Produced by Roger Frank and Sue Clark (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration: “Didn’t I tell you there were things to do?” said
Pee-wee.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PEE-WEE HARRIS IN LUCK
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
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1922, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
I THE ART OF CHOOSING
II “THEY’RE OFF”
III SOME DOINGS
IV ACTION
V PALS
VI THE WOODS TRAIL
VII THE HERO
VIII PEE-WEE GOES TO IT
IX A VISION OF SPLENDOR
X ANOTHER VISION OF SPLENDOR
XI HOPE TRIUMPHANT
XII DESERTED
XIII HOPE ADVANCES AGAINST SNAILSDALE
XIV FORWARD, MARCH!
XV HANDLING THE CROWD
XVI THE MILKY WAY FALLS DOWN
XVII THE LAST SALLY
XVIII CHAOS AND CONFUSION
XIX GOING DOWN
XX IN THE FOG
XXI EVERY WHICH WAY
XXII AT THE CROSS-ROAD
XXIII EN ROUTE
XXIV SIDE-TRACKED
XXV PEE-WEE’S LUCK
XXVI THE TWO PERFECTLY LOVELY FELLOWS
XXVII THE LAST LAUGH
XXVIII THE OUTSIDER
XXIX THREE OF A KIND
XXX AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT
XXXI THE THIRD HOUSE
XXXII MAROONED
XXXIII IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT
XXXIV THE CLUE
XXXV PEE-WEE, SCOUT
XXXVI THE LAST DESTINATION
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PEE-WEE HARRIS IN LUCK
CHAPTER I
THE ART OF CHOOSING
Whenever Pee-wee Harris was given the choice of two desserts he
invariably chose both. This policy, which eliminated all possibility of
vain regrets, had worked so well that he applied it on all occasions
where a difficult choice was involved, on the wise principle that if he
took everything he would not lose much.
Thus, when the Sunday School picnic with its ice cream and cake
conflicted with the troops’ hike, Pee-wee saved the day and much of the
ice cream by proposing that they hike to the scene of the picnic.
His greatest triumph of maneuvering, however, was when he “foiled”
Father Time by means of the daylight saving law. On that memorable
occasion he set the hands of the kitchen clock back an hour which
enabled him to have supper home at six o’clock and also to reach the
scout rally at North Bridgeboro at six o’clock, where he partook of a
second supper, including a helping of plum pudding—_and_ a helping of
apple pie. Thus, he solved the problem of being in two places at the
same time at meal-time. A scout is resourceful.
Pee-wee never had to pause and consider which thing he preferred, since
he preferred all things. The place that he liked best to go was
everywhere. The thing that he liked best to do was everything. Broadly
speaking, the thing which he liked best to eat was food. And speaking
more particularly the food that he liked best was dessert. But it might
be said that he ate everything; adventures, hairbreadth escapes,
colossal enterprises, dark mysteries—he ate them alive.
So it befell that when Pee-wee’s mother offered him the choice of going
to Temple Camp or accompanying her into the mountains where she hoped to
rest, he announced that he would go to the mountains first and to Temple
Camp afterward. He did not specify how long he would remain in the
mountains, but he assured his mother that Temple Camp and the mountains
would be a moderate mouthful for one summer.
“I’m afraid it is very quiet up there,” said Mrs. Harris warningly.
“Gee whiz, I’ll show them how to make a noise,” Pee-wee assured her. “I
can multiply my voice three times. Do you want to know how?”
“I’d rather hear you subtract it,” said Pee-wee’s mother.
“Do you want to know how?” he persisted.
“Tell me but don’t _show_ me,” she said.
“You do it with echoes,” Pee-wee said; “it’s a scout stunt. I bet you
couldn’t do it. Gee whiz, you say it’s quiet up there; I bet I can make
those mountains talk. If I shout at a mountain that’s facing another
mountain they’ll both answer; that makes three voices. Only I have to
shout good and loud; I have to yell. See? All I need is a lot of lonely
mountains. The quieter it is up there the more noise I can make. See? I
might even make four of them shout.”
The vision of Pee-wee acting as a sort of orchestral leader to a range
of mountains rather appalled his mother, but she said with a gentle
smile as was her wont, “I’m afraid the place is very quiet and lonely,
and such pleasure as you have you will have to make for yourself. I
don’t want you to be restless and disappointed when you get there. It
isn’t at all like Temple Camp, you know.”
“Have they got a windmill?” Pee-wee demanded vociferously.
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“Because I know how to put a riot-rattle in a windmill so it will make a
lot of noise; it’s a scout trick. I can show them how to churn milk with
a vacuum cleaner, too.”
“I don’t believe they have any vacuum cleaners up there, dearie,” Mrs.
Harris said, reaching for a letter that lay on her dresser. “Let me read
you what the letter says.”
The letter was written on cheap lined stationery, dignified by a rubber
stamp heading which read,
GOODALE MANOR FARM
ASA GOODALE, PROP.
The writing was shaky and crude and evidently the result of much
laborious care. It read as follows:
dear madem your letter of third instant reed and can
acomidate you for month of Aug. with sunny room also small
room if desired, there is not menny peple here but one young
lady aged sixteen but plenty of fresh milk and holesome fair
and methedist church at Snailsdale Manor about seven miles
the nearest station, if you come let me no so can meat you.
take Snailsdale branch of Drerie railroad to Snailsdale
Manor nearest station, address to Snailsdale Manor P. O.
respectibly
Asa Goodale.
“I’m afraid they haven’t even a rural mail delivery,” said Mrs. Harris.
“Your Uncle Charlie, who went up for the hunting several years ago, said
that the only living things he saw up there were Mr. and Mrs. Goodale,
their son, a team of oxen, several cows, and a woodchuck. And he thinks
the woodchuck has since moved away. I suppose they have chickens. I
don’t know how old Mr. Goodale’s son is.”
“_Sure_, I’ll go,” Pee-wee announced conclusively, “because anyway one
thing scouts hate and that is civilization. And anyway I bet that
woodchuck didn’t move away at all, because woodchucks have back
entrances under stone walls and scouts know where to look for them; gee
whiz, no woodchuck can fool me. I bet there are skunks up there, too,
and lots of other peachy things; I can tell by deduction,”
“Well, he doesn’t give any skunk as a reference,” smiled Mrs. Harris;
“I’m afraid you’ll find it very quiet and dull.”
“If you’re a scout you can make your own noise,” Pee-wee said; “you
don’t have to depend on noises, just the same as you can always make the
forest yield food. You can eat fungus even.”
“Well, I think fresh milk will be better than fungus,” said Mrs. Harris.
“Fungus is all right to eat and so is moss,” Pee-wee said. “That shows
how much you know about scouting. You can even eat ground-worms, if
you’re a scout.”
“Gracious heavens!” said Pee-wee’s mother.