Pee-wee had the freedom of the cooking shack. Being a specialist on
eats, he was honored with this privilege. It was like a college degree
conferred upon him, in testimony of his wonderful achievements in the
world of food. He now sat upon a flour barrel strategically near a
dishpan full of cookies. As he talked his hand made occasional flank
movements in the direction of this pan. Sometimes he captured some
prisoners.
“That offer still holds good,” he said, as he munched a cookie, “because
you never took it back. So it’s open yet?... Isn’t it?” he concluded
anxiously.
“It’s open yet, Massa Pee-wee, coze it ain’t never been done nor ever
will n’ it was jes’ a joke n’ a lot of nonsense ’n’ you better not try
it coze ’f you do you’ll jes get dem feet of yourn wet ’n’ Chocolate
Drop he hev ter put cough mixture in dem cakes. How you like dat, Massa
Pee-wee?”
“Anyway will you cross your heart that if any feller hikes scout pace
around the lake in an hour he can have three helpings of dessert for the
rest of the time he stays?”
“So dats th’ kind of a insperize you got?” Chocolate Drop laughed,
showing his white teeth and placing his flour covered hand on Pee-wee’s
khaki shirt. “Dere’s my hand on it, Massa Pee-wee. You jes’ go scout
pace around dat lake in sixty minutes n’ you get dat three helpings all
de time you here. You hear that?”
“Or any other scout?”
“Das it,” laughed Chocolate Drop.
“Three helpings? Regular size ones?”
“You ain’t nebber see no other sizes hab you, roun’ here?”
“All right,” said Pee-wee, jumping off the barrel and beating the flour
from his shirt, “you’re a scout just as much as anybody else here is,
because Mr. Temple says that the rules are for everybody that has
anything to do with scouting, and the rule says a scout has to keep his
word, see?”
“It don’t say nuthin’ ’bout him keeping cookies, does it?” the cook
asked. “Here, you take a pocketful ’n’ doan’ you lose no sleep ’bout ole
Chocolate Drop keepin’ his word coze he _am_ a scout. ’N’ you come back
here with your paper signed ’n’ you get rations for one week, _’n’
extrees_. Now how’s dat?”
That was perfectly satisfactory and Pee-wee returned to the float where
a curious throng of scouts was assembled. The two little hop-toads
seemed rather embarrassed to be the center of so much interest.
Tom Slade was also there considering the seaworthy qualities of the old
float. He found the four barrels (one under each corner) filled with
water which had kept the staves tight, and it was only necessary to pump
the water out to have as bouyant a raft as one could want, its flooring
well clear of the surface of the water. So gayly did it ride when it was
pushed in that it seemed more likely to go up in the air than to sink.
As for tipping over, a ferry-boat was cranky compared with it. It was in
no more peril of capsizing than a turtle is.
In the presence of the curious multitude (rivaling the watchers who had
seen the Pilgrim Fathers depart), the food (properly requisitioned) was
put on board, the tent was raised, and a couple of old grocery boxes and
a dilapidated camp stool contributed as deck furniture. Nor was this
all; for Tom Slade, always careful and thorough, made the two small
followers of the great adventurer swim from the float to the springboard
to determine their skill in that necessary art.
Since nothing less than a volcanic upheaval could capsize the float, the
only danger seemed to be that of falling off it. This danger was greatly
minimized by the placid character of the lake which was usually as
gentle as a cup of tea. It would have been difficult for this gallant
bark to drift out to sea by reason of the surrounding mountains which
completely enclosed the little lake. The only real peril lay in the
possibility of a storm so terrific as to lift the float and blow it over
the mountains. But even then it would stand a good chance of alighting
in the Hudson River and being stopped before it reached New York. For
the rest, as young Mr. Slade said dryly, the reckless voyagers would
have to take their chances.
Behold, then, the new Hop-toad Patrol standing on the deck of their gay
platform as it bobbed near the shore, with Scout Harris, a patrol leader
at last, posing defiantly upon a keg of assorted edibles and raw
materials for cooking. Under one arm he held a tin lock-box (for what
terrible purpose no one knew), while in his hand he held an apple
(extracted from the keg), for what purpose everybody knew.
“What’s the big idea, kid?” some flippant scout called.
“Don’t hurry back,” called another.
This encouraged a laughing chorus as the float drifted out upon the
lake.
“Come over and see us some time when you can’t stay.”
“If you happen to be passing we’ll be glad to see you--pass.”
“Remember, the other side of the lake is best for camping.”
“What’s the tin box for? Buried treasure?”
“Speech, speech!” half a dozen yelled.
“No hard feeling, is there?” one clear, earnest voice called. It was
that of the new raving Raven, Billy Simpson. “You sure about plenty of
fun?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Pee-wee shouted at the boy who had succeeded him in the
patrol. He scorned to answer any of the others. “I’m pronouncing the
world--”
“He means denouncing,” said a scout.
“Do you mean renouncing?” another called.
“I’ll give you a tip,” he called to Billy Simpson; “because I’m not mad
at you on account of your joining--”
“He’s more to be pitied than blamed,” Roy Blakeley shouted.
“It’s better than if he was in the Silver Foxes,” Pee-wee screamed.
“Hey, Billy Simpson, you look for a bottle with invisible writing and
hold it over the campfire, so that proves I’m not sore at you! _It’s a
mystery._”
“A how?” several called.
“We’re going to make a fortune,” Pee-wee yelled defiantly. “We’re going
to be the richest patrol--”
“On the other side of Black Lake,” a laughing voice called.
“You’d better all look at regulation seven,” Pee-wee shouted; “you’d
better all look at regulation seven, that’s all _I_ say!”
His mouth now embraced the remainder of his apple in a touching, last
farewell. His voice was stifled by the clinging core. Then, in a kind of
agony of parting forever, he threw the core from him and it floated
through the air like a thrown kiss, and landed plunk in one of the
twinkling eyes of Roy Blakeley, patrol leader of the Silver Foxes.
The Hop-toad Patrol was off upon its great adventure.