to get it. That cup's going
to stand on the stump of that tree there--where the chipmunk hangs out.
And the day we leave this island it's going to the scout that has done
the best scout stunt. Tracking, signalling, good turn, cooking, it makes
no difference what. The scout that does the _biggest thing_, he gets the
cup. We two scoutmasters and Mr. Wade are going to be the committee. Now
you'd better all turn in and hurry up about it, and Ralph Gordon is not
to snore; they're complaining about it over in town."
"Can we do any kind of stunts we want to?" asked the tall scout whom
they call Nick.
"Any kind at all that's good scouting; that's the only rule."
"All right, then I'm going to start to-night," said Nick; "I'm going to
row across and get that cup out of the car so we all can see it. Let's
have the key, will you?"
At this there was a general laugh mingled with shouts from a dozen or so
volunteers:
"I'll go with you!"
"Take me?"
"I'm in on that!"
"I was just going to suggest it!"
"Yes you were--not!"
"Wait till morning," said Scoutmaster Ned.
"It can't be done," said Nick in a funny, sober way; "a scout is
supposed to have his sleep, that's the most important rule of all, you
said so yourself. I can't sleep till I've had a squint at that cup. Come
on Fido, let's row over."
The scout called Fido had won his name because of his doglike
persistence in following trails. "That's me," he said, "I was just going
to propose it when you took the words out of my mouth."
"I'd like to see a photograph of anybody taking anything out of _your_
mouth," said Scoutmaster Ned. "Go ahead, the two of you; I wish your
people would send you both to a private school that opens up to-morrow.
Go on, get out of here. And don't wake us up when you come back."
"Thank you kindly," said Fido.
"The pleasure is mine," said Scoutmaster Ned.
CHAPTER XVI
FOOTPRINTS
So this, then, was the explanation of the bloodthirsty talk which the
mighty hero of the Bridgeboro troop had heard under the buffalo robe as
he emerged from the sweet realm of slumber in the automobile.
Pistols, killing, stealing and dead ones! To steal up to a bird and
_not_ kill it! To wake up if you are a dead one! To laugh with wholesome
scout humor at the silly gun play of the screen! To count the pistols in
William I. Smart's five reel thriller!
Alas, Scout Harris!
But we are not to accompany that redoubtable rescuer in his thrilling
flight. We are going to row across the lake in which the dying camp-fire
on the little island cast a golden flicker, into which the oars held by
our new acquaintance, Nick Vernon, dipped silently and rose dripping as
his practiced arms drew the boat through the water, causing a musical
little ripple at its bow.
"Got the key?" Fido asked.
"Do you suppose I'd come away without it?"
"Pull a little on your left. I can just make out the shed. There
isn't,--yes there is, there's just one light in the town."
"That's Algernon Kirkendall studying his algebra," said Nick.
"It's just in line with the shed. Row straight for the light and we'll
hit the shore just right. I'll lift this seat and steer with it.
Crinkums, it's dark on the water, isn't it?"
So the algebra was of some use in the world after all; Algernon
Kirkendall was a scout without knowing it.
"S.N.[1] thinks more of that new car than he does of the troop," said
Fido.
"Sure, the car don't give him as much trouble," said Nick. "We're a
Hunkajunk troop and Safety First's troop is a Ford troop; it's small but
it makes a lot of noise. If I ever start a troop it will be air-cooled.
How about it, am I headed right?"
[Footnote 1: Scoutmaster Ned he meant.]
"Row straight ahead, I'll steer."
"Golly, the water's black. Look! Did you see that fish jump? Look
around, the camp-fire looks good from here. Believe me, the autumn is
the time to camp. We're in luck. I love, I love, I love my lessons, but
oh you little island!"
"Ditto."
"We're set till Columbus Day."
"You mean Election Day. Gee, your oar touched bottom, here we are. I'll
row back."
They pulled the boat up and started for the shack. Fido reached it first
and called excitedly, "It's open! The car's gone!"
"Stop your fooling," called Nick.
"I'm not fooling, come and look for yourself, hurry up, the car's gone."
They stood in the big open doorway in gaping amazement. They walked in,
too dumfounded to speak, and when they did speak their voices sounded
strange to each other within the dark, empty confines of those old dried
board walls.
"Somebody must have broken in through the small door," said Fido.
"It's closed and locked," said his companion. "How about the fastening
on the big one?"
"It's all O.K.; nobody's been breaking in, that's sure."
"You don't mean to tell me S.N. would lock the small door and then come
away leaving the big one open, do you?" Nick asked incredulously.
"Well, what then?" his comrade retorted with greater incredulity. "If
both doors were closed and fastenings are all right now, could anybody
get the car out? They left the big door open--that's what they did."
"They never did that," said Nick; "look here, here's a fresh finger
print on the door--you can smell the oil on it. Here, wait till I light
another match. S.N. did what he always does, he opened the hood and
turned on the oil pet-cock and fussed around and then pulled the door
shut. Someone must have been inside this place before they got back."
Fido Norton was by this time on his knees outside the larger door. "Here
are footprints," said he; "two, three,--here's another one. Give me
another match."
"Those were made by our own fellows," said Nick, inspecting the ground,
half interested. "Can't you see they were made by scout shoes? Do you
think a boy scout stole the car? Here are some others, too, S.N.'s, and
Safety First's, I suppose."
"Why should they step outside the big door?" Norton asked. "These are
fresh footprints, all of them. After they got through, they'd go out
through the small door wouldn't they? This print, and this one, and this
one," he said, holding a match, "were made by scout shoes--_to-night_,
not an hour ago."
"All the fellows except us two are in camp," said Nick.
"All right," Fido Norton shot back, "they might all be at the North
Pole, but these prints were made by scout shoes _to-night_. That's what
I'm telling you."
"All right," said Nick with a tolerant sneer in his voice, "the car was
stolen by a boy scout, probably a tenderfoot. Maybe it was stolen by a
girl scout--"
"No, they're scout shoe prints," said Norton, ignoring his friend's
sarcasm, "and they're not an hour old, not a half hour, that's what I
think."
"Well, actions speak louder than footprints," said Nick; "what are we
going to do, that's the question?"
"Whatever you say," said Norton cheerfully.
CHAPTER XVII
ACTION
"Well then I say let's send up a signal," said Nick hurriedly, "the
fellows at camp will see it and everybody else for miles around will see
it. Every telegraph operator along the railroad can read it. Forget
about scouts stealing cars and do what I tell you. Hustle up to the
police station and tell them about it so they can't say we didn't report
it, then meet me at the town hall."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to use the old search-light if it will work. It hasn't been
used since the night of the armistice when they lighted up the flag with
it. Climb in through the broken window on the side and come up into the
cupola. Don't tell Chief Bungelheimer or he'll say it was his idea. My
father's on the town committee, it's all right, hustle now, get the
police department off your hands and maybe we can do something--no
telling. Remember, the side window, the one that's broken. And look out
for the ladder, it's rotten. Hurry up, beat it!"
Fido Norton hurried to the police station in back of Ezra Corbett's
store and aroused Officer Dopeson who was at the desk waiting for
out-of-town speeders to be brought in. In a kind of waking dream the
officer heard an excited voice shout, "Mr. Ned Garrison's car is stolen
from the shed down by the lake."
When Officer Dopeson was fully aware of this noisy intrusion, the
intruder had disappeared. He lost no time, however, in setting the usual
machinery in motion. By a continuous series of movements of the receiver
rack on the telephone he aroused Miss Dolly Bobbitt, the night operator,
from the depths of the novel she was reading, and notified the Police
Department in East Ketchem across the lake to be on watch for the car.
The police department over there said that he would be glad to do that.
The police departments of Conner's Junction and Rocky Hollow were also
notified.
A long distance call to the New York police warned them to be on the
lookout. Blinksboro, on the main road, did not answer. Knapp's
Crossroads had gone to a harvest festival and forgotten to come back.
No answer. Lonehaven couldn't get the name of the car but said it would
watch out for a Plunkabunk. Wakeville said no car could possibly get
through there as there wasn't any road. Miss Dolly Bobbitt returned to
her novel.
And meanwhile the scout raised a mighty hand up into the vast, starry
heaven, like some giant traffic cop....
"Pull that canvas cover off it," said Nick to his comrade who had just
come up the ladder. "The blamed thing's all rotten anyway, I guess.
Strike a match and find where the switch is. Look out you don't slip in
the hole. Look at all the confetti and stuff," he added hurriedly, as
the tiny flame of the match illuminated a small area of the little
cupola. "War's over, huh?"
There upon the floor were strewn the gay many-colored little paper
particles, plastered against the wood by many a rain, mementos of the
night when even West Ketchem arose and poured this festive, fluttering
stuff down necks and into windows. Someone who had thought to throw the
search-light on the flag across the street, had spilled some of
insinuating stuff in the little cupola. How old and stale, and a part of
the forgotten past, the war seemed! And these once gay memorials of its
ending were all washed out and as colorless as the big spiders that
claimed the little cupola as their own. It smelled musty up there. And
whenever a match was lighted the spiders started in their webs. A lonely
bat, settled for the winter, hung like an old stiff dishrag from a beam.
"Did you find the switch?" Nick asked, as he fumbled hastily with the
big brass light. "All right, wait till I point the lens down, now turn
it."
There was no light.
"Did you turn it?"
"Sure."
"Pull it out, maybe it works that way."
There was no light. Norton paused in suspense while Nick shook the brass
case and jarred the wiring to overcome a slight short circuit if there
was any there.
"All right, turn it again."
There was no light, and the two scouts stood baffled and heavy hearted
in the lonely darkness.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MESSAGE
"I'm a dumb-bell!" said Nick in a quick inspiration. "Go down and turn on
the main switch; it's in a box on the wall in the vestibule; just pull
the handle down and push it in below. We'll never get any juice up here
with that turned off. Hurry up."
Norton descended the ladder and with lighted matches found his way to
the vestibule where the switch-box was. Here was the big switch on which
all other switches in the building depended. As he pulled it down one
lonely bulb in the meeting-room brightened and cast a dim light in the
musty, empty place. It was evidently the only bulb in which the
individual switch was turned on. Norton went through the meeting-room
and turned this off. The place smelled for all the world like a
school-room.
When he reached the ladder it was bathed in light. Nick was pointing a
shaft of dazzling brightness downward. It revealed spiders and split
rungs on the ladder and all the litter at its foot. All the rotting
framework of the place and all the disorder were drawn into the light of
day. A pile of old law books became radiant, dry and dull as they were.
"We've got it," called Nick, "hurry up, this blamed thing will reach to
the isle of Yap. What's S? Wait, I'll give 'em the high sign first."
A long, dusty column swept across the dark sky.
"Attention everybody," said Nick. "What's S?"
"Three dots," said Norton.
"Three flashes it is. How's that? I'm forgetting my A, B, C's. What's
T?"
"One dash."
"Is three seconds long enough?"
"Three for dashes and one for dots."
"O."
The long column swung slowly to right, then slowly back to left again,
then slowly back to right.
"P's a hard one; here goes."
"Good for you, _some_ handwriting."
In five minutes or less, Nick had sprawled across the open page of the
heavens the words, "STOP BLUE CAR 50792 EAGLE ON FRONT." He paused about
half a minute then repeated the message.
That long, accusing arm crossed stars as it swayed and flashed. It
filled the limitless sky like a rainbow. A giant spectre it was, swaying
in the unknown depths, crossing clouds, and piercing realms of darkness,
and speaking to those who could understand. A sick child, somewhere or
other, saw it, and the watchful mother carried the little one to a
window the better to see this strange visitant.
"It's a search-light," she said. But to them it had no meaning. A merry
party returning home in the wee hours paused and watched it curiously
but it spoke to them not. At Knapp's Crossroads they saw it, just as the
harvest festival was breaking up, and Hank Sparker and Sophia Coyson
lingered on their way home to watch it. But it spoke not their language.
Did it speak to any one, this voice calling in the dark? Did any one
understand it? Were there no telegraph operators in any of the stations
along the line? They would understand. Was there no one?
No one?...
CHAPTER XIX
PAGE TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FOUR
If Pee-wee had stolen a glimpse from under the buffalo robe at about the
time that he was writing under difficulties his momentous message to the
world, he might have noticed a little old-fashioned house nestling among
the trees along the roadside.
At that time the house was dark save for a lamp-light in a little window
up under the eaves. Little the speeding hero knew that up in that tiny
room there sat a boy engrossed with the only scout companion that he
knew, and that was the scout handbook. It had come to him by mail a few
days before.
This boy lived with his widowed mother, Mrs. Mehetable Piper. His name
was Peter, but whether he was descended from the renowned Peter Piper
who picked a peck of pickled peppers, the present chronicler does not
know. At the time in question he was eating the handbook alive. The
speeding auto passed, the mighty Bridgeboro scout pinned his missive to
his remnant of sandwich and hurled it out into the dark world, the boy
up in the little room went on reading with hungry eyes, and that is all
there was to that.
Peter belonged to no troop, for in that lonely country there was no
troop to belong to. He had no scoutmaster, no one to track and stalk and
go camping with, no one to jolly him as Pee-wee had. Away off in
National Headquarters he was registered as a pioneer scout. He had his
certificate, he had his handbook, that is all. It is said in that book
that a scout is a brother to every other scout, but this scout's
brothers were very far away and he had never seen any of them. He
wondered what they looked like in their trim khaki attire. He could
hardly hope to see them, but he did dare to hope that somehow or other
he might strike up a correspondence with one of them. He had heard of
pioneer scouts doing that.
In his loneliness he pictured scouts seated around a camp-fire telling
yarns. He knew that sometimes these wonderful and fortunate beings with
badges up and down their arms went tracking in pairs, that there was
chumming in the patrols. He might sometime or other induce Abner Corning
to become a pioneer scout and chum with him. But this seemed a Utopian
vision for Abner lived seven miles away and had hip disease and lived in
a wheel-chair.
Peter had a rich uncle who lived in New York and took care of a building
and got, oh as much as thirty dollars a week. The next time this rich
uncle came to visit he was going to ask him if he had seen any real
scouts with khaki suits and jack-knives dangling from their belts and
axes hanging on their hips.
Peter experimented with the axe in the woodshed but it was so long that
the handle dragged on the ground and he could sit on it. He had likewise
pinned a Harding and Coolidge button on his sleeve and pretended it was
a signalling badge. _A signalling badge!_ He did not tell his mother
what he was pretending for she would not understand. Out in the small
barn he had presented himself with this, with much scout ceremony, and
he had actually trembled when he told himself (in a man's voice) to
"step forward and receive this token...."
The car in which Scout Harris was being carried reached the lake and
still Peter Piper poured over his scout handbook by the dim, oily
smelling lamp, up in that little room. The two scoutmasters rowed across
and were greeted by their noisy troops and still Peter Piper read his
book. The scout of scouts, W. Harris of the nifty Bridgeboro outfit, was
nearly suffocated, then escaped and stood triumphant over the ruins of
the West Ketchem school, and still Peter Piper's smarting eyes were
fixed upon that book. They were riveted to page two hundred and
eighty-four and he was reading the words "Scouts should thoroughly
master these two standard...."
