Pee-wee started for North Deadham in full scout regalia, carrying a
duffel bag instead of a suitcase, wishing to detach himself as much as
possible from the manners and customs of civilization. A new feature of
his motley array was a can-opener dangling from his belt, intended to
suggest the rugged scout’s dependence on his own culinary art in the
dense wilderness. It was rather suggestive of Heinz 57 varieties.
On the train he made some memorandums in his scout report book looking
to the future government of his new patrol. The following is a sample.
If any hop-toad can’t learn the pace he has to have his legs tied
together for an hour.
Every feller that gets a new hop-toad gets a piece of chocolate but he
has to give it to his patrol leader for the treasury.
If a hop-toad can’t croak like a frog he has to be turned over on his
back and somebody sit on him till he croaks.
A hop-toad has to be given to the tom-cats if he can’t learn because the
tom-cats want more because they only have six.
On account of going fast hop-toads have to have sticks in their mouths.
I’m going to try to get tents near where the Robins were before the
other fellows chased them away.
When the train stopped at North Deadham, the girls of the Humane
Committee saw descending from it a diminutive figure clad in khaki, and
Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like him. His scout report book
bulged out of his pocket, his jack-knife and his compass and his
can-opener jangled in a kind of martial tune, his step was the step of a
conqueror. Beneath his flapping scout hat his curly hair showed and upon
his face was a frown, a terrible frown, the frown of a hero.
The only discordant note in the martial figure that he presented was the
stick of lemon candy which he was sucking. During his ride various
articles, chiefly edible, had been left upon his lap for inspection, and
he bought them all, and they now bulged and protruded here and there
upon his scout attire.
Removing the stick of lemon candy from his mouth, he contemplated the
girls who had come to meet him, uttered the single word “Hello” and
replaced the candy in his mouth.
“Did you _ever_ in your _life_?” gasped Sympathea.
“He is _certainly not_ an elephant,” said Dorothy.
“Or a Daniel Boone or a Buffalo Bill,” chimed in Miss Kindheart.
“I’d rather be myself than them,” said Pee-wee.
“Yes, why?” asked one of the reception committee anxiously.
“Because they’re dead.”
“Oh, we’re so glad to see you, Walter,” said Cousin Prudence, embracing
him till he rattled like a Ford car; “I thought you’d never, _never_,
come to see us. And you’ve won the animal first aid badge! Oh, isn’t
that perfectly _wonderful_!”
“I won a lot of others too,” Pee-wee said; “I’ve got nine badges. See
them on my sleeve? When the tenth one is put there I’ll be a star scout.
I’m going to be a patrol leader, too. I lost a marshmallow on that
train. Are you going to have that meeting to-night?”
“We certainly are and you’re going to be the main attraction. You’re
going to sit on the stage! Isn’t that just perfectly fine? I don’t
believe you’ve ever been on a stage, now have you? Do you think you’ll
be afraid?”
It was very hard for Pee-wee to admit that there was anything in the
world he hadn’t done; and to have it intimated that he, the actor in
_Double-crossed_, had never been on the stage, was as much as he could
bear. But he remembered his voluntary promise to his mother and modified
his answer.
“_Sure_, I’ve been on platforms and they’re the same as stages,” he
said; “only they’re kind of different. When we get our awards we have to
go on platforms. Do you think I’m scared of audiences? Gee whiz, they
won’t hurt you. I’m not even scared of bears and they’re not as bad as
audiences, that’s one thing sure.”
“But I mean a _regular stage_,” chirped Sympathea, “with woods painted
in back and everything.”
“I’ve even been lost in the woods,” Pee-wee announced proudly. “Do you
think I’m scared of painted woods? You can’t get lost in those. I’ve
been--I’ve been--_famished_ in the woods, when I was lost.”
“I thought scouts _never_ got lost,” Miss Dorothy Docile carolled forth.
“That shows you don’t know anything about them,” Pee-wee said
disdainfully; “they know all about getting lost; they get lost better
than anybody else. Then they find their way out by resourcefulness. Do
you know what that means?”
“Isn’t that perfectly _wonderful_?” said Miss Katherine Kindheart.
“That’s nothing,” Pee-wee said; “you go around in a circle when you get
lost; do you know why?”
“No, do tell us.”
“Because your heart is on your left side. You have to know all about
astronomy if you’re a scout.”
“That isn’t astronomy, that’s anatomy,” said Cousin Prudence.
“Woods is my middle name,” said Pee-wee.
“Isn’t that a perfectly _lovely_ name?” said Sympathea. “Walter Woods
Harris.”
“I don’t mean it’s really my middle name,” Pee-wee said. “Suppose I was
crazy about mince pie. I’d say my middle name was mince pie, but it
wouldn’t be Pee-wee, I mean Walter Mincepie Harris, would it?”
“And do you really go round in a circle when you get lost?” Cousin
Prudence asked him.
“S-u-re,” said Pee-wee conclusively, “your left side goes ahead of your
right side--”
“And what becomes of your right side?” Katherine asked.
“It comes along after your left side,” Pee-wee explained.
“And doesn’t it ever, _ever_ catch it?”
“No, so that’s why you go round in a circle; see? Now I’ll close my eyes
and try to go straight. I’ll show you.”
The demonstration of this item of scout lore was highly satisfactory and
very scoutish; for scouts are supposed to smile and Pee-wee’s escort of
honor did more than that, they screamed. Closing his eyes, Pee-wee
strode forward verging more and more toward the curb until he stumbled
and went head over heels into the gutter, where his feminine admirers
gathered about him, clamoring to aid the hero.
Pee-wee was equal to the occasion. “A scout is supposed to spread
mirth,” he said, rising and brushing the mud from his regalia. He had
certainly spread mirth as thoroughly as the mud was spread upon his
scout uniform. “I’ll tell you something else about anatomy too,” he
said. “Just then when I fell down in the mud it reminded me of it. Do
you know how many muscles it takes to make a smile?”
“No, do tell us,” said Cousin Prudence as she brushed him off, laughing
uncontrollably.
“Thirteen,” said Pee-wee.
“No wonder you were unlucky,” said Sympathea, shaking with laughter.
“It takes sixty-four muscles to make a frown,” Pee-wee continued. “So
you’re doing a lot of extra work if you frown,” he added, pulling up his
torn stocking.
The girls’ Humane Committee must have been of an economical turn, for
they did not use sixty-four muscles, or anything like that number. They
roared and screamed, and held their sides and brushed him off and
readjusted his official junk upon his diminutive person, and just kept
on laughing and laughing and laughing.