FORWARD, MARCH!
Hope’s departure was a good thing for one person at least, and that was
Simon Hasbrook, the farm-boy, for Mr. Goodale gave him a holiday on
Saturday. The farmer hesitated, however, to loan a pig or a calf, and so
the members of the new partnership sawed a doorway in the back of their
gala caravan and put some boxes and milking stools inside for seats.
Since there was no one at the farm but Mr. and Mrs. Goodale and Mrs.
Harris, the plan was to organize a party en route, which should loll in
and about the float, to give an impression of youth and merriment at
Goodale Manor Farm.
“You have to have action,” Pee-wee informed Simon, who seemed greatly
edified. “It doesn’t make any difference how many decorations you have,
you have to have a lot of people. So we’ll ask everybody we see to get
in and we’ll start them singing and all like that. We’ll take a lot of
apples and cookies and things and have them eating, too.”
Nothing could dampen Pee-wee’s ardor and confidence, not even the
weather which was misty and cheerless. The float looked gay and even
beautiful, thanks to Hope’s tastefulness, and carrying out her
decorative scheme, the boys had wound bunting around the horns of the
stolid, patient oxen surmounting each horn with a crude rosette which it
is to be feared, lacked her deft and magic touch. The swishing tails
were also provided with streamers so that each ox seemed to wield a kind
of patriotic cat-and-nine-tails.
The long whip with which Simon was to insinuate his authority to the
meek beasts was a thing of gaudy beauty, with a wealth of tails which
made it look like some festive devil-fish. Simon and Pee-wee wore
girdles of bunting, and somewhere in the folds of Pee-wee’s colorful
array nestled modestly his dangling compass, for though there was a road
to Snailsdale Manor he wished to be prepared for emergency if by any
chance the road should suddenly disappear.
His scout hat, that invariable reminder of his wild and heroic
character, was laid aside for this glorious occasion, and his curly head
was swathed with fold upon fold of endless streamers, so that (except
for the bread and jam that he was eating) he looked like an East Indian
rajah.
The caravan paused for a few moments before the porch for the admiration
of Mrs. Harris, while Pee-wee procured another dripping slice of bread,
and then, our hero having pulled up his unruly stocking and taken a
mammoth bite to fortify himself, gave the order to advance. A quarter of
a mile or so down the road they passed Mr. Goodale’s ice house and then
entered the unpeopled wilderness through which no bunting-draped caravan
had ever passed before.
The journey to Snailsdale Manor was uneventful. A drizzling rain fell
most of the time and the road was filled with those cunning little red
lizards which always herald and accompany damp weather. The distant
mountains could not be seen for the mist; a kind of gauze curtain seemed
to hang in the countryside subduing everything to its own dull shade. It
was not a penetrating rain, it was hardly a rain at all, but a kind of
gossamer wrap which covered everything. The clammy dampness stood out in
little beads all over the boy’s clothing. One could draw one’s finger
through it and leave a mark, as in an area of dust. The decorations
wilted under this all pervading moisture and the gay rosettes dropped in
despair. But the colors did not run.
Neither did the oxen. All efforts to hurry them were in vain. The
snapping of the motley whip aroused neither their fears nor their
patriotic ardor. They plodded leisurely along, dutiful, reliable, slow.
Pee-wee wet his trusty right forefinger and held it up to determine
which way the wind was blowing, and found from the sudden chill against
one side of it that the wind was in the south.
“You mean the east,” said Simon.
“Your finger can’t lie,” Pee-wee said; “that’s a scout stunt. It’s
blowing from _there_.”
“Yes and that’s the east,” said Simon amiably.
“How can the south be the east?” Pee-wee demanded with withering scorn.
“It can’t,” said Simon, “and ’tain’t neither.”
The wind’s east but it’s comin’ roun’. Moren’ like it’ll be clear this
afternoon n’ rain again at night. See the spider-web across that
woodchuck hole over in the field? It’s noon and he ain’t out yet. That
means likely he won’t come out till to-morrow. It’ll rain to-night
moren’ like.”
“As long as it’s clear this afternoon I don’t care,” said Pee-wee,
somewhat squelched by this bit of knowledge. “I bet you can’t tell time
by the sun. I can tell what time it is by holding a nail slanting-ways
on the back of my watch and letting the sun shine on it.”
“Why don’t you look at the front of your watch?” Simon asked innocently.
“That shows how much you know about scouting,” Pee-wee fairly shouted.
“Suppose—suppose my watch should be slow?”
“I wouldn’t think them scouts would have their watches slow,” said
Simon.
“Even the clock on the City Hall is slow sometimes,” Pee-wee thundered,
in despair for an argument. “Do you mean to say I’m smarter than a city
hall is? Gee whiz! A scout has to be resourceful and he doesn’t depend
on watches. That’s why he carries a nail.”
“The nail is no good if he has a watch and it’s no good if he hasn’t got
a watch,” Simon said soberly. “He can’t have the back of a watch unless
he has the front of a watch.”
“You’re crazy!” Pee-wee yelled. “Suppose—suppose—suppose it’s night and
he can’t see the hands of his watch, he might see a nail shining. So
there! Do you know what preparedness is?” he added blightingly.
“Is it being able to tell time by the sun at night?” Simon asked.
“That shows how much you know!” Pee-wee shouted, almost beside himself.
“Suppose the sun should break—I mean your watch. You’d have the back of
it, wouldn’t you? And besides, I can tell when it’s twelve o’clock when
there isn’t any sun at all. Do you know how?”
“No, how?”
“By my stomach.”
“Do you mean laying a nail against it slanting-ways?”
“By my appetite,” Pee-wee yelled; “and it’s twelve o’clock now, _so
there_!”
“Your appetite is a little fast,” Simon said; “it’s half past eleven.”
“Well, anyway I have my appetite kind of set ahead,” Pee-wee explained.
So they went inside their cosy caravan and ate lunch.