He read it again and again for his strained eyes were blinking and the
page seemed all hazy. He paused to rest his eyes, then read on. But he
did not turn the page. For an hour his gaze was fixed upon it. Just on
that one page....
CHAPTER XX
STOP
Suddenly something, it seemed like a shadow, crossed the window outside.
If Peter's little room had been downstairs he might have thought that a
spectre of the night was passing. He looked up, startled, dumbfounded.
And while he gazed the tall dusky apparition passed back across the
window again.
Half frightened and very curious he raised the little sash and looked
out. The night was dark but the sky was filled with stars. Not a light
of man's making was there in all the country roundabout. He concentrated
his gaze along the back road and tried to pick out the spot where
Peace-justice Fee's house was, thinking that perhaps some sign
thereabout would furnish the key to this ghostly mystery. But there was
not the faintest twinkle there, nor any sound of life. Only solemn,
unanswering darkness. Somewhere in the woods a solitary screech owl was
hooting its discordant song.
"Is--is--anybody here?" Peter asked, his voice shaking. There was no
answer, nothing but silent, enveloping darkness.
Peter groped behind him for the old piece of broomstick which propped
the window open, and with this in place, he leaned far out and gazed
toward the little graveyard where his father and his grandfather and all
the simple forbears of the lonely neighborhood had gone to their rest.
Not a sound was there in that solemn little acre. He strained his eyes
and tried to identify the place by Deacon Small's tall, white tombstone,
but he could not make it out.
Suddenly, just above that silent, hallowed little area, a tall gray
thing appeared, then disappeared as suddenly.
Peter trembled, yet gazed in fascination. He was fearful of he knew not
what. Yet he could not withdraw his eyes from that spot. Had
someone--some _thing_ from that little graveyard come to his window and
gone back again to its musty rest? Was it--_could_ it be--?
Hardly had he the chance to think and conjure up some harrowing fear,
when the dusky column appeared again, then disappeared, then appeared
again. Then darkness.
Whatever put it into Peter Piper's head he never know, but quick like
those very flashes occurred to him the very words that he had been
saying over and over to himself but a few minutes before--saying over
and committing to memory. "Three dots or flashes--S, three dots or
flashes--S, three dots or flashes--"
Again it arose, that ghostly apparition, and filled the dark sky above
the little graveyard. This time it remained for one, two, three, four
seconds.
Peter's hand trembled now from a new kind of excitement, as he groped
behind him for his one poor scout possession, the handbook. Then he
reached for the lamp, but the night wind blew it out just as the tall
thing came again, and stayed for several seconds.
Peter groped for the little box of safety matches which always lay near
the lamp. These were the chief ornaments of his little room, the lamp
and the safety matches. He held a match close over page two hundred and
eighty-four while he divided his gaze between this and the next
lingering visitation of that strange, long, shadowy thing over the
graveyard. He struck match after match, as each blew out. Yes, that was
what three short flashes meant--S. And one long flash meant T.
Suppose--_suppose_ there should be three _long_ appearances now? That
would be O. Were these signs, expressed in ghostly strangeness, just the
figments of Peter's excited imagination? Just the Morse Code haunting
him and coloring his fancy? He put his finger on the black symbol on the
page and waited.
--Two--three--then a pause.
S--T--O
His finger held upon the page trembled as he lighted another match and
still another and moved his finger to another printed symbol on the
page. And the long, dusty column over beyond the graveyard, came and
went, now for a second, now for several, now for several again, then for
one short second.
"STOP!" said Peter, his voice shaking as if indeed some ghostly spectre
were upon him. Somebody, somebody was talking to him! Some scout, in
real khaki attire, out in the great world?
Peter did not know where to place his waiting finger next. A mighty hand
had been raised in the black, solemn night, and had said _Stop_. Had
sprawled it across the open page of the heaven. Peter waited, as one
waits for a spirit to give some sign. He kept his eyes riveted upon the
general service code, lighting match after match and throwing them on
the floor as the fickle things went out. Some day, _some day, maybe_,
Peter would have a _real_ flashlight with a switch button, a flashlight
of shiny nickel that he could polish, such a flashlight as he had seen a
picture of in _Boy's Life_. A flashlight that would not blow out.
Sometime he would--maybe....
CHAPTER XXI
SEEIN' THINGS
Stop-blue-car-five-o-seven-nine-two-eagle-on-front.
Out of the solemn darkness, someone, somewhere, had called to Peter
Piper of Piper's Crossroads; had stolen like a silent ghost to his
little window and bidden him watch.
Far away that arresting voice may have been, away off in the big world,
and none could say how far or near, or where or how it spoke, calling in
the endless wilderness of night. But it spoke to Peter Piper, of Piper's
Crossroads, to Peter Piper, pioneer scout.
And Peter Piper, with the aid of the only scout companion that he had,
read it and was _prepared_, as it is the way of a scout to be.
He did not dare to hope that he was being drawn into the actual circle
of scouting; he would not know how to act among those natty strangers.
Wonderful as they were, with their pathfinding and all that, they could
hardly penetrate to his humble, sequestered little home. Peter Piper of
Piper's Crossroads was not going to allow himself to dream any
extravagantly impossible dreams. The nickel flashlight and a
correspondence with some unknown "brother," that was as far as his hopes
carried.
He had still a lingering and persistent feeling that this whole amazing
business was unreal; that he had been dreaming it or at least reading a
meaning where there was none. He knew that he could see trees and the
stars in Hawley's pond when there were none there. Might not this be the
same? He had expected sometime or other to make a signal fire and give
this scout voice a try-out with some simple word. He had not expected to
be aroused and called to service by its spectral, mysterious command.
What should he do? Set it down to his own deceiving fancy and go back to
his handbook? Return to the wholesome realities of stalking and trailing
which filled those engrossing pages? Poor Peter Piper felt that he had
made a sort of bold excursion from Piper's Crossroads into the realm of
miracles and that he had better not let that weird apparition over
beyond the graveyard dupe and mock him. Perhaps he had been "seein'
things." Yet there were the long and short flashes and they had spelled
that warning message, or else he had gone out of his senses or been
dreaming. He hardly knew what to think, now that he had time to think.
His credulity soon gained the upper hand, he began to doubt his own
eyes, and he was just a bit ashamed of what he was resolved to do. At
all events he would have the delight of doing it, and no one would know.
He would act just as a _real_ scout would _really_ act if the message
was _real_ and _true_.
Stealing down the creaky, boxed-in stairs, he got a lantern from the
kitchen and lighted it. The actual performance of this practical act
made his experience of the last few minutes seem fanciful, unreal. He
was no longer under the spell of that ghostly column and he was not so
sure that he believed in it. To bestir himself upon the authority of
such an uncanny warning seemed rather foolish. He almost found it
easier, now, to believe that he had seen some spectral thing in the
graveyard.
As he emerged from the house the familiar things about him seemed to
mock his vision of a warning message in the sky. The startled chickens
in the little hen-house resettled themselves comfortably on their
perches as if not to be disturbed by such nonsense. The calf resting at
the end of his pegged rope arose, looked about him and lay down again as
if he would not be a party to poor Peter's absurd nocturnal enterprise.
The darkness and the vastness of the wooded country seemed to chill
Peter's hopes. Now that the gripping spell was over he hardly knew what
to think....
With his jack-knife he cut a piece from the rope which held the calf and
moved the peg nearer to the animal which looked curiously on at this
unexpected abridgment of its sphere of freedom. It almost seemed to
Peter that the calf was laughing at him.
This piece of rope he stretched across the road, fastening one end to
the rotten gate-post, long deserted by its gate, the other to a tree.
Then he hung the lantern midway of this line. This seemed as much as his
waning hope justified, but on second thought he stole into the house,
took a black tomato crate marker from the kitchen shelf and on a paper
flour-bag printed the words DANGER ROAD CLOSED. This he hung upon the
rope near the lantern. Then he sat down on the old carriage block where
they used to stand the milk cans and waited. He felt rather foolish
waiting there and he wondered what he should do if a big car with the
number 50792 and an eagle on it should really come along....
The night was pitch dark; somewhere in the lonely woods hard by the
screech owl was still calling, and the brisk autumn wind, freshening as
the night advanced into the wee hours, conjured up strange noises in the
loose hanging sticks of the old ramshackle fence along the roadside.
Dried leaves, driven by the fitful gusts of wind, sounded like someone,
or some _thing_, hurrying by.
Now, indeed, Peter's fine hopes melted away as he waited there in the
darkness. To be sure, this was a main road, as likely a route as any
thereabouts for autos, and in the daytime many passed there. But as he
waited now in the deep, enveloping night, and heard no sound save the
haunting voices caused by the wind and the low, monotonous singing of
the forest life, it seemed unthinkable that any thrilling sequel of his
singular experience in his little room could occur. Everything was the
same as usual, the crickets chirping, the owl calling, the little
graveyard down the road wrapped in darkness.... Glory was not going to
knock on the humble door of Peter Piper of Piper's Crossroads....
Peter glanced down the dark road toward the graveyard; he had always
hurried past that spot when coming home from the crossroads at night.
Once he had seen a ghostly figure on the stone wall, which, on more
careful inspection the next morning, proved to be the sexton's shovel
with his hat on top of it. The little church was around the bend of the
road, within the hallowed acre.
Suddenly, as Peter glanced in the direction where the old leaning
gravestones were wrapped in darkness, he saw something which harrowed
his very soul and made his blood run cold. One of those stones was
bathed in a dim, shadowy light. It was startling to see just one stone
and no others. It was not a light so much as an area of gossamer
brightness that enveloped it, a kind of gauze shroud. Peter gazed,
unable to stir, his breaths coming short and fast. Then this dim shroud
left the tombstone and glided slowly through the graveyard, shedding its
hovering brightness upon a small area of the stone wall as it crossed,
and came steadily, steadily over toward Peter Piper.
CHAPTER XXII
HARK! THE CONQUERING HERO COMES
"What the dickens is this, anyway; a cemetery?" said Mr. Swiper, poking
the finding light this way and that as the car of a thousand delights
came slowly up toward the bend. "It's some rocky road to Dublin, all
right."
He cast the light along the dark road behind them and looked
apprehensively back as far as he could see. Evidently there was no cause
for fear there and he dropped the car of a thousand delights into second
gear and picked his way along the narrow, rocky way, below the bend. "I
guess it will be better when we get around here," he said; "we have to
watch our step in this jungle. Nice place to build a church, huh?" He
threw the finding light upon the little edifice ahead and brightened the
small stained-glass window, casting a soft reflection upon Deacon
Small's slanting marble slab nearby.
The small figure in a gray sweater with a rather tough look, cap drawn
over his round face, who sat huddled up alongside the driver seemed not
to partake of the delights which the big car claimed to furnish. He
seemed chilled and very much worried. He looked wistfully ahead at the
graveyard where the strange, soft, reflected light shone.
"The people around here haven't got any 'phones," he said. "Anyways
what's the use 'phoning Mr. Bartlett because he'll only be in bed. If
we're going straight to Bridgeboro, gee whiz, what's the good of
'phoning? What's the use waking people up around here, even if they have
got 'phones? Gee whiz, you're acting awful funny. Why didn't you ask me
to 'phone when we were passing through a village?"
"You're going to get out and 'phone when I tell you to; see?" said our
friend, the manual training teacher. "And you ain't going to give me no
sass neither, understand? I don't let kids tell me my business."
"You just want to get rid of me, that's what," said Pee-wee. "Gee, you
might as well say what you mean, I'm not scared."
"Oh, ain't you? Well you do as I tell you and you'll be all right. You
do as I tell you if you want to get a ride home; see? Mr. Bartlett and
me are grown-up men, we are, and we know what's the right way to do.
When a kid is told to do something he's gotter do it. You know so much
about them scout kids; don't you know that?
"I'll take care of this here car of Mr. Bartlett's. The next house we
come to I'm going to stop and let you out a little way past it and
you're going to show what you can do; you're going to go back and 'phone
to tell Mr. Bartlett we're on our way, and I'll wait for you."
"You wanted me to do that at a house that was empty and where there
wasn't any 'phone; I could tell because there weren't any wires. Do you
think scouts can't see things? You just want to get rid of me, that's
all. You want to get rid of me where there aren't any 'phones or people
or anything. Gee, maybe I'm not as strong as you, but anyway I know what
you're up to, that's one sure thing."
"Are you going to do as I tell you?"
"I'm a scout and I'm not going to get out till you put me out, so
there."
Slowly the big car moved up the rocky hill and around the bend and
the finding light which had been focused on the church shifted its area
of distant brightness until Mr. Swiper turned it off just as the two big
headlights threw their glare along the straight level road.
[Illustration: "THE ROAD IS CLOSED," SAID PETER.]
The small figure in the shabby gray sweater and tough looking cap was
nervous and apprehensive and angry with a righteous anger. But he did
not tremble like the poor little lonely figure waiting in the darkness
with eyes fixed upon those two dazzling, glaring eyes.
Five-o-seven-nine-two. There it is, Peter; read it again as the car
draws nearer to make sure. Yes, that is a _five_. Five-o-seven-nine-two.
Don't you see the little gilt eagle on the radiator? He trembled, oh how
he trembled.
"Looker here, you kid," said the driver to the huddled up figure beside
him; "I once croaked a boy scout that didn't do what I told him. Do you
see? I _croaked_ him. No scout kid can put anything over on me; I won't
have any kids interfering with my plans--"
Oh yes you will, Mr. Swiper. You may have escaped from jail, the
authorities of a dozen states may be after you. But just the same you
are going to stop when a little trembling pioneer scout in homespun
pantaloons tells you to. Look ahead, where that dim light is, Mr.
Swiper, with the cropped hair. Do you see something shining there, held
in a little trembling hand? That is a knife, Mr. Swiper. The trembling
hand that holds that knife belongs to a soul possessed, Mr. Swiper. He
is crazed with a high resolve. See how he shakes? Oh he is not thinking
of _you_. He is thinking of the car, Mr. Swiper. He is not himself at
all and he is going to slash your tires if you pass that rope, Mr.
Swiper. So you see?
For it is said that opportunity knocks once at everyone's door, Mr.
Swiper. It came to you on the ruins of that old school. And it has come
away down here, Mr. Swiper, and knocked on the door of Peter Piper,
pioneer scout, of Piper's Crossroads.
CHAPTER XXIII
PETER FINDS A WAY
"What's all this?" asked Mr. Swiper, as the car came to a stop before
the rope.
With hand shaking and heart thumping, but borne up by a towering
resolve, Peter took his stand beside one of the front wheels. "The--the
road is--it's closed," he said, his voice trembling. The hand which held
the knife stole below the shiny mud-guard and rested on the smooth,
unyielding rubber. "The road is closed," he repeated.
Mr. Swiper climbed down out of the car, muttering an oath. He looked
apprehensively back along the road and being sure of no danger there he
crossed the rope and advanced a few yards along the road to inspect it.
