THE THIRD HOUSE
Pee-wee collapsed like a balloon. “_Snailsdale Manor_?” he gasped. “Are
you sure he counted right?”
“Absolutely,” said Fuller, cheerily. “We’re in luck; we’re going to have
our fun at rock bottom rates. That’s better than last summer, Ray.
Fifteen dollars each was it? So far all is well, if not better. Cut rate
adventure is my middle name.”
“It’s better than I expected,” said Ray, apparently not the least
surprised or disappointed.
“We should not be carried away by our good fortune,” said Fuller;
“things may go wrong yet.”
“What do you mean, _go wrong yet_?” Pee-wee thundered. “They did
already, didn’t they? Gee whiz, I’ve been to Snailsdale Manor. What are
we going to do when we get there? It’s a town! I’d like to know what
we’re going to do there.”
“Shoot wildcats and send post cards down to the farm,” said Ray. “You
might take a snapshot of the post office.”
“We can never get lost,” Pee-wee enunciated despairingly.
“We can have a lot of fun not getting lost,” said Ray.
“Absolutely,” said Fuller.
“That place is no good!” Pee-wee shouted. “I’d rather go back to the
farm.”
“Scout,” said Fuller, “that is a historic spot; I’m glad we’re going
there. Next to the Fiji Islands there’s no place I’d rather go to except
Bronx Park. It’s the scene of Scout Harris’ famous battle with the
Snailsdalians. It’s where Braggen’s straw-hat was utterly
destroyed—reduced to straws—like Reims Cathedral. We can visit the
battle-ground. Do you know, Ray, the more I think of it the gladder I am
that we’re going up to Snailsdale. I know I always said that one place
is as good as another if not better, but Snailsdale is better still. Not
getting lost, for instance; there’s an adventure for you, already.”
“Positively,” said Ray.
“Maybe in the very next pigeon-hole were tickets to Seiminole Glen,”
said Pee-wee gloomily. “I heard Mr. Goodale say there is a cave there
that nobody has ever penetrated.”
“We had a narrow escape,” said Fuller.
“Do you mean to tell me you’re _glad_ we’re going to Snailsdale Manor?”
Pee-wee demanded, in utter exasperation. “You said you were so crazy
about adventures! Gee _whiz_!”
“Scout,” said Fuller, “I said we didn’t care where we went. You know our
motto. The fun is in your head—or else it isn’t. That ticket agent
wouldn’t have any fun at a circus. Look at that girl pal of yours; she
went after _something_ and see what she got. We take what comes; we’re
true to our colors. We’ve got that word disappointment bound hand and
foot. We chased it back to the dictionary where it belongs. What do you
know about adventures? Do you think they grow in the woods—on trees?
Where I live a man was murdered in the back yard of a kindergarten.”
“It was a good murder, too,” said Ray.
“One of the best,” said Fuller. “Don’t talk to me about desert islands.
You’ve got the wrong idea, Scout. Wherever you go is the best place. Now
are you with us or not?”
Pee-wee was no quitter, but he was keenly disappointed and he showed it.
He felt that he was deceived. The thing had not worked out at all. He
would get a compass. He would not be caught in a trap like this again.
He would know where he was going, always.
He could not understand how these two friends of his could be such good
losers. But indeed they did not consider themselves losers. He did not
see how they could be as cheerful and hopeful as if they were going into
the Canadian Woods. They did not seem the least disappointed; they just
did not care two cents. Pee-wee could never make out how much of their
talk was serious, but their theory about travel and adventure was
certainly standing the test.
“We are more important than adventures are, so we don’t go after them,”
said Ray; “we make them come after us.”
They always agreed with each other, these two, and seemed to be
perfectly at peace with chance and fate.
“Exactly so, Ray,” said Fuller; “and luck is always with us.”
“Never fails,” said Ray.
Pee-wee did not see how it could be otherwise since whatever happened
was the thing they wanted. That was how they found out what they wanted.
It was a game that could not be beaten. But poor Pee-wee felt beaten
because he had hoped where they had not. He would not desert them, not
he, but his spirits fell and he was glum and unresponsive.
“Scout,” said Fuller, “nobody knows where he is at or what he’s up
against in this world. A friend of mine was wounded seven times in the
World War, he escaped capture nine times, a bullet hit his suspender
buckle instead of his heart, and he came home and got a splinter in his
foot and died from blood-poisoning.”
“Do you call that an argument?” Pee-wee said contemptuously.
They sat on a baggage truck on the platform waiting for the train,
Pee-wee frowning and silent, the others talking gayly as if they were
going hunting for big game in Africa.
“What can I tell Pocahontas Gamer I did at Snailsdale?” he demanded
sullenly. “She’ll only laugh at me.”
“You haven’t come away from there yet,” said Ray; “we may be all killed
in a railroad accident yet.”
“But we can’t count on it,” said Fuller; “the Snailsdale branch is so
uncertain. Let’s see, we go back north, don’t we? All around the
mulberry bush, hey?”
After a tiresome ride of about five minutes the main line train switched
their car over to a siding at Woodsend Junction where the Snailsdale
branch train picked it up some time later. In the fulness of time they
made Hickson Crossing, then Hawley’s, then passed the road where the
phantom station had hidden coyly in the fog, and were then on the home
stretch for Snailsdale Manor. They were, in point of fact, nearer to the
farm than they had been at Westover, but Ray and Fuller arose, stretched
themselves, brushed off their clothing and glanced out of the car window
as if they were beholding a strange and foreign scene. This greatly
exasperated Pee-wee.
“This is a pleasant looking place,” said Fuller; “I hope the natives
will prove friendly.”
“They’re nothing but a lot of porch lizards,” Pee-wee said.
“Good,” said Ray, “I was afraid there wouldn’t be any animals here at
all.”
“I dare say we can find a seal if we go to the notary public’s office,”
said Fuller.
“How about that, Scout?” queried Ray.
But Scout did not answer. He seemed to be thinking. Suddenly his voice
arose like tropical thunder, “_Now you see!_” he said. “_It serves you
right! It serves you right! The third house up the road is the
Snailsdale House! So there!_ You see those two houses? There isn’t
another one till you get to the Snailsdale House and we’ve got to stay a
whole week where there are a lot of old ladies! Now you see what you get
for not knowing where we’re at. And that girl is there, too, and now
she’ll meet you. _Now you see!_ Now you see what you get for not having
respect for destinations!”