Produced by Roger Frank and Sue Clark (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive
[Illustration: THE ADVERTISING DEPARTMENT OF PEPSY’S REST HAD TWO STEADY
EMPLOYEES.]
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PEE-WEE HARRIS
BY
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
Author of
THE TOM SLADE BOOKS
THE ROY BLAKELEY 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
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Copyright, 1922, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
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TO THE ONLY ORIGINAL—THE
REAL PEE-WEE HARRIS—THIS
STORY IS DEDICATED.
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FOREWORD
Hey, listen!
A lot of scouts said I was put out of the Tom Slade Series and so I had
to go into the Roy Blakeley Series. And a lot of them said I was put out
of the Roy Blakeley Series and that on account of that I started a
series of my own. They said I had to get the author who wrote up Tom
Slade’s adventures to help me. And a lot of them said if I didn’t look
out, I’d be put out of this series, too.
That shows how much sense they have, because how can a person that’s the
main thing in a thing put himself out of that thing? Anyway, I’d like to
see anybody put me out of this series. If they tried that it would be
the best part of all the stories.
Maybe when this series is finished I’ll be the only one left in it, but
a lot I care because the fewer fellers there are the more there will be
to eat. Roy Blakeley said if I’m writing a series the most important
thing is to write close to the paper—that shows you how crazy he is. Gee
whiz! He looks like a laughing hyena on the covers of those books he’s
all the time writing.
Tom Slade isn’t so bad. I like Tom Slade. Only he doesn’t know anything
about girls—that’s one thing—I know all about them.
Last summer I went down to where my uncle lives and spent vacation there
and I had a peach of a time and all the things I did are told in the
first story, but there are a lot of things left over and I’m going to
tell these in another story. There are snakes and peach orchards and
everything down there.
Then comes the second story and that’s about a dandy mistake I made. Gee
whiz! I’ve made better mistakes than any feller in our troop. I didn’t
make it on purpose, but anyway it led to a lot of dandy adventures.
That’s one good thing about mistakes, anyway. But one thing sure, if I
had got into the right automobile I would have just gone about two
blocks. So that shows that the wrong one may even be better than the
right one. Only you bet I’m not going to tell you all about that story
here.
Then comes the third one and that’s the one where I started the Pollywog
Patrol. It didn’t last long, but that’s all right, because pollywogs
don’t last long. It wasn’t a full patrol, except we were full of
dessert—three helpings. If you want plenty of dessert you’d better read
that story.
After that story comes the fourth one and there’s where I made the
dandiest mistake I ever made. Another feller helped me make it. On
account of that mistake a girl was good and sorry for the way she
treated me and I bet you’d say it served her right. But anyway we’re
good friends now.
Then comes the fifth story and that’s the craziest one of all because
that’s the story where I didn’t go to a desert island on account of the
desert island coming to me.
After the fifth one the stories get crazier and crazier. Maybe there’ll
be as many as a hundred because I’ve got lots of paper and a new
fountain pen and I’m having more adventures all the time. I’ve got
ninety-seven of them thought up already—I mean adventures that I really
had. And I’ve got a hundred and fifty-two thought up that I’m going to
have, and that’s not counting one big one that I’ve started on already.
So the only thing that will stop me will be if I don’t have any more
paper, but even then I can go on writing, because scouts can write on
birch bark and you can see for yourself how many birch trees there are.
As long as there are some birch trees left I can keep on writing, so
don’t you worry.
Pee-wee Harris.
P. S. Scouts know how to make paper out of leaves, too, so as long as
there are leaves I can keep on writing.
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CONTENTS
I THE BATTLE OF THE BANANA
II A TRAGIC PREDICAMENT
III AN INVITATION
IV HE GOES TO CONQUER
V ENTER PEPSY
VI THE WAY OF THE SCOUT
VII A BIG IDEA
VIII MAKING PLANS
IX IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE
X DEADWOOD GAMELY TALKS BUSINESS
XI TWO IS A COMPANY—THREE IS BAD LUCK
XII THE ADVERTISING DEPARTMENT
XIII PEPSY’S SECRET
XIV SUSPENSE
XV SIX MERRY MAIDENS
XVI A REVELATION
XVII HARD TIMES
XVIII THE VOICE OF THE TAIL-LIGHT
XIX THE OTHER VOICE
XX AN OFFICIAL REBUKE
XXI SCOUT HARRIS FIXES IT
XXII FATE IS JUST
XXIII WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY
XXIV PEPSY’S ENTERPRISE
XXV AN ACCIDENT
XXVI PEPSY’S INVESTMENT
XXVII SEEN IN THE DARK
XXVIII STOCK ON HAND
XXIX INDUSTRIAL CONDITIONS
XXX PAID IN FULL
XXXI CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
XXXII THE CLEW
XXXIII THE TRAMPLED TRAIL
XXXIV THE TRAIL’S END
XXXV EXIT
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PEE-WEE HARRIS
CHAPTER I
THE BATTLE OF THE BANANA
Pee-wee Harris, mascot of the Raven Patrol, First Bridgeboro Troop, sat
upon the lowest limb of the tree in front of his home eating a banana.