Peter was in the grip of terrible fear, fear at his own boldness. His
whole form trembled. He did not stop to think, he knew that if he were
going to do anything effectual it must be in those few brief moments.
There are many ways to cripple an auto without damaging it, but Peter
knew nothing of autos except that they went by gasoline.
In an emergency he would have slashed a tire even while the machine
moved. Now that he had a little time in which to think he hurried behind
the auto and crawling beneath it turned on the outlet of the gas tank.
He knew that the tank was in back and that there must be a pipe leading
from it. He had intended to wrench the thin pipe away, when his groping,
trembling fingers stumbled on the outlet cock. This he turned on with as
much terror as if he were setting fire to the universe.
Aghast at his own inspiration and boldness, he stood behind the car,
shaking all over, as he heard the precious fuel running away in a steady
stream and pattering on the road. Well, he would take the consequences
of this decisive act. From the moment he had seen those glaring
headlights and realized that he was participating in a reality, he had
been frantic, wondering what to do. Well, now he had "gone and done it"
and he was terror-stricken at his own act. The mere wasting of so much
gasoline was a terrible thing in the homely life of poor Peter.
He paused behind the car listening. He had not the courage to go
forward. He listened as the liquid fuel flowed away and trickled over
the spare tire-rack, and his beating heart seemed to keep time with it.
Ah, you Hunkajunk touring model with all your thousand delights, you
cannot get along without this trickling liquid any better than your
lowly brother, the humble Ford. Would _all_ of it flow away before that
terrible man came back?
Now Peter heard voices in front of the car; the man had returned, and
was speaking to his confederate, his pal.
"I won't get out of the car and I won't desert it," he heard the small
stranger announce sturdily.
"Didn't you say you were with me?"
"I did, but I--"
"Then shut up. The road's all right; there's nothing the matter with it;
this is some kind of a frame-up. Did you come along this way when you
copped it before; I mean you and that pair?"
"I don't know, I was under the buffalo robe."
They were thieves all right; Peter knew it now. And his assurance on
this point gave him courage. The strangers would be no safer to deal
with, but at least Peter knew now that he had the right on his side. In
a sudden burst of impulsive resolution he stepped around and in a spirit
of utter recklessness spoke up. His own voice sounded strange to him.
"I--I know what you are--you're thieves," he said. "I can--I can tell by
the way you talk--and--and you--you can't take the car--even an inch you
can't--because all the gasoline is gone out of it and I did it and I
don't care--and you--you can _kill_ me if you want to only you can't
take the car. And--and--pretty soon Ham Sanders will be along with the
milk cans and he's not afraid of you--"
"What did you say about ham?" Pee-wee shouted down at him.
"Ham Sanders," Peter called back defiantly.
"I though you said ham sandwich," Pee-wee retorted.
"He can--he's even--he can even handle a bull," shouted Peter, carried
away by excitement. "All the--the--gasoline is gone--it is--because now
I can hear it stop dripping--so--now--_now_ what are you going to do?
So?"
CHAPTER XXIV
DESERTED
Mr. Swiper lost no time upon hearing Peter's startling announcement.
Rushing to the back of the car he confirmed the information by a
frantically hurried inspection, keeping up a running fire of curses the
while. For a manual training teacher he was singularly profane.
Nor did he tarry to administer any corporeal rebukes, more than to send
poor Peter reeling as he brushed him aside with imprecations in his
flight. Since the auto had been so generously handed to him by a kind
boy scout, perhaps the loss of it was not such a shock as it might
otherwise have been. There were other autos.
Mr. Swiper saved himself and that was his chief concern. He was not
going to take any chances with Ham Sanders. In the last few miles of
their inglorious journey, Pee-wee had been trouble enough to him and how
to get rid of that redoubtable youngster had been a question. So Mr.
Swiper paused not to make an issue of Peter Piper's audacious act. He
withdrew into the shelter of the woods and in the fullness of time to
the more secure shelter of an Illinois penitentiary where he was entered
under the name of Chick Swiper, alias Chick the Speeder, alias Chick the
Gent, alias the Car King, alias Jack Skidder--perhaps because he was so
slippery.
In his official pedigree there was nothing about his being a manual
training teacher, though he must have had some knowledge of the use of
tools for he removed the bars from his cell window with praiseworthy
skill, and was later caught in Michigan, I think.
So there sat Pee-wee glaring down upon Peter, still frightened at
himself for the stir that he had made in the great world.
"You foiled him," said Pee-wee. "Do you know what? He was a thief; he
was stealing this auto."
"Yes, and you're a thief too," said Peter, removing the lantern from the
rope and holding it up toward the auto. He was quite brave and
collected now. "And if you want to run you'd better do it before
anybody comes, that's what I'll tell you. You're--you're dressed up just
like a thief; I can tell. Anyway, you can't take the auto."
"Do you call me a thief?" shouted Pee-wee. "That shows how much you
know; I'm a boy scout. Do you think scouts steal things? That shows how
much you know about logic."
"You're a thief, you can't fool me," Peter retorted courageously. "Look
at the way you look. I'm not scared of you, either--or him either."
"How can I look at the way I look?" Pee-wee fairly screamed at him.
"You're crazy! I told him where it was and I told him--"
"That shows you're just as bad as he is," Peter insisted. "Are you going
to stay here till Ham Sanders comes and be arrested? Anyhow, you're
arrested now," he ventured, "and you have to wait."
"You tell me I'm arrested?" Pee-wee yelled. "When I'm taking this car
back to its owner? Do you know what a boy scout is?"
"I know what they look like, they're all dressed up in uniforms," poor
Peter said, "but you can be one without that."
"Now you see, you said so yourself," Pee-wee began.
"But they don't get dressed like thieves," Peter retorted.
"I'm on your side because you stopped him," shouted Scout Harris.
"I don't want you on my side," said Peter. "I'm a scout and I don't want
any--any--robbers on my side."
"You?" said Pee-wee.
"Yes, me."
"I bet you don't even know--I bet you don't even know--how many--how
many--"
"That shows you don't know anything about scouts at all," said Peter.
"I've got a book that tells all about it and when a man comes you're
going to get arrested."
"_Me arrested_?"
"Yes you--you helped him to steal it and I don't believe anything you
say and you needn't think you can fool me. If you were a scout you
wouldn't be scared to run away in the woods now."
"I've been--I've been--I--you're crazy," shouted Pee-wee, fairly
bursting with indignation. "I--I've been lost in the woods more times
than you have."
"Scouts don't get lost," said Peter.
"They get lost so they can find their way," Pee-wee yelled. "That shows
how much you know. If scouts didn't get lost how could scouts rescue
them? You _have_ to get lost. The same as you have to get nearly
drowned. Do you want me to start a fire without a match? That'll show
you I'm a scout--only I'd have to have a certain kind of a stone. I
can--I can eat a potato from a stick without it going round; that'll
prove it. Have you got a roasted potato?"
"No, and I wouldn't give one to a feller that steals automobiles
either," said Peter. "I got a signal and I stopped you."
"I know all about signalling and you didn't get one either," Pee-wee
shouted in desperation; "I know all about everything about scouting. I
know--I know--I can prove I can drink out of a spring without the water
going up my nose, so that's a test. I had a lot of adventures to-night,
I was with thieves, and I'll tell you all--"
"I know you were," said Peter, "and you needn't tell me about it because
I can tell by looking at you. Do you think you can make me think you own
this car, and--and get roasted potatoes from me too, and run away when I
show you where the spring is so you can prove it?"
"The man that owns this car is a friend of mine and he--he gave me a
quarter--"
"You're a thief and I don't care what you say," said Peter, his
agitation rising with his anger, "and it's miles and miles to a village
and there's nothing but woods--"
"Scouts can eat moss, they can," Pee-wee interrupted.
"And you can't fool me," Peter continued.
"I'll go scout pace for you," Pee-wee said with a sudden inspiration--
"Yes, you'll go scout pacing away--"
"_Will you let me speak_?" Pee-wee fairly screeched.
"No, I won't. You're a robber and now you're caught and it serves you
right because you didn't find out about the scouts and join them and
have fun that way and then you wouldn't have to go to jail for
stealing."
W. Harris, mascot of the Raven Patrol, First Bridgeboro Troop, looked
down with withering scorn upon this shabby advocate of scouting. And
Peter Piper returned the look fearfully, yet bravely. After the
tremendous thing he had done he was not going to be fooled by this
hoodlum crook who seemed to have haphazard knowledge of those wonderful,
far-off beings in natty khaki and shining things hanging from their
belts. He would not even discuss those misty, unknown comrades with this
lawbreaker. Anybody might learn a little about the scouts, even a thief.
"You don't know anything about them," he said, holding up his head as if
proudly claiming brotherhood with those distant heroes in their rich,
wonderful attire; "I won't talk about them. Because I know about them
even--even if they don't know _me_. They sent me a message; they didn't
know, but they did it just the same. So I belong too. You can make
believe you have a uniform--you can. You can be miles and miles and
miles and miles--"
He paused and listened. Down the road, in the still night, sounded the
gentle melody of clanking milk cans mingled with the pensive strains of
loose and squeaking wheels. It was the melodious orchestra which always
heralded the approach of Ham Sanders who was so strong that he could
handle a bull.
"Do you think I'm scared?" said Pee-wee.
Evidently he was not.
CHAPTER XXV
BEDLAM
That Pee-wee Harris, the only original boy scout, positively guaranteed,
should be pronounced _not_ a scout! Why that was like saying that water
was not wet or (to use a more fitting comparison) that mince pie was not
good.
To say that Pee-wee Harris was in the scouts would not be saying enough.
Rather should it be said that the scouts were all in Pee-wee Harris. The
Scout movement had not swallowed _him_, he had swallowed it, the same as
he swallowed everything else. He had swallowed it whole. He was the boy
scout just as much as Uncle Sam is the United States, except that he was
much greater and more terrible than Uncle Sam. Oh, much. He was just as
much a boy scout as the Fourth of July is a noise. Except that he was
more of a noise.
And here was a shabby, eager-faced boy, with pantaloons like stovepipes
almost reaching his ankles and a ticking shirt with a pattern like a
checker-board; a quaint, queer youngster, living a million miles from
nowhere, telling him that he was no scout, that he was a thief.
"Hey, mister," Pee-wee shouted to Ham Sanders who drove up, "I'm
rescuing this automobile from two men that stole it and I got another
one to help me and he was trying to steal it and it belongs to a man I
know where I live and I was at the movies with him, and that feller said
he'd take it back and this feller says I'm a thief and I'm good and
hungry."
Ham Sanders gave one look at him and said, "Oh, is that so?"
"It's more than so," Pee-wee shouted, "and I'm going to stick to this
automobile, I don't care what. If you say I'm not a scout I can prove
it."
"You needn't go far to prove it," said Ham; "we can see you're not.
Maybe you're pretty wide awake--"
"I'm not, I'm sleepy," Pee-wee shouted. "Have you got anything to say
around here?"
"Well, I _think_ I have, I'm constable," said Ham.
"Then why aren't you sure?" Pee-wee retorted. "Just because I don't
know where I am it doesn't say I don't know what I'm talking about, does
it? Will you help me drive this automobile back? You'll get some money
if you do. I had an adventure with a couple of thieves and I foiled
them; they've got seventy pistols. I was watching The Bandit of
Harrowing Highway--"
"You got into bad company, youngster," said Ham, surveying Pee-wee's
rakish cap and lawless looking sweater. "You ought to be thankful you
got a chance to get rid of that sort o' company. You're kinder young, I
reckon, ain't you? Gosh, I calculate you ain't more'n four foot high.
Kinder young to be mixed up in stealings."
"You're the one that's mixed up," Pee-wee shouted, "and anyway size
doesn't count. You can--you can steal things if you're--you're only a
foot high--if you want to and--"
"How about all this, Peter?" asked his friend confidentially.
"I'll tell you," Pee-wee shouted; "I had a lot of adventures, I know two
men that have, _shh_, they have _dead ones to their credit_! I
circum--what d'you call it--vented them, and that man that just ran
away, he was a traitor, but I can--"
"Can you keep still a second? One look at you is enough," said Ham
Sanders.
"I've--I've got--three scout suits," Pee-wee began.
"Like enough you stole 'em," said Ham. "You're one of them runners for
crooks, that's what you are. I know the kind; they have you to climb in
the windows for 'em and all that. Now you keep still a minute if you
know what's best for you."
In a brief and threatened few moments of silence Peter told in a whisper
how he had seen the signal and read it and stopped the car, and of the
flight of the head thief, as he called him. Between these two excited
youngsters Ham hardly knew what to believe. He certainly did not believe
in talking lights appearing over graveyards. Nor did he credit Pee-wee's
vehement and choppy account of bandits with seventy pistols.
"Whar are these here dead ones?" he asked, rather confused. "Over yonder
in the graveyard?"
"How do I know where they are?" Pee-wee shouted. "Do you know what
blackjacks are?"
"Dots and dashes, you can do it with lights too," said Peter; "they
tell the truth. If he says signals lie that shows he isn't a scout
anyway, and anybody can see he isn't. I stopped them, I did it by
myself."
"That's nothing," Pee-wee shouted from the seat, "I nearly got
suffocated, I'm more of a hero than you are. That man that ran away
he--he--_duped_ me. This car--will you listen--this car--"
"It's stolen; _I_ know," said Peter.
"It _was_ stolen but it _isn't_ stolen," Pee-wee fairly screamed. "Can't
a thing be stolen and then not stolen? It's being--being rescued--"
"It's being stolen, the other thief ran away," Peter persisted. "He--he
admits he was friends with a thief! He's a thief too, he is."
"Maybe Jim disguised--kind of--as a thief," Pee-wee conceded.
"He's trying to be disguised as a scout," poor Peter said.
"I was a scout before you or anybody else was born," Pee-wee shouted.
"He isn't," said Peter.
"I am," said Pee-wee.
Ham Sanders scratched his head, looking from one to the other, then
looked appealingly at his familiar milk cans. Perhaps he expected to see
them dancing around in this Bedlam.
"I'm gonter hev both of you youngsters before the peace justice," he
finally said; "we'll soon find out what's wrong here. Climb down out o'
that car, you, and come along with me, the both of you."
"Do you think I'm scared of him?" Pee-wee demanded as he climbed down.
"You _will_ be scared of him, he's got a big book," said Peter.
"I ain't scared of big books," Pee-wee announced; "I know bigger books,
camp registers; I bet it isn't as big as a map book."
"You'll see," said Peter, darkly.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE CULPRIT AT THE BAR
The book could not have been so very big, for Justice of the Peace Fee
lived in a very small house. It was almost concealed among trees fifty
yards or so up the road.
Justice Fee was one of those shrewd, easy-going, stern but good-natured,
lawyers that one meets away off in the country. He was altogether
removed from that obnoxious thing, the small town lawyer. Up in the edge
of his gray hair rested a pair of spectacles, with octagon shaped
lenses, almost completely camouflaged by his grizzled locks. These
spectacles were seldom where they belonged, on his nose.
