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.