Apparently he wore them to bed, for after several minutes of knocking
by the visitors, he appeared with them on, the while groping for the
sleeve of an old coat he had partly donned. He took the callers into a
room with a desk in the middle of it and sat down at this, facing them,
his legs sticking out through the space in the middle. Then he opened
the large book as if making ready to close somebody up in it as one
presses a flower.
He contemplated Pee-wee with a rather curious frown as he listened to
what Ham and then Peter (greatly agitated) had to say.
Our young hero, indeed, presented anything but a creditable picture. The
old gray sweater used by the man who took care of the furnace in
Pee-wee's home, the cap which he held, and his grimy face, made him look
like a terrible example of hoodlumism; a trolley-car hoodlum, an
apple-stealing and stone-throwing and hooky-playing hoodlum; a
hole-in-the-ball-field-fence hoodlum. Nor did the terrible scowl with
which he now challenged fate and the world help to make him look like
the boy on the cover of the scout manual; the boy that Peter knew and
worshipped.
"Well now," drawled Peace Justice Fee, casting a tolerant side glance at
Pee-wee, "you tell me this whole business and you tell me the _plain
truth_. See?"
"Sure I will," Pee-wee said; "I'll tell you all my adventures--"
"Never mind about your adventures, and watch out, because the first lie
you tell--" The justice held up a warning finger. "Now answer me this,
never mind anything else; we'll drop a plumb-line right down to the
bottom of this thing and have no beating round the bush--"
"I beat lots of bushes for rabbits," Pee-wee vociferated.
"Well, don't beat any here. Now" (the justice spoke slowly and
emphatically, shaking a long finger with each word),
"_who--owns--that--car_? Careful now."
"Mr. Bartlett, where I live--in Bridgeboro."
"Sure of that?"
"Sure I'm sure; didn't I--"
"Never mind what you did. Now what's this Mr. Bartlett's full name?
Now--_now!_" he added warningly, "just you answer the question I ask you
and leave the rest to me. If you tell the truth you won't get in any
trouble."
Pee-wee, somewhat awed, at last subsided. "Mr. James Bartlett," he said.
[Illustration: PEE-WEE BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.]
Without another word, Mr. Fee drew in his long legs, arose, went over
to where a book was hanging, looked in it, then took the receiver from
the old-fashioned box telephone on the wall. The party waited, greatly
awed by this show of calm efficiency, and ability to get right at the
heart of the matter. Pee-wee was particularly elated, for presently his
identity and whereabouts would be established and explained. He
listened, with growing interest as the justice, unperturbed by delays
and mistakes, finally succeeded in securing the desired number.
"This two-four-eight-Bridgeboro?" Pee-wee heard. "Sorry to get you up at
this hour. You Mr. James Bartlett? Yes. This is the peace justice
at--What? I say this is the peace justice--peace--yes this is the peace
justice--_justice of the peace_--at Piper's Crossroads, Noo York State.
What? Yes. Noo York State. Pipes? No _Piper's_--Piper's Crossroads. Was
your automobile stolen? Your automobile. What? I say was your auto--"
"Sure it was stolen," Pee-wee said; "you just mention--"
"Keep still. I say--was your automobile stolen--_STOLEN_? Well, it's
for your sake--what's that? All right."
There followed a pause. Justice Fee waited but did not address the
company. A dead silence reigned. They could hear the ticking of the big
grandfather's clock in the corner. Peter thought that signalling was
better than this. Ham thought how wonderful it was for a man to have so
much "book learning" that he could go right to the heart of a matter
like this. Pee-wee thought how, in about ten seconds, he would be able
to denounce these strangers, and appear as the real hero that he was. He
would ignore Peter Piper entirely and give Justice Fee an edifying
lecture on scouting. In about ten seconds they would all see....
"What's that?" said the justice, busy at the 'phone. "Your car is in
your garage? I say--what's that? Oh, you looked? Sure about that, eh?
Yes--yes--yes. You haven't got two cars? Six cars? Oh, six cylinders.
No--no.... It's all safe in your garage, you say? Yes. Well, sorry to
trouble you. No, not at all. Yes. All right. Good-bye."
Peter Piper looked at Pee-wee with a kind of awe. He had seen the other
thief escape in the darkness; everything had been exciting and confused.
But now, in the lamplight and within the safety of those four walls he
beheld a real crook, caught, cornered, at bay.
Justice Fee had simplified the whole thing, talking little, depending on
hard, cold facts. He had hit the vital spot of the whole mysterious
business. He had caught this little hoodlum satellite of thieves in an
ugly lie. Yet Peter Piper, who had in him the makings of a real scout,
was not happy. He had thought that he would be happy, but now he was
not.
"If--if you'll--maybe--if I could take him to my house," he began,
twitching his fingers nervously as he gazed wistfully at the Justice who
embodied the relentless law, "if you'd let me do that he couldn't run
away, it's so far, and he said he was hungry and--and anyway there isn't
anything to steal at my house."
That was better than reading the signal. And Peter Piper, pioneer scout
of Piper's Crossroads was a better scout than he knew....
CHAPTER XXVII
SOME NOISE
There was one place where the searchlight message was translated with a
readier skill than at Piper's Crossroads, and where it created quite as
great consternation. That was at the camp on Frying-pan Island. It was
like A.B.C. to half a dozen of those practiced scouts, and to others not
so well practiced, for the skill of the sender had made the reading
easy. In less than a minute the camp was the scene of hurried talk and
lightning preparation.
"What do you know about that?" asked Sparrow Blake. He was in the
Mammoth Patrol, made up of the smaller scouts in Safety First's troop.
"I don't know _anything_ about it," said Scoutmaster Ned, reaching for
his plaited khaki jacket; "I don't know any more about it than you do.
Nobody could get in that place, so I don't see how anyone could get out.
Come ahead, Bill," he added hastily, addressing the other scoutmaster.
This was followed by a vociferous chorus.
"Can I go?"
"I'm with you."
"I'll row."
"No you won't, _I_ will."
"You mean me."
"Get from under and go back to bed," said Scoutmaster Ned, excitedly.
"What do you fellows think this is; a regatta?"
"Aren't we going to chase them?"
"You're going to chase yourselves. Do you think we've got a battleship?
We've only got one of the boats here. Chuck me that leather case--"
"Your pistol?"
"Never you mind what's in it. Come ahead, Bill, and you Norris, and look
out you don't step in the soup bucket. Is there a light over on shore?"
"Sure, they've got a lantern; trust Nick not to forget anything."
"I'm going so as to carry the lantern."
"Yes, you're not," said Scoutmaster Ned; "never mind your coat, Bill,
come ahead. I hope they had sense enough to get hold of a machine
somewhere. They could get Barney's flivver."
"Shall we signal over to them?" called a dozen excited voices.
"No, there isn't time. Come on now, _hustle_, and the rest of you go to
sleep."
"While you're chasing thieves? Did you hear what he said? Go to sleep!
Can you beat that, from a scoutmaster! And him always telling us to be
wide awake."
"Get out of the way, all of you," said Scoutmaster Bill, alias Safety
First. "You're like a lot of mosquitoes."
The whole camp followed the two scoutmasters and Norris to the shore,
where there seemed likely to be a stampede for the one small boat.
"If you're going to take Norris--"
"Norris can drive the other car back if I get mine," interrupted
Scoutmaster Ned. "He has a license; now are you all satisfied?"
They saw that under his persistent good nature he was worried and
preoccupied, and like the good scouts they were, they said no more about
going. They knew the pride he took in his Hunkajunk auto. They knew
that his one thought was of that now.
Yet Scoutmaster Ned Garrison's sense of humor was ever ready, even in
anxiety or disappointment. It was that which endeared him to his troop,
whom he was forever denouncing and contemplating with a kind of mock
despair. He called them an infernal rabble and they loved him for it. He
was a new kind of a scoutmaster. And I honestly believe that when
Scoutmaster Ned thrust that leather case containing his revolver down
into his pocket, if he could only have known that it was for the purpose
of shooting Pee-wee Harris, he would have laughed so hard that he would
have capsized the rowboat.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ON THE TRAIL
The boat glided swiftly through the dark water.
"Nick will get the silver cup for that stunt," said Norris.
"He'll get a punch in the eye if he doesn't have a car for us," said
Scoutmaster Ned.
"I wonder how he did."
"Town hall," said Scoutmaster Ned; "that kid thinks quick. If he'd only
learn to tie a knot he'd be a scout. Vernon's a pretty good kid, though;
he's better than Mount Vernon anyway. Pull on your left a little, Bill.
What's the matter; got the sleeping sickness? Pull straight for that
light."
"If that wasn't a stunt, what is?" said Norris.
"You are," said Scoutmaster Ned. "We're not handing out silver cups
to-night. Maybe I'll do a stunt to-night and win it."
"You?"
"Yes, me. Pull on your left some more. What do you think this is, Bill;
a merry-go-round? Now go straight."
"Maybe Fido Norton found their prints," said Norris. "He's a bear at
that."
"He's clumsier than a bear, like all Safety First's troop. How about
that, Safety? Come on--_quick!_ Row!"
"Coming?" called a voice from the shore.
"That's what," answered Scoutmaster Ned.
"Your car's gone."
"So I read in the sky. Somebody break in?"
"The small door's locked, the big one was open but nothing broken."
"Get out!"
"Wait till you see. Who's there?"
"Safety First and Norris and me? You didn't think to get a car, did you?
Do you know which way they went?"
"Jim Burton is here with his Packard."
"Hello, Jim."
"Hello, Ned."
"They followed the main road past the east road. We tracked the tires
past Oppie's mill. They're not likely to turn out anywhere else, till
they get past Piper's anyway."
"You'll be a scout yet, Fido," called Scoutmaster Ned.
"What did they do, wake you up?" said Safety First as they pulled the
boat up on shore.
"I should think they did," said Jim Burton; "they rang the bell a
hundred times and went out into the garage and tooted the horn. Why
don't you teach your scouts manners?"
"Can't be did, Jim. Let's take a pike at the place. Hello Fido, that
you? You sure about them going as far as the mill?"
"Yop."
"Yop, hey? Well, that's not so bad. You'll get a second helping of
dessert some day. Come on, who's going? Pile in. Mighty good of you,
Jim."
A brief moment's inspection of the shed and they were off. Jim Burton
drove the car and by him sat Scoutmaster Ned. The others, Safety First,
Nick Vernon, Fido Norton and Charlie Norris, sat in back.
"Too many?" asked Scoutmaster Ned.
"She rides better with a load," said Jim Burton.
"I don't suppose there's much chance," said Ned. "You notified the
cops, didn't you, Nick? Good. The battery is low and there isn't any
crank on my bus and my only hope is that she'll lay down on them. Soak
it to her, Jim."
"Do you want to stop and look at the tire marks yourself?" asked Norton.
"It was that new Goodyear that I was tracking, the one that's all
crisscross."
"You tracked it past the East road? So they didn't turn down there?
Sure?"
"Yop."
"That's enough. Let's see her step, Jim."
Jim "soaked it to her" and she stepped. Not a bit of fuss did she make
over it. Just stepped. A silent, fleet step, like the step of a deer.
And the spectral trees on either side seemed to glide the other way, and
east road seemed like a piece of string across their path, and Oppie's
mill was but a transient speck and Valesboro was brushed aside like a
particle of dust.
The car of a thousand delights could not do that....
CHAPTER XXIX
VOICES
Pee-wee, the irrepressible, was subdued at last. In gaping amazement he
watched the Justice cross from the 'phone to the table, sit down, and
begin to write. The demeanor of the Justice was anything but dramatic;
he was calm, matter of fact, as if this were no more than he had
expected.
"What do you mean, it's--in--his garage?" Pee-wee stammered. He was not
at all defiant now. "Are you--were you talking--are you sure it was
him?"
There was a note of sincerity, of honest surprise, in his voice which
the Justice did not miss. And as for Peter Piper, his heart went out to
this poor, shabby, little misguided fellow, whoever and whatever he was.
He was so much at a disadvantage now, that Peter felt sorry for him.
"Now, sonny," said Justice Fee, breaking the tense silence, "I'm going
to hold you till we get to the bottom of this. Mr. Sanders, who's
constable, is going to look after you (Pee-wee gulped and fingered his
cap nervously) till we can overhaul that pal of yours. You're more to be
pitied than blamed I reckon. There's altogether too much of this using
small boys in criminal enterprises. I know," he added, holding up a
warning finger, "he told you just what to say if you were caught, and
you needn't say it, because, you see, I can't believe you."
Pee-wee was visibly sobbing now; he knew what "being taken care of"
meant. He was afraid, yes, and bewildered at being caught in this cruel
web of circumstance. But most of all he was incensed and shamed by this
indignity. He could not trust himself to speak, he would break down.
Something was wrong, _everything_ was wrong, fate was against him, he
could not grapple with the situation. If he spoke, he would say too much
and lose his temper in that solemn hall of justice. And what would
happen to him then?
His hands played nervously with his old cap, he bit his lips, and tried
to repress the torrent that was surging in him. The outlandish old gray
sweater with its rolling collar bulging up around his small, jerking
throat, did not seem comical now. It made him the picture of pathos. He
did not dare try to explain; that wonderful old man would only catch him
in another trap and perhaps send him to state prison. His breath came
quick and fast; he could no more speak than he could escape. He wished
that Roy Blakeley were there, and Tom Slade, who knew how to talk to
grown-up men and....
"Yes, and I'll pin the merit badge over your mouth if you don't keep
still," he heard a hearty voice say. "Sure, wintergreen is good to eat!
Go and eat some poison ivy for all I care. Do you think I'm going to be
passing out merit badges for helping me to find my own car?"
"I wonder where they went?"
"I should worry where they went; I'm thankful we found the car. Maybe
they've gone to join The Bandit of Harrowing Highway; he'll have pistols
enough to go around, anyway; seventy was it?"
"And a couple of blackjacks."
"Well, we've got him beaten for a romance of the road. Let's go in this
house and see if we can scare up some gasoline. Jim, you and I ought to
go into the movies--we'd have a six reeler called The Kids of Kidder
Lake or Fido of Frying-pan Island. How's that strike you? Most of those
kids don't need any pistols, they can kill time without them. We've got
some dead ones over there, Jim, only they haven't got sense enough to
lie down. What do you bet we don't get some gas in this house? Well,
here goes for a knock on the door by Ned the Nabber,--_one_ pistol."
Pee-wee held his breath, listening. What could this mean? Seventy
pistols? Blackjacks? His old friend, The Bandit of Harrowing Highway?
Dead ones? Was he indeed in the spell of some horrible nightmare? What
on earth could this mean?
In a kind of trance he heard a knocking on the door and a lot of hearty,
clamoring, bantering voices. They did not seem at all like robbers and
cut-throats. They were not stealthy--a couple of million miles from it.
Pee-wee rubbed his glistening eyes with that old cap that he held and
blinked to make sure he was awake.
CHAPTER XXX
FACE TO FACE
Still in a daze, Pee-wee saw the old man step to the door; he heard a
hearty, good-humored voice asking about gasoline. "If you could just put
us on the track of some," the voice said; "we're good at tracking."
Tracking! Pee-wee's eyes opened. Tracking?
"Well, could we use your 'phone, then?" he heard.
The next thing Pee-wee knew, half a dozen boys and young men spilled
into the room. All but one of them, and that was Jim Burton, were in
scout attire. Pee-wee stood gaping at them as if they had dropped from
the clouds.
Whatever their wee hour call meant they seemed all to be in high
good-humor and amused at their own adventure. One of them, a scoutmaster
as Pee-wee knew, was particularly offhand and jovial and seemed to fill
the room with his breezy talk. Peter Piper stared like one transfixed;
they were scouts, the kind he had read about, the kind that were on the
cover of the handbook! He backed into a corner so as not to get in their
way....
"Yes sir, we've had some night of it," said the young scoutmaster,
falling with mock weariness into a chair, throwing one knee over the
other and tossing his hat very neatly onto one foot. "My car is stalled
up the road in front of the next house. Lucky they ran out of gas.
There's a sign up there says, 'road closed,' but I can't see anything
the matter with it. Anyway, they ran out of gas and then ran out of the
machine as I make out. They deserted it when the supply gave out, I
suppose. All's well that ends well, only we need gas.
"I bet--I bet we've covered a hundred and fifty miles of territory
to-night; what d'you say, Bill?" He didn't pause long enough to give
Bill, or the Justice either, a chance to speak. "We saw the light in
your window and just came in to see if you had a gallon or so of gas.
We've got another car up yonder. Yes, sir, we've got The Bandit of
Harrowing Highway looking like a tame canary for adventures; hey Scout
Nick? Nick's our signal shark--"
Peter Piper looked at Nick with humble reverence, and backed farther
into the corner. He could not take his eyes from him.
Justice Fee was about to say, "Here is one of the culprits," but he did
not get the chance. Scoutmaster Ned had the floor, also the walls and
the ceiling. He seemed not to care anything about the culprits. All he
seemed to care about was getting his Hunkajunk car back and recounting
their adventures. Perhaps he was even a little grateful to the culprits
for affording them such opportunity for adventure. At all events, he
kicked his hat around on the end of his foot and filled the room with
his quick, breezy talk.
"Yes sir, we rode to Bridgeboro, New Jersey, got a prize cup for my
kindergarten class to try for, looked in at a show, saw a guy with a lot
of pistols, got home at about, oh I don't know--rowed over to the island
where we're camping, and these two kids rowed back to get the cup out of
the car, and found the car gone and sent a signal that nobody saw and we
came along in this fellow's Packard. Well, we've got the old Hunkajunk
back, anyway, haven't we kids? I'll say we have. These kids told the
world only the world was asleep or something. Well, we've had pretty
good luck at that, I'll say; we found the car, the school burned down--"
Suddenly, like a burst of thunder rose the recovered voice of Pee-wee
Harris, while in frantic accompaniment his feet beat the floor and his
small arms swung in wild excitement. With his deadly vocal artillery he
silenced the breezy talk of Scoutmaster Ned and set the company aghast
with his triumphant clamor.
"I've got an insulation--I mean an inspiration--listen--keep
still--everybody! I'm the one that--that fixed it so you could have all
those adventures--I'm the one--I got into the wrong car--in
Bridgeboro--I saw that show and I thought you were the ones that had
pistols and now I know that you're not murderers--because I was half
asleep and I came out because I hate educational films but I like
bandits, but I don't like real ones--"
"He likes _reel_ ones," suggested Safety First.
"--And I met a thief and he was disguised as a manual training teacher
and now he's foiled because I asked him to help me take Mr. Bartlett's
car back and it's already back, because this is a different car and I
was under--I was disguised under the buffalo robe--and I wrote a letter
under there and pinned it to a piece of sandwich with a safety pin that
I was being kidnapped--you can ask anybody so that shows I'm not a
bandit and I can prove I'm a scout--I don't care what anybody says
because you can hang an apple on a string and I can bite it without
touching it with my hands, and I'm the only one in my patrol that can do
that and I'm not an enemy to you because if that school burned down I'm
glad too and I've got seven merit badges and the bronze cross and if you
find that letter I wrote you can see how that piece of sandwich fits my
mouth where I bit it and that's better than finger-prints and I can
prove it--I don't care what anybody says--I got into the wrong car and
even the smartest man in the world--even--even--even George Washington
could do that. I've got seven merit badges," he concluded breathlessly
as a climax to his outburst.
With an air of profound solemnity Scoutmaster Ned arose and made the
full scout salute to the mascot of the Raven Patrol, F.B.T. B.S.A. "May
I ask the name of the hero who was disguised as my buffalo robe?" he
asked.
"Pee-wee Harris, only size doesn't count," said the scream of
Bridgeboro's crack troop.
"Quite so," said Scoutmaster Ned; "George Washington might have been
small once himself. Am I right, Nick?"
"Positively," said Nick.
"And the manual training bandit? May I ask about him?"
"He's _foiled_," said Pee-wee. "I met him when I escaped from your
garage; he gave me a lead pencil and he said he'd help me take the car
back to Mr. Bartlett that took me to the show in his car. Gee whiz, you
get sleepy sometimes, don't you?"
"Very, but I don't get a chance to sleep much with bronze cross scouts
and manual training teachers to keep me on the move."
"Gee whiz, I'm sorry I woke you up."
"Not at all, the pleasure is mine," said Scoutmaster Ned. "I live in a
den of wild Indians; I seldom sleep. And our friend escaped? It doesn't
speak very well for teachers, does it? School--"
"Gee whiz, I'll help anybody to foil a school."
"Good. Come over here, Pee-wee Harris, and let us get at the details of
this adventure; I have a hunch that you and I are going to be friends.
You are a--what shall I say?--a bandit after my own heart. So you have
seven merit badges and the bronze cross, eh? Do you think you could
steal--excuse me--_win_ a silver cup?"
"Can you drink out of it?" Pee-wee demanded.
"Positively--lemonade, grape juice, root beer--"
"Malted milk also. And a sandwich goes with it. I think that cup was
made for a bronze cross scout. Come over here a minute."
Pee-wee went over and stood between the knees of Scoutmaster Ned. "He's
mine, Bill," said Ned to his fellow scoutmaster, "I saw him first."
Meanwhile you should have seen the face of Justice of the Peace Fee. He
sat at his desk, with his long legs projecting through the middle, a
cigar screwed away over into the corner of his mouth, contemplating
Pee-wee with a shrewd, amused twinkle. Not a word did he say as
Scoutmaster Ned asked questions of the Raven's mascot, while the others
listened and laughed.
CHAPTER XXXI
ALONE
But there was one there who smiled almost fearfully, as if doubting his
privilege of mirth in that gay, strange company. He smiled, not as one
of them, but in silent awe, and did not dare to laugh aloud. He hoped
that they would not notice him and tell him to go home. He had dreamed
of some day seeing such wondrous boys as these, and here they were
before him, all about him, in their natty khaki, self-possessed,
unabashed, merry, free. Was not that enough for Peter Piper of Piper's
Crossroads?
Yes, that was enough, more than he had ever expected. It was like the
scene he had "pretended" out in the little barn when he had presented
himself with the fancied signalling badge.
Stealthily his hand moved to his ticking shirt and removed the campaign
button. For there before him was a boy with a real, a _real_, signalling
badge. His eyes were riveted upon that badge; he could not take them
from it. Suppose someone should ask him about the button; why he was
wearing it now that Harding and Coolidge were in office? He would blush,
he could not tell them.
He hoped that they would not notice him for he knew he could not talk to
them, that his voice would shake and that he would go to pieces. Now
that he saw them, joyous, uproarious, bantering, wearing badges on their
sleeves, he realized that what _he_ had done was nothing at all. He
heard Scoutmaster Ned humorously belittling the exploits of his own
heroes. No, Peter Piper would not step rashly into that bantering throng
with that one exploit of his own.
So he stood in the bay window, half concealed by the old-fashioned
melodeon, and watched them. Just gazed at them....
And when they all crowded out he lingered behind and whispered to the
music-master of the milk cans, "Don't tell them, Ham; please don't tell
them anything--about me."
And so the party made their way along the dark road and Peter followed
and heard the flattering comments and fraternal plans involving the
little hero from Bridgeboro. Evidently they were going to keep Scout
Harris with them and have him patented, from what Peter overheard.
When they came to Peter's little home, Scoutmaster Ned discovered and
spoke to him while Pee-wee was making an enthusiastic pronouncement
about Jim Burton's Packard car.
"You live here, sonny?"
"Y--yes, sir," stammered Peter, quite taken aback.
"Well, now, I'll tell you what we're going to do. We're going to roll
this stalled car a little way into your yard to get it off the road. All
right?"
"Y--yes, sir."
"Then we're going on to where that little fellow lives. I have to see
his folks and he has to get some scout duds and junk and stuff and then
we're coming back. We ought to be here early in the morning."
"Y--yes, sir."
"You just keep your eye out for that car, will you? It has a way of
disappearing."
"Y--yes, sir."
"I don't mean to watch it all the time, but just sort of have an eye
out. I'm taking this little jigger out of the distributer, so no one
could run the old bus anyway. But you just have an eye out, will you?"
"Y--yes, sir," said Peter anxiously.
"That's the boy, and some fine day you'll have a couple of autos of your
own to worry about."
Peter smiled bashfully, happily. That was a wonderful joke. And a real
scoutmaster, just like the pictures, had said it to _him_. He thought
that, with the exception of Theodore Roosevelt, Scoutmaster Ned was the
most wonderful scout that ever lived. He wondered how it would seem to
know him all the time. Peter had no idea what a distributer was, but he
knew now that _his_ method of crippling an automobile was very crude. He
was glad they did not know so they could not laugh at him....
After the Packard car, with its noisy load, had started for that fairy
region where they had movie shows and things and where Scout Harris
lived, Peter was beset by an awful problem. He was not sleepy, he would
not be sleepy for at least a year after what he had seen, and he
intended to watch the car as it should be watched. The question that
puzzled him was whether he dared get into it or whether he had better
sit on the old carriage step. He finally compromised by sitting on the
running board. And there he sat till the owl stopped shrieking and the
first pale herald of the dawn appeared in the sky.
And when the sun peaked over the top of Graveyard Hill and painted the
tombstones below with its fresh new light and showed the gray frost of
the autumn morning spread over the lonesome, bleak fields, and finally
cast its cheery light upon the tiny, isolated home, it found Peter
Piper, pioneer scout, of Piper's Crossroads, seated there upon the
running board of Scoutmaster Ned's car, waiting for one more glimpse of
those heroes....
CHAPTER XXXII
ON TO BRIDGEBORO
Scoutmaster Ned Garrison had a middle name. Handling parents, that was
his middle name. He was a bear at that. He could make them eat out of
his hand. Had he not engineered the camping enterprise pending the
preparation of a makeshift school? Parents did not trouble him, he ate
them alive.
"You leave them to me," he said to Pee-wee as they advanced against poor
defenseless Bridgeboro. "They'll either consent or we'll shoot up the
town, hey, Safety First? We're on the rampage to-night; somebody's been
feeding us meat."
It was not Pee-wee's custom to leave a thing to somebody else. He
attended to everything--meals, awards, hikes, ice cream cones, camping
localities, duffel lists, parents, everything. He was the world's
champion fixer. You can see for yourselves what a triumph he made of not
rescuing the wrong car. That was merely a detail. If the car had been
the right one and no one had stopped him from rescuing it he would have
rescued it. Since everything worked out all right, he was triumphant.
And he was better than glue for fixing things.
"I'll handle them," he said.
"Well, we'll both handle them," said Scoutmaster Ned.
A little farther along the road Safety First said, "I don't see why the
road was closed off. It seems to me to be all right."
Pee-wee was now sufficiently subdued to think and speak calmly, and he
said, "That feller with the shirt put it there; he said he read the
signal. I guess he's crazy, hey?"
"Oh, the fellow with the shirt?" queried Fido Norton, humorously.
"I seem to remember a shirt," said Nick.
"That was it," Pee-wee said.
"He was just a little rube," said Charlie Norris.
"He's the one that said I was a thief," said Pee-wee. "I told him I
could prove I was a scout by eating a potato a certain way."
"And he didn't take you up?" said Scoutmaster Ned.
"He didn't have a potato," Pee-wee said.
"It's best always to carry potatoes with you," said Scoutmaster Safety
First.
"After this I'm always going to carry five or six," said Pee-wee.
"The proof of the potatoes is in the eating," said Nick.
"I know nine different ways to cook them," said Pee-wee; "and I can eat
them raw so that makes ten. I can eat potato skins too, so that makes
eleven."
"If you could eat potato-bugs that would make twelve," said Charlie
Norris.
"If you eat lightning bugs, that will make you bright," said Pee-wee;
"that's what Roy Blakeley says; he's in my troop. He's crazy and he says
he's glad of it. We've got three patrols in my troop and I'm a member of
the Ravens but I'm kind of in all of them. I know all about camping and
everything. In the fall you're supposed to camp east of a hill, do you
know why?"
"No, break it to us gently," said Nick.
"When you said _break it_, that reminded me that I can break an apple
into halves with one hand."
"Do tell," said Charlie; "what do you do with the other half?"
"What other half?"
"The other one."
"If they're both the same how can there be another one? I eat them."
"Really?"
"I eat mushrooms too, only if they're toad-stools they kill you."
"Why don't you eat a couple?"
"I _will_ not, because you bet I'm going to stay alive. I'll show you
how you can tell the difference when we get to that island. I'll show
you a lot of things. Do you know how to pump water with a
newspaper--rolled up? Gee, that's easy, I learned that when I was a
tenderfoot."
"What are you now, a second hand scout?"
"I'm a first class scout and I'm a first aid scout and--Do you know how
to make things out of peanut shells?"
"Will you show us that, too?"
"Sure, but anyway I never use chalk for scout signs; I use charred wood.
Do you know why?"
"Because chalk reminds you of school?"
"Because it's got too much civilization in it."
"Do they put that in it?"
"No, but it's there. Gee whiz, I've got no use for civilization, I don't
care what kind it is."
"Well, what about that codger?" asked Scoutmaster Ned. "He said he read
the signal?"
"Sure, and he was the one that stopped us when that fellow ran away. Gee
whiz, I didn't see any signal but I didn't look behind. Maybe he's just
disguised as a rube, hey? Anyway, he stopped us, that's one sure thing,
because we stopped and that proves it, doesn't it?"
"There's nothing the matter with the road," Safety First repeated.
"That's what has me guessing," said Scoutmaster Ned. "He couldn't have
read the message, that little codger. He's just a poor, little country
kid. I'd give a doughnut to know how he happened to put that rope across
the road. He never, _never_ read that message, you can bet on that."
"I know! I know!" vociferated Pee-wee. "He had a--a--inspiration. Give
me the doughnut."
CHAPTER XXXIII
HARK! THE CONQUERING HERO COMES BACK
We need not linger in Bridgeboro, the native haunt of Scout Harris, and
of Roy Blakeley and his Silver-plated Fox Patrol, and the other
celebrities of Pee-wee's troop. For the adventures of these world heroes
may be found recorded by Roy's own hand.
It will be sufficient to say that the delegation from Kidder Lake
descended upon the peaceful home of Pee-wee Harris (peaceful during his
absence at all events) and carried it by storm. The anxiety of Mr. and
Mrs. Harris over the whereabouts of their son being set at rest by his
dramatic appearance at the head of his martial following, there was
nothing for them to do but surrender to Scoutmaster Ned, while the party
partook of breakfast in the fallen fortress.
"He will eat you out of house and home," warned Mrs. Harris; "I only
want to warn you beforehand."
"We are prepared for the worst," said Scoutmaster Ned, as he
contemplated his discovery wrestling with a saucer of breakfast food
across the table. "In return for our poor hospitality he is going to
show us how the world should be run, and we are to be his pupils. Now
that we have stumbled upon him we couldn't close our season without
him."
"I'll show you how to close it," said Pee-wee.
The one obstacle which might have stood in the way of these delectable
plans--school--was removed by the fact that Scout Harris was to enter a
private school (pity the poor private school) which did not open until
after Columbus Day. We shall see him wished onto this institution in a
subsequent volume.
The outlandish sweater and rakish cap in which Pee-wee had masqueraded
through that eventful night were now discarded by order of his mother,
and on the journey to Kidder Lake he appeared a vision of sartorial
splendor in his full scout regalia including all appurtenances and
sundries.
As a tribute, perhaps, to the island of which he was to be the imperial
head, he flaunted his aluminum frying-pan, its handle stuck in his belt,
ready to fry an egg at a second's notice in case of emergency. That he
might never be at a loss to know where he was at, his scout compass
dangled by a cord tied in a double sheep-shank knot to harmonize with
the knot of his scarf which could only be removed by lifting it over his
head. Thus, though he might be lost to his comrades, he could never be
lost to his scarf.
Twisted into the cord of his scout hat was an arrow pointing forward,
which gave him an exceedingly martial appearance and was useful, too, in
pointing out the way he should go and safeguarding him from the danger
of going backward. But if, by an accident, he _should_ go backward or
sideways, he had the empty funnel of an old auto horn with which to
magnify his voice and make the forest ring with his sonorous cries for
help. And if the help did not come, he had still one cylinder of an old
opera glass, with the lens of which he could ignite a dried leaf by day
or observe the guiding stars by night. And if there were no dried leaves
he had his crumpled piece of tissue paper. And if the stars did not
shine, he had a rag for extracting confidential information from the
wind. And if there was no wind, he should worry, he had gum-drops
mobilized in every pocket. Every safety device known to scout science
(and many of quite original conception) were upon the martial form of
Scout Harris, so that he could not possibly go wrong or starve.
So it was without any fear that he set forth for the untrodden wilds of
Frying-pan Island notwithstanding that it was a quarter of a mile wide
and nearly a third of a mile long.
CHAPTER XXXIV
PEE-WEE HOLDS FORTH
It was a delightful ride to Kidder Lake in the daytime. There is no time
like the autumn--except the spring. And the spring is only good because
it is the beginning of the summer. Just the same as the winter is best
because the spring comes after it. As Roy Blakeley would have said, "You
can do that by algebra." But there is nothing, either before or after,
to make algebra good.
As Jim Burton's big Packard car sped along, the country looked bleak and
the fields wan with their yellow corn-stalks. Even the little shacks
where fresh fruit and vegetables had been displayed to motorists were
now boarded up. Their cheerless, deserted look contributed quite as much
as the changing foliage to the scene of coldness, desolation. The sad
look which Nature assumes when school opens. The wind blew and the
leaves fell and the West Ketchem scouts fell too, for Scout Harris, who
was also blowing.
"That's what you call a proincidence, how I don't have to go to school
yet, the same as you don't on account of yours burning down. Gee whiz, I
like camp-fires, but I like school fires better."
"And you'll show us how to make a camp-fire?"
"Sure I will; I'll show you how they do at Temple Camp. Is there anybody
living on that island?"
"No one but us, and we'll have to be going home soon," said Charlie
Norris.
"I like desert islands best," Pee-wee said; "they remind you of dessert.
Sometimes I spell it that way. Don't you care, we have a month yet. Did
you ever eat floating island? It has gobs of icing floating around in
it. We have that Sunday nights at Temple Camp. When I said dessert it
made me think of it. Sometimes islands disappear."
"I bet the ones in that dessert do all right," laughed Nick Vernon.
"You said it!" Pee-wee vociferated with great emphasis. "I'll show you
how to make tracking cakes, too, only you can't eat them."
"No?"
"No-o-o, they're for chipmunks and birds to step on so you can save
their footprints. Gee whiz, did you think you could eat them?"
"We didn't know," said Fido Norris.
"Gee, there are lots of things _I_ don't know too," said Pee-wee
generously. "But anyway I fixed it so a scout could stay at Temple Camp
an extra week."
"Bully for you. A good turn?"
"You said it. I gave him a whole pail of berries I picked and he got
sick and couldn't go home."
"Some fixer."
"I've fixed lots of things."
"Maybe you can give us all berries the day before our temporary school
opens," said Fido Norton.
"Don't you worry," said Pee-wee reassuringly; "maybe the men who are
getting it ready will go on a strike; maybe there'll be measles or
whooping cough or something. I've had those."
"You're not missing much, hey?"
"You said it. I've been lost in the woods too. Roy Blakeley says I get
lost at C when I sing. He's crazy, that feller is. He started the Silver
Foxes. There's a feller in that patrol can move his ears without
touching them. I should worry as long as I can move my mouth. I'll show
you how to flop a fried egg in the pan only you have to look it doesn't
come down on your head. You can scramble eggs but you can't unscramble
them. Once one came down on my head. I took a bee-line hike, too."
"With a fried egg on your head?"
"No-o-o. I'll show you how to make a thing to get olives out of the
bottom of a bottle too; it's better than a hatpin, but a hatpin is good
to catch pollywogs with. There's a Pollywog Patrol that comes to Temple
Camp. Gee, I never knew that silver cup was in the car with me all the
time."
"Well, we expect you to walk away with that," said Scoutmaster Ned. "You
rode away with it once. So now we expect you to walk away with it."
"It's won already," said Charlie Norris. "Nick's the one."
"Gee whiz, I wish I had seen that signal," said Pee-wee, "but anyway I
have to admit it was a stunt sending it. Gee, I guess you'll get the cup
all right."
It was characteristic of Pee-wee that his thoughts did not recur to his
lonely adversary at Piper's Crossroads. His thoughts were always of the
moment and aroused by the present company. He was just as ready to shout
for others as he was to shout for himself, and that is saying a great
deal. It was immaterial to him who he shouted for so long as he could
shout.
Nick Vernon was the nearest and likeliest, so he was all for Nick's
stunt. And he was not in the least curious about the things said by that
lonely boy with wide eyes who had stopped the car. He was thinking of
other things now.
CHAPTER XXXV
SCOUTMASTER NED DOESN'T SEE
But Scoutmaster Ned was curious and when they reached the little cottage
he jumped out and, taking the can of gasoline he had brought, he bade
the others go on their way, saying that he would follow when he got his
car started.
"Well sir, you haven't been sitting here all this time, I hope?" he said
to Peter. "Nice brisk morning, hey? The kind of weather to give you an
appetite."
"Wouldn't they wait for you?" Peter asked.
"I'm glad to get rid of them," said Scoutmaster Ned in a way of friendly
confidence; "they make a noise like an earthquake; that little fellow's
the worst of the lot; he ought to have a muffler."
"Is he a real scout?" Peter ventured.
"Oh, he's two or three scouts. What d'you think of them? Crazy bunch,
hey?"
"They're all real scouts--are they?" Peter asked hesitatingly.
"They think they are. Now look here," he added, sitting down on the
running board in a companionable way beside Peter, "I want you to tell
me what made you say that road was closed. There was a light in the sky;
you saw that? Big, tall light?"
"That--that fellow--named Nick--he made it."
"Yes, and what made you close the road? Somebody tell you the light
meant something?"
"There isn't anybody around here," said Peter, growing more at ease as
everyone did with Scoutmaster Ned, "except Aunt Sarah Wickett and she's
crazy. There's nobody in this house but my mother."
"How about Mr. Fee? No? Well then, who told you to close the road? Come
now, you and I are pals and you have to tell me."
A scoutmaster, a real, live scoutmaster, a pal of _his?_ Why that was
more wonderful than reading a signal. Peter's hands rubbed together
nervously and he hedged, as a scout should never do.
"I want that scout to get that cup, the one that sent the message.
Could--maybe could I see that cup--if it's in this car?"
In the excitement of the night, Scoutmaster Ned had forgotten all about
the stunt cup (as they had come to call it). He now brought it forth
from under the rear seat and unwound the flannel rag that was around it
and polished it a little as he held it up. It shone in the bright
morning sunlight and Peter saw his face in it. That was strange, that
Peter Piper of Piper's Crossroads should see his own face looking at him
from the radiant surface of a scout prize cup. He had never even seen
such a good mirror before. He just gazed at it, and continued to gaze,
as Scoutmaster Ned held it up. _Awarded for the_--it shone so, he
could hardly make out the words--_for the best all scout stunt of the
season._
"It cost a lot of money, didn't it?"
"Oh, something less than a couple of thousand dollars. Look nice,
standing on a scout's table, huh?" Scoutmaster Ned gave it another
little rub and contemplated it admiringly. "We had enough of a fuss
getting it, that's sure. See that Maltese Cross on it? That's our
bi-troop sign. We have two troops; always hang together. A troop's one
bunch in scouting. That kid thought the Maltese Cross meant that the cup
was to drink malted milk out of. He's a three-ring circus, that kid."
"It was a stunt to send that--to make that light, wasn't it?" Peter
asked.
"Well, I'll say it was," said Scoutmaster Ned, giving the cup another
admiring rub.
That settled it for Peter. He could not match his poor little exploit
against such miraculous performances. The sight of those uniforms in the
broad daylight had cowed him. The sight of Nick Vernon's signalling
badge had brought him to his sober senses, and he felt ashamed even of
his dreams and his pretending. The brief glimpse he had had of Scout
Harris in all his flaunting array, going forth to new conquests
surrounded by infatuated disciples, these things settled it for poor
Peter. He thought himself lucky not to have drawn attention and been
made a fool by those heroes. Maybe they would not all have been as
considerate as Scoutmaster Ned. The safest thing, as well as the thing
nearest to his heart, was to stand for Nick Vernon. He could stand for
him even if he was afraid of him. After all, a pioneer scout was not
really and truly a scout....
"I don't know why I put the rope up," he said nervously; "I just did.
There is a--a bad place in the road if you're going fast--I'll--I just
as soon show it to you--if you don't believe me. I thought maybe the
light--but anyway I wasn't sure--and I'll show you that bad place. I
guess he'll _sure_ win the cup, won't he; the scout that made the
light?"
"Shouldn't wonder," said Scoutmaster Ned, a little puzzled, but
apparently satisfied. "Didn't you say something about a signal? To that
little codger? Or was he dreaming? Or am I dreaming?" He scrutinized
Peter very curiously but seeing no sign of the scout about him, he
dismissed the receiving end of this business with Peter's rather awkward
explanation, and let it go at that.
As for what Pee-wee had said, that did not worry Scoutmaster Ned.
Pee-wee's dream and experiences seemed to be all mixed up together like
the things in a hunter's stew. Scoutmaster Ned went by the _signs_,
which scouts do, and the signs were a funny ticking shirt and a pair of
pantaloons like stove pipes. No hint of scouting there.
For you see the scout was _inside_ of Peter Piper of Piper's Crossroads.
That was why he was for Nick Vernon. It was _inside_ him, and
"disguised" (as Pee-wee would have said) as a checker-board shirt. And
that was why Scoutmaster Ned couldn't see it....
CHAPTER XXXVI
MORE HANDLING
And so Peter Piper, of Piper's Crossroads, proved too much for
Scoutmaster Ned. He kept his secret. But he had a very narrow escape
from being a hero.
Scoutmaster Ned had his way, too. "So you think you'd like to have a
pike at that camp, eh?" he said.
Scoutmaster Ned's theory about camping was to keep open house. If he
lacked discipline (which it is to be feared he did) he made up in pep,
and the surprises that he was forever springing on the camp were a
perpetual joy. I suspect that he was not well versed in his
scoutmasters' handbook. He was a sort of human north wind. He adopted
the pose of being driven to distraction by "those kids" and he denounced
them roundly and said there were too many of them and that he was going
to pick out one and drown the rest. Then he would show up with a new
one. He was a sort of free-lance scoutmaster and I wonder how he ever
drifted into the movement. Probably he didn't drift in, but blew in.
Scoutmaster Safety First (Bill) was his balance-wheel.
"Where is she? I'll talk to her," he said to Peter.
So he talked with Mrs. Piper while Peter stood by. He sat down in the
kitchen and drank a glass of milk and ate a piece of pie and told her
that it was the first real piece of pie he had ever eaten in his life.
Would he have another? Well, he'd say he would! Mrs. Piper thought he
was about the finest "young gent" she had ever seen.
He told her all about his adventures of the night as if she were a pal
and when she said she had slept through all the rumpus outside, he said,
"Well, you've got West Ketchem, where I come from, beaten twenty ways.
Could I have just one little sliver--no, not as much as that--well, all
right. That town, why you couldn't wake it up, Mrs. Piper, not with an
earthquake. It would just fall down through the crack in the earth and
go right on sleeping--no I couldn't eat another speck. We must be off."
"We?"
"Oh yes, Pete's going with me. He's going to make us a little visit for
a week or two. We have lessons and everything, study nature, and all
that, and all he wants to eat. I'll bring him back, he wants to see the
real scouts in captivity. No accounting for tastes, hey, Mrs. Piper?
You'd better bring along a coat, Pete; but don't change your clothes,
you're not going to church; come just as you are, so I'll be able to
tell you from the rest in case I should decide to kill them all. That
lets you out, see? Come ahead before your mother changes her mind."
Poor Mrs. Piper had not yet made up her mind, so she could not very well
change it. Scoutmaster Ned had made up her mind for her.
"I'll have to get Sally Flint ter come over and visit with me," said
Mrs. Piper doubtfully.
"Just the one," said Scoutmaster Ned. "She'll keep you company and
you'll have a little peace with this youngster gone. Mrs. Piper, if I
had my way I'd chloroform every boy in creation. I wonder you look so
young with a wild Indian like that around."
"Oh, I ain't lookin' so young," she smiled, greatly pleased.
Before she realized it she was shaking hands with Scoutmaster Ned while
her other arm was around Peter. "I'm going to come here and stay a
month," the young man said. "I'm going to churn butter and eat pie--if I
can escape from that outfit. Well good-bye, we're off. I hope the old
bus runs."
"It looks reel smart with all the blue paint," said Mrs. Piper.
"Handsome is as handsome does," said Scoutmaster Ned. "Climb in, Pete,
what are you scared of? It won't eat you. Anybody'd think you were
stalking--stepping so carefully. Know what stalking is? They'll show
you."
Mrs. Piper stood holding her gingham apron to her eyes as they rode off.
It was of exactly the same pattern as Peter's shirt. He looked funny
sitting rather fearfully on the front seat. She had never dreamed of
seeing him enthroned amid such sumptuousness. Perhaps some day he would
go away and come back _rich_--a hero. Her Peter. And this stranger
liked him. She was weeping because she had never heard her boy called
Pete since his father died. She liked to hear him called Pete, it was so
friendly, and recalled the past so vividly....
As if Scoutmaster Ned would have called him anything else than Pete!
CHAPTER XXXVII
HINTS
They showed him. As Scoutmaster Ned had told him they would do, they
showed him. And Peter Piper was in dreamland; it was all too good to be
true. They showed him how to track and stalk. And how to signal.
Nick showed him how to make a smudge fire, and Peter was doubly sure,
then, that Nick would win the cup. In the nights he dreamed of the
winning of that cup, of Nick winning it. Yes, they showed him. Fido
Norton showed him how to track a rabbit, and a small-sized, pocket
edition of a scout in the Elephant Patrol showed him (very difficult)
how to trail a hop-toad. Charlie Norris showed him how to use a deadly
kodak, which Peter had never seen before. He liked it because it pulled
open the way a turtle's neck comes out, and then went in again. Oh yes,
they all showed him.
And meanwhile Peter Piper kept his secret and no one ever knew of his
little exploit, for which the handbook really deserved all the credit.
The adventure of the stolen car was now forgotten in a hundred new
activities, and with it the rope across the road and the lantern and all
that. Sometimes when they spoke of that, Peter was troubled. But they
did not often speak of it. And he did not even tell them that he was a
pioneer scout. Harding and Coolidge he now kept in the pocket of his
stove-pipe pantaloons. For Peter Piper was approaching scouthood through
the tenderfoot class. Yes, they were all busy showing him.
Scout Harris showed him. Oh yes, he showed him. But Scout Harris was too
busy showing all the rest of them to do any exclusive showing for the
pioneer scout. And besides, Peter, who was too new and too bashful and
too awed by his companions and surroundings to be a good general mixer,
was mostly occupied with his hero, Nick Vernon. Pee-wee, who was a mixer
as well as a fixer, went on mixing and fixing and soon he performed his
greatest of all "fixing" feats; probably the greatest fixing feat in
scout history. Perhaps the greatest fixing stunt in the history of the
world.
But Peter was satisfied to laugh at Pee-wee with the rest of them, with
that bashful, hesitating laugh, which endeared him to them all.
It was natural that he should follow Nick Vernon about the island, for
everyone liked Nick, who was quiet, humorous, modest and withal very
resourceful and skilful. He had a kind of a contained air, as if he knew
more than he gave out, in contrast to Scout Harris who gave out more
than he knew. A bantering, off-hand way he had, as if all the things he
did (and he could do many) were done just to kill time. Skilful though
he was, he did not take himself too seriously. Everything he did he
seemed to do incidentally.
He would wander aimlessly into some triumph. "Going tracking?" they
would say. "Guess so," he would answer. He never made a fuss. The
general impression that he gave was that scouting was a good enough way
to while away a summer. Peter Piper worshipped at the shrine, winning
scout personality. He hoped that his mother would allow him to stay for
the finish so that he could see Nick receive the cup. He watched,
jealously, anxiously, the stunts of the other scouts, but none of them
could be mentioned along with Nick's signalling.
One morning Nick sauntered down to the shore, Peter with him.
"Going to wigwag?" they asked him.
"Maybe, if there's anyone to wigwag to. No use talking if there isn't
anyone in town to listen."
"Scout Harris talks whether there's anyone to listen or not," one said.
"Shall I bring the card to wigwag with?" Peter asked.
"No, don't bother. Got some matches? Never mind if you haven't."
Peter ran back and got some.
"If you're signalling tell them not to hurry with the school, we can
wait. Scout Harris is giving us an education. He's going to move the
lake to-morrow."
"He's a queer duck," one of the party sprawling around the tents said as
the two made their way down toward the shore.
"Who, Pete?"
"No, Nick; jiminy, it always seems as if--I don't know--as if he has
something up his sleeve."
"It's his arm," commented a joker.
"Maybe he knows about a mystery," Pee-wee said; "maybe there's treasure
buried on this island."
"There'll be some scouts buried on this island if we all die laughing at
you," another scout observed. "Come on, let's dig some bait."
Nick did not decide what he was going to do till he reached the shore.
That was just like him. Peter was all excitement.
"Are you going to signal?" he asked.
Nick often signalled over to town and sometimes he got an answer, for
there were other scouts over there. He did it just for pastime. Usually
it was the wigwag that he used. But on this morning, noticing the dried
leaves all about, he said, "We'll try a smudge, that's pretty good
sport; Morse Code, you know." He looked about half-interestedly and
began kicking leaves into a pile, Peter doing the same. If Nick had any
particular purpose in this business, at least you would not have
supposed so. He seemed as aimless as a butterfly.
"Are you going to ask about school?"
"No," laughed Nick, dragging some leaves with his foot; "there's no
school for a month, we know that. If you know a thing you know it; isn't
that so?"
"I don't know many things."
"No? Well, get some water in your hat--here, take mine. These blamed
scout hats are made to hold water."
Peter brought some water, which Nick poured on the leaves.
"Now haul that old raft up here and we'll hold it up. We'll just say
'_hello_' to be sociable, show the town we're not stuck-up."
They held the old raft, of about the area of a door, slanting ways over
the leaves, and Nick showed Peter how to manipulate it so as to control
the column of black smoke arising from the damp leaves. Peter was
greatly interested, even excited, over this new kind of signalling. He
was not quite as careful as he had been in talking with Scoutmaster Ned.
"Make one long one first to call their attention," he said, quite
aroused by the novel enterprise.
"Yes?" said Nick, half interested apparently. "Who told you that?"
"I--I just knew it. I know now--let _me_ do it--it's easy. Only they
have to be careful over there. That's--that's the hard part. I hope
they have a--one of those books over there--and then--maybe--I hope they
keep it open at page two hundred and eighty-four. Let _me_ try it--"
"Ned give you one of those books?"
"N--no, I--I saw one."
"Hmm."
"Well, let's get busy with the message, Pete."
Nick Vernon did not seem greatly interested in where or when or how
Peter had seen the handbook, nor how he happened to remember page two
hundred and eighty-four. But one thing Nick Vernon knew (it was a
reflection on Scoutmaster Ned and just exactly like him) and that was
that _there was not a single copy of the scout handbook on Frying-pan
Island_.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE FIXER
"All right, you can do as you choose," said Pee-wee; "only I'm just
telling you. There's always better fishing on the east side of an island
because that's what Uncle Jeb up at Temple Camp said and he knows--he
knows--"
"He knows all the fish personally," said Charlie Norris.
"You think you're smart, don't you?" thundered Pee-wee. "There's a
better spring over there than there is here and then besides, the rain
will drain out better on account of the ground being higher, because I
know all about camping, you can ask my scoutmaster. It won't be so cold
over there at night, either; you see. You move the tents over there, gee
whiz, Arabs move their tents every day, and look at gypsies, they keep
moving all the time."
"It will be a scout movement," said Scoutmaster Safety First, rather
impressed with Pee-wee's arguments.
"I'm game for anything," said Scoutmaster Ned. "Variety is the spice of
life. The housing situation--"
"I know all about the housing situation," said Pee-wee; "my father owns
a house and the water's calmer on the east side of an island, because I
can prove it by the Pacific Ocean."
"The Pacific Ocean is west of here," said Scoutmaster Ned. "At least it
was when I went to school. I dare say it's there yet. Put another log on
the fire, Nick. How about it, Pete? Where's the Pacific Ocean? I'll
leave it to Pete."
"It's in the school geography," Pee-wee shouted from the other side of
the camp-fire, "and it's on the east of China. You have to know where
you're at before you can tell where it is and there's better fishing in
China than there is here, because in Japan they catch sardines! Temple
Camp is on the east side of Black Lake, and anyway there's a dandy place
over there for tents and there are a lot of birds' nests and there's a
better spring and you don't have to carry water so far and you always
spill a lot of it and there are a couple of pine trees and the leaves
don't fall off them, because there aren't any leaves and leaves keep the
rain and wind off but not if there aren't any and these trees are
getting bare--"
"Enough! Enough!" said Scoutmaster Ned, rising, and sticking his fingers
into his ears. "We ask for an armistice. All we ask for is three hours'
time in which to move--"
"I'll fix it," vociferated Pee-wee.
"We surrender to the world's greatest fixer," said Scoutmaster Ned. "The
high authority from Temple Camp--"
"He isn't so high!"
"Size don't count," roared Pee-wee.
"Shall be followed," said Scoutmaster Ned. "To-morrow morning we'll move
to the east side of the island in view of the thriving metropolis of
East Ketchem. Its four lights will cheer us at night. This spilling of
water must be stopped. Pretty soon the island will be under water and
then where will we be?"
"Worse off than in school," called a voice.
"I am for the pine trees," said Scoutmaster Ned. "I am for the high
land and the fishing and the birds' nests and the shelter. In short, I'm
for Scout Harris!"
"I'm for the view of East Ketchem as long as I don't have to go there,"
said Fido Norton.
It was the silly, tail end of the season; they were ready to do almost
anything, except go to school. They were going to have the last minute
of the last day of this delightful little supplementary season, this
autumnal climax of their camping life. But aside from this resolution
they cared not what they did. Pee-wee, instead of getting on their
nerves, had gotten into their spirits. A change of location wouldn't be
half bad. And Pee-wee was right too, in much that he had said; they
realized this. And he admitted it.
"Sure, I'm right," he said; "you leave it to me. I'll fix it. We'll move
over there to-morrow and if you're sorry now you'll be glad of it
because--"
"Oh, it will be a day of rejoicing," said Scoutmaster Ned.
"Anything goes," said Charlie Norris.
"Lead and we'll follow, Scout Harris," chimed Fido Norton.
"One place is as good as another if not better," shouted another scout.
"All in favor of moving, say Aye."
"Aye!" shouted Pee-wee, in a voice of thunder.
CHAPTER XXXIX
BETRAYED!
The next morning they folded their tents like the Arabs and moved to a
spot which Pee-wee recommended, on the opposite side of the island. Why
he liked it I do not know, for it was a quiet spot. Perhaps he liked it
because it was retiring and modest, and kept in the background, as one
might say. It seemed to breathe peacefulness, which was Pee-wee's middle
name. It afforded a fine view of East Ketchem, the thriving community on
the east shore of Kidder Lake; and the crystal spring, and stalking
facilities, and better shelter of the stately, solemn pines, seemed in
accordance with scout requirements.
"Well, we're here because we're here," said Scoutmaster Ned, sitting
down on two loaded grocery boxes after his last trip. "If the spring
water doesn't come to us, we come to the spring water. Not half bad at
that," he added, looking about. Indeed they had not been familiar with
the eastern shore of the island and now they contemplated the discovery
of Christopher Columbus Pee-wee, not without surprise and satisfaction.
"When I go to a place I always leave it--"
"Lucky for the place," interrupted Nick in his dry, drawling way.
"I always go on expeditions," Pee-wee explained. "I even discovered
islands and things. I discovered a mountain once, up at Temple Camp,
only somebody discovered it before I did. I discovered this place day
before yesterday when I was tracking a mud-turtle. Once I found a
peninsula only it wasn't there the next day."
"Who took it?"
"The tide came up and it was under water. Do you want me to show you how
to make drain ditches around tents?"
They put up the tents and dug drain ditches around them and cleared a
place for the camp-fire and brought wood for it. They chopped supports
for their messboard and drove them into the pine-carpeted earth and laid
the long boards upon them. To do Pee-wee justice, the place was an
ideal camping spot. And what was one day's work of moving, against
almost an entire month of camping in that sequestered glen, among
fragrant pines?
"You've got the right idea, Scout Harris," said Scoutmaster Ned.
"It was a--a inspiration," said Pee-wee.
"Do you have those often?" Nick asked.
"_Oh boy_! I have them all the time."
"But how about a landing place?" a scout asked.
"Who wants to go to East Ketchem, anyway?" said Norris. "We should
bother our heads about a landing place."
"Leave it to me. I'll fix it," Pee-wee said.
In the late afternoon they sprawled about and found the velvet coverlet
of pine needles restful to their weary bodies.
"Well, it's all over but the shouting," said Scoutmaster Ned. "All we
need is sup--"
"I'll do it!" shouted Pee-wee.
"What, the shouting?" asked Nick.
"Here comes a boat," said another scout.
"Maybe somebody's going to discover the island," said Pee-wee.
"There are two men in it," said another; "they're rowing straight for
us."
"Maybe this is their camping spot," said Fido Norton; "I knew this place
was too good to be missed all this time."
"If it's their place--"
"Leave them to me, I'll fix it," Pee-wee announced vociferously.
"That relieves us," said Scoutmaster Ned, lying back on the ground,
after sitting up to inspect the approaching boat; "we are safe in the
hands of Scout Harris. Let them come. We should worry our young lives."
The boat made straight for the new camp, and it appeared to contain two
men. The one who was rowing wore a large straw hat and his suspenders
were visible.
"They're scoutmasters!" Pee-wee shouted. This seemed as good a guess as
any.
The two men landed, drew the boat up very methodically and approached
the camp.
"Good afternoon," said Scoutmaster Ned, dragging himself to his feet and
seating himself upon a grocery box. "Beautiful fall weather we're
having. Just a little crisp out on the water, eh? Won't you sit
down--if you can find something to sit on?"
Whether the weather was crisp or not, the man who spoke first was very
crisp indeed.
"You in charge of these lads?" he asked.
"Well, we're all sort of in charge of each other," said Scoutmaster Ned.
"I guess I'm the goat."
"He's all right," Pee-wee said; "you take it from me."
"Well," said the man in a drawling but ominously conclusive tone, "my
name is Rodney, Birchel Rodney; and this is Mr. Wise, Mr. Barnabas Wise.
We came from East Ketchem."
"I don't blame you," said Scoutmaster Ned. "I'm happy to meet you,
gentlemen. This is a sort of table d'hote scout outfit that you see
here; two troops and a couple of sundries. Will you stay and have supper
with us?"
"We ain't fer interferin' in no boys' pleasures," said Mr. Barnabas
Wise, "but it's our dooty to tell you that we're the school committee of
the village of East Ketchem, and s'long as these youngsters hez moved
inside the taown limits of East Ketchem they'll hev to report for
school at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. The taown line between East
Ketchem and West Ketchem runs right through the middle of this island."
A gaping silence followed this horrible pronouncement.
"We--eh--we are just camping here, pending--" began Scoutmaster Ned.
"It ain't no question uv pendin'," said Mr. Birchel Rodney. "The
ordinance of the village of East Ketchem says that every minor--"
"We're not miners, we're scouts!" Pee-wee shouted.
"The ordinance of the village of East Ketchem," Mr. Rodney proceeded,
ignoring the boisterous interruption, "says that every _minor_, which is
spelled with a o, between the ages of eight years and fifteen years,
resident _or_ visiting _or_ otherwise domiciled--"
"You can't say I'm domiciled--" Pee-wee began.
"Or otherwise domiciled," the terrible man continued, "must attend
school in said village except upon cause of illness--"
[Illustration: "WE'RE NOT MINERS, WE'RE SCOUTS!" PEE-WEE SHOUTED.]
"I'm sick a lot," Pee-wee yelled.
"I expect to have a cold very shortly," said Nick in his funny way.
"Determined and certified by a physician _in_ good standing. Them's the
very words of the village law and we come to tell you that all these
youngsters will hev ter _re_port for school at nine A.M. to-morrer
morning, _in_ said village of East Ketchem."
"Foiled!" said Nick, falling back on the ground.
"Horrors and confusion!" said Fido Norton.
"That we should live to hear this!" moaned Charlie Norris.
"Oh, what have we stepped into?" another groaned, holding his forehead
in a way of despair.
"You mean what have we been drawn into!" said another. "Oh, that it
should come to this!"
"What have we done? What have we done?" sighed still another.
As for Scoutmaster Ned, he gave one terrific groan (or perhaps it was a
roar of abandoned mirth) and fell backward off the grocery box.
Only the fixer remained silent. His eyes stared, his mouth gaped. But
not a word said he. It was Napoleon at Waterloo. Scout Harris had no
words. Or else he had so many that they got jumbled up in his throat and
would not come out. And as he stood there, bearing up under that mortal
blow, the conquering legion, consisting of the two members of the East
Ketchem school board, withdrew with an air of great conclusiveness and
dignified solemnity to the shore.
Then, and only then, did Scoutmaster Ned sit up and rub his eyes,
holding his splitting sides, the while he gazed after that official
delegation constituting the entire school board. He gave one look at the
fixer (and the fixer's face was worth looking at) and at the gaping
countenances all about him. Then he fell back again and shook as if he
had a fit and rolled over and buried his face in his folded arm and
roared and roared and roared.
"Retreat! Retreat across the line! A disorderly retreat! That is our
only hope! Who will lead a disorderly retreat?"
The desperate cry was not unanswered. "_I will!_" said Fido Norton. "Get
the stuff together! Every scout for himself! Our freedom hangs on a
disorderly retreat! Vaccination--I mean evacuation--is our only hope!
Our freedom is more dear than our lives! Give me vacation or give me
death! We've been foiled by a school principal disguised as a boy scout!
Remember his pal, the manual training teacher? Spies! Traitors! We fell
into their clutches. Follow me, we will foil the schools yet! Every
scout grab his own stuff, or anybody else's, and retreat as disorderly
as possible. Our liberty is at stake! I love the west shore so muchly
now that I wouldn't even knock the West Shore Railroad."
CHAPTER XL
GUESS AGAIN
Alas, such is fame! The thunderous voice of P. Harris was mute, his
blankly staring eyes spoke volumes, libraries in fact, but they did not
make a noise. The voice which had aroused the echoes at Temple Camp,
which had filled the crystal back room at Bennett's Candy Store in
Bridgeboro, was still. And it did not speak again for--nearly twenty
minutes. Even then it did not speak in its former tone of thunder. It
could not have been heard for more than--oh, half a mile.
The first occasion on which the voice of Scout Harris arose to its
former height was on the last day before West Ketchem summoned its
bronzed scouts over to the makeshift school which had been prepared in a
vacant, old-fashioned mansion. They had had plenty of fun in the
meantime and they went with a good will. Far be it from me to publish
any unworthy hopes, but if your school should ever burn down in the
summer, try camping in the autumn. You will find the woods more friendly
then. Even the birds and chipmunks and squirrels seem to say, "Come on,
let us get together and be friends, for it's getting cool."
But to return to Pee-wee's voice. On the last day of the autumn camping,
the silver stunt cup was to be awarded. It was an open secret that this
was to go to Nick Vernon, and the scouts of both troops were agreeable
enough to this disposition of it.
Many of them had performed conspicuous stunts, but they were all agreed
that Nick's feat in flashing the message by searchlight was the stunt of
the season. Perhaps Nick's personality, and consequent popularity, had
something to do with this. At all events when the two troops were
ordered to congregate under the old half-naked elm, to which they had
returned after their inglorious invasion of the east, it was generally
understood that the ceremony of presentation was to be purely
perfunctory having no surprises for anybody.
Safety First had been asked to do the honors but he had insisted on
Scoutmaster Ned making the address. That address has even been memorable
in West Ketchem history. It was (as Scoutmaster Ned himself said) the
best address ever made on Frying-pan Island, because it was the only
one.
"Bunch," he said "this is the happiest day of the year, for school opens
to-morrow (groans). Hereafter, whenever I see a frying-pan I'll think of
you and wish you were in it, being fried to a turn. (Laughter.) Don't
laugh, it's no laughing matter. I'm on the verge of nervous presumption
or whatever you call it, and I'll be glad to get rid of you--every one
of you!
"I've been asked to hand out this cup and it goes to St. Nicholas Vernon
because he sprawled the nice clean sky all up with scribbling and all
that kind of stuff. Nobody read the message but that makes no
difference, because the proof of the message is in the sending just the
same as the proof of the pudding is in the eating. How about that, Scout
Harris?
"I guess you fellows are all satisfied and I should fret my heart out
whether you are or not. Nick showed resource, and alertness, and a lot
of other stuff that's in the handbook, page something or other. If it
isn't there it's somewhere else. Shut up and give me a chance to speak.
Here you go, Nick, catch this. Your silver cup of joy is full and we
shall all live happily ever afterwards. Anything more, Safety First?"
Nick Vernon never seemed more at ease, and less interested, than when he
ambled toward the stump from which Scoutmaster Ned was descending, and
said in a quiet, drawling voice, "Yes, something more. May I have that
stump a minute?"
He stood there, holding the silver cup in one hand, his other hand
against his hip, in an attitude familiar to them all.
"A little speech of thanks," someone shouted; "make it short."
There was one who stood in that group, unnoticed. His eyes were fixed
upon the winner, and he was actually trembling with delight.
"Good idea, I'll make it short and snappy," said Nick. "Actions speak
louder than words."
"No, they don't," shouted Pee-wee.
"The signal I sent," said Nick, "was read and the one who read it was a
scout. He's the one that stopped the car. The cup was in the car and so
he saved the cup. It's his. He tried to keep his scouting a secret and
he didn't get away with it. He beat Scoutmaster Ned hands down. He left
him guessing. Scoutmaster Ned is easy. But this kid can't put anything
over on _me_; I've got him red-handed; he's a scout and he's got us all
looking like thirty cents. He's a scout and he'll tell the truth, if you
corner him. He won't lie. Here you go, catch this, Pete, hold your
hands steady; if you don't hold them up I'll chuck it plunk in your
face. As sure as I'm standing here I will! _I'm_ making this speech of
presentation, not Scoutmaster Ned. You know so much about the handbook,
remember law one, about telling the truth. Here you go, Peter Piper,
you're the only scout that ever dropped into this Frying-pan. Catch it
or by gosh--"
But he didn't catch it, because his eyes were glistening, and his hands
were trembling, and you can't catch things in such a state.
He stood there like one transfixed, hearing the uproar all about him.
Nervously he stooped and picked up the glittering cup and held it as if
he were afraid of it. Peter Piper, pioneer scout, of Piper's
Crossroads. He would go home famous and rich, a hero, just as his mother
had dreamed that some day he would do....
It was just at that moment that Scout Harris really recovered his voice.
He recovered it in the moment of having an "inspiration." He jumped upon
a barrel, released his teeth from the apple into which he had plunged
them, and dancing like a maniac, sang at the top of his voice:
"Peter Piper picked
A peck of pickled peppers;
A peck of pickled peppers
Peter Piper picked.
If Peter Piper picked
A peck of pickled peppers;
Where's the peck of pickled peppers,
Peter
Piper
picked?"
Then, finding the place in the apple where his mammoth bite had been
interrupted by his inspiration, he completed the bite, eating and
singing at the same time.
It was one of the great scout stunts of the season.
* * * * *
_This Isn't All!_
Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in
this book?
Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and
experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author?
On the _reverse side_ of the wrapper which comes with this books you
will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same
store where you got this book.
_Don't throw away the Wrapper_
_Use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. But
in case you do mislay it, write to the Publishers for a complete
catalog._
* * * * *
THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of "Tom Slade," "Roy Blakeley," "Westy Martin," Etc.
_Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Color. Every Volume
Complete in Itself._
All readers of the Tom Slade and the Roy Blakeley books are acquainted
with Pee-wee Harris. These stories record the true facts concerning his
size (what there is of-it) and his heroism (such as it is), his voice,
his clothes, his appetite, his friends, his enemies, his victims.
Together with the thrilling narrative of how he foiled, baffled,
circumvented and triumphed over everything and everybody (except where
he failed) and how even when he failed he succeeded. The whole recorded
in a series of screams and told with neither muffler nor cut-out.
PEE-WEE HARRIS
PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL
PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP
PEE-WEE HARRIS IN LUCK
PEE-WEE HARRIS ADRIFT
PEE-WEE HARRIS F.O.B. BRIDGEBORO
PEE-WEE HARRIS FIXER
PEE-WEE HARRIS: AS GOOD AS HIS WORD
PEE-WEE HARRIS: MAYOR FOR A DAY
PEE-WEE HARRIS AND THE SUNKEN TREASURE
PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE BRINY DEEP
PEE-WEE HARRIS IN DARKEST AFRICA
GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers_, NEW YORK
* * * * *
GARRY GRAYSON FOOTBALL STORIES
By ELMER A. DAWSON
Individual Colored Wrappers and Illustrations by WALTER S. ROGERS
Every Volume Complete in Itself
Football followers all over the country will hail with delight this new
and thoroughly up-to-date line of gridiron tales.
Garry Grayson is a football fan, first, last, and all the time. But more
than that, he is a wideawake American boy with a "gang" of chums almost
as wideawake as himself.
How Garry organized the first football eleven his grammar school had,
how he later played on the High School team, and what he did on the Prep
School gridiron and elsewhere, is told in a manner to please all readers
and especially those interested in watching a rapid forward pass, a
plucky tackle, or a hot run for a touchdown.
Good, clean football at its best--and in addition, rattling stories of
mystery and schoolboy rivalries.
GARRY GRAYSON'S HILL STREET ELEVEN;
or, The Football Boys of Lenox.
GARRY GRAYSON AT LENOX HIGH; or, The
Champions of the Football League.
GARRY GRAYSON'S FOOTBALL RIVALS; or,
The Secret of the Stolen Signals.
GARRY GRAYSON SHOWING HIS SPEED; or,
A Daring Run on the Gridiron.
GARRY GRAYSON AT STANLEY PREP; or, The
Football Rivals of Riverview.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publisher,_ NEW YORK
* * * * *
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of "Roy Blakeley," "Pee-wee Harris," "Westy Martin," Etc.
_Illustrated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Colors. Every Volume
Complete in Itself._
"Let your boy grow up with Tom Slade," is a suggestion which thousands
of parents have followed during the past, with the result that the TOM
SLADE BOOKS are the most popular boys' books published today. They take
Tom Slade through a series of typical boy adventures through his
tenderfoot days as a scout, through his gallant days as an American
doughboy in France, back to his old patrol and the old camp ground at
Black Lake, and so on.
TOM SLADE, BOY SCOUT
TOM SLADE AT TEMPLE CAMP
TOM SLADE ON THE RIVER
TOM SLADE WITH THE COLORS
TOM SLADE ON A TRANSPORT
TOM SLADE WITH THE BOYS OVER THERE
TOM SLADE, MOTORCYCLE DISPATCH BEARER
TOM SLADE WITH THE FLYING CORPS
TOM SLADE AT BLACK LAKE
TOM SLADE ON MYSTERY TRAIL
TOM SLADE'S DOUBLE DARE
TOM SLADE ON OVERLOOK MOUNTAIN
TOM SLADE PICKS A WINNER
TOM SLADE AT BEAR MOUNTAIN
TOM SLADE: FOREST RANGER
TOM SLADE IN THE NORTH WOODS
GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers_, NEW YORK
* * * * *
THE WESTY MARTIN BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of the "Tom Slade" and "Roy Blakeley" Books, Etc.
_Individual Colored Wrappers. Illustrated. Every Volume Complete in
Itself._
Westy Martin, known to every friend of Roy Blakeley, appears as the hero
of adventures quite different from those in which we have seen him
participate as a Scout of Bridgeboro and of Temple Camp. On his foray to
the Yellowstone the bigness of the vast West and the thoughts of the
wild preserve that he is going to visit make him conscious of his own
smallness and of the futility of "boy scouting" and woods lore in this
great region, Yet he was to learn that if it had not been for his scout
training he would never have been able to survive the experiences he had
in these stories.
WESTY MARTIN
WESTY MARTIN IN THE YELLOWSTONE
WESTY MARTIN IN THE ROCKIES
WESTY MARTIN ON THE SANTA FE TRAIL
WESTY MARTIN ON THE OLD INDIAN TRAILS
GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers_, NEW YORK
* * * * *
THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS
By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of "Tom Slade," "Pee-wee Harris," "Westy
Martin," Etc.
Illustrated. Picture Wrappers in Color.
Every Volume Complete in Itself.
In the character and adventures of Roy Blakeley are typified the very
essence of Boy life. He is a real boy, as real as Huck Finn and Tom
Sawyer. He is the moving spirit of the troop of Scouts of which he is a
member, and the average boy has to go only a little way in the first
book before Roy is the best friend he ever had, and he is willing to
part with his best treasure to get the next book in the series.
ROY BLAKELEY
ROY BLAKELEY'S ADVENTURES IN CAMP
ROY BLAKELEY, PATHFINDER
ROY BLAKELEY'S CAMP ON WHEELS
ROY BLAKELEY'S SILVER FOX PATROL
ROY BLAKELEY'S MOTOR CARAVAN
ROY BLAKELEY LOST, STRAYED OR STOLEN
ROY BLAKELEY'S BEE-LINE HIKE
ROY BLAKELEY AT THE HAUNTED CAMP
ROY BLAKELEY'S FUNNY BONE HIKE
ROY BLAKELEY'S TANGLED TRAIL
ROY BLAKELEY ON THE MOHAWK TRAIL
ROY BLAKELEY'S ELASTIC HIKE
ROY BLAKELEY'S ROUNDABOUT HIKE
ROY BLAKELEY'S HAPPY-GO-LUCKY HIKE
ROY BLAKELEY'S GO-AS-YOU PLEASE HIKE
GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers,_ NEW YORK
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