To maintain his balance it was necessary for him to keep a tight hold
with one hand on a knotty projection of the trunk while with the other
he clutched his luscious refreshment.
The safety of his small form as he sat on the shaky limb depended upon
his hold of the trunk, while the tremendous responsibility of holding
his banana devolved upon the other hand.
Pee-wee was so much smaller than he should have been and the banana so
much larger than it should have been that they might almost be said to
have been of the same size.
The slender limb on which Pee-wee sat trembled and creaked with each
enormous bite that he took.
The bright morning sunlight, wriggling through the foliage overhead,
picked out the round face and curly hair of our young hero and showed
him in all his pristine glory, frowning a terrible frown, clinging for
dear life with one hand and engaged in his customary occupation of
eating.
He had ascended to this leafy throne with the banana in his pocket but
he could not restore it to his pocket now even if he wished to. However,
he did not wish to. In a military sense he was in a predicament; both
arms were in bad strategic position and his center exposed to assault.
His leafy throne was like many another throne in these eventful
times—extremely shaky.
But the commissary department was in fine shape....
* * * * *
Suddenly the expeditionary forces of Uncle Sam appeared in the form of
the postman, who paused on his way across the lawn to the house.
“Hello, up there,” he said, suddenly discovering Pee-wee.
“Hello yourself and see how you like it,” the mascot of the Ravens
called down.
“I saw a banana up there and I thought maybe you were behind it,” the
postman called, as he looked among the pack of letters he held in his
hand.
“It’s only half a banana,” Pee-wee shouted.
“Well, you’re only half a scout,” the postman said; “you’d better drop
it, here’s a letter for you.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
Steadying himself, Pee-wee took an enormous bite, considerably reducing
the length of the banana. “Wait a minute till I finish it,” he said as
best he could with his mouth full. “Waaer-mint.”
“Can’t wait,” the postman said, heartlessly moving away.
“Waymnt,” Pee-wee yelled, frantically taking another bite;
“wayermntdyehear, waymnt!”
“Do you think the government can wait for you to finish a banana?” the
postman demanded with a wicked grin upon his face. “You got two hands;
here, take the letter if you want it; here it is,” he added, reaching
up.
Pee-wee tried to dispatch the remainder of the banana by one gigantic
and triumphant bite but the desperate expedient did not work; his mouth
with all its long practice, could not keep up with his hand; it became
clogged while yet a considerable length of banana projected out of the
gracefully drooping rind.
“Here, take it,” the postman said in a tone of ruthless finality.
Chewing frantically and waving the remainder of banana menacingly like a
club, the baffled hero uttered some incomprehensible, imploring jumble
of suffocated words while the postman moved away a step or two,
repressing a fiendish smile.
“Throw away the banana,” he said.
By this time Pee-wee was able to speak and while his chewing apparatus
was momentarily disengaged he demanded to know if the postman thought he
was crazy. The postman, resolved not to miss the fun of the situation,
was not going to let Pee-wee take another bite; time was precious, and
two more bites of the sort that Pee-wee took might leave his hand free.
“Take the letter,” he said with an air of cold determination, “or I’ll
leave it at the house. Here, take it quick; I’ve no time to waste.”
“Do you want me to waste a banana,” Pee-wee yelled imploringly; “a scout
is supposed—”
“Here, take it,” the postman said.
There followed the most terrible moment in the life of Pee-wee Harris,
Scout. He knew that one more bite would be fatal, that the postman would
not wait. In two bites, or in three at most, he could finish the banana
and his hand would be free.
How could a postman, who brings joy to the lonely, words of love from
far away, cheer to those who wait, comfort from across the seas, _Boys’
Life Magazine_—how could such a being be so relentless and cruel? If
that letter were left at the house, Pee-wee would have to go to the
house and get it, and there his mother was lying in ambush waiting to
pounce upon him and make him mow the lawn. Why would not the postman
wait for just two bites? Maybe he could do it in one. He had consumed a
peach in one bite and a ham sandwich in four—his star record.
He made a movement with his hand, and simultaneously the postman
retreated a step or two toward the house. Pee-wee tried releasing his
hold upon the trunk with the other hand and almost lost his balance on
the shaky limb.
“Here,” said the postman, unyielding, “chuck the banana and take the
letter or you’ll find it waiting for you in the front hall. It’s an
important letter, it feels as if it had a couple of cookies in it.” The
postman knew Pee-wee. “Here you go,” the torturer said grimly, “take it
or not, suit yourself.”
“Can’t you see both hands are busy?” the victim pled. “Two bites—a scout
is supposed not to waste anything—he’s supposed—he’s supposed—_wait_ a
minute—he’s supposed if he starts a thing to finish it—_wait!_ I’m not
going to take a bite, I’m only giving you an argument—can’t you wait—”
“Here you go, last chance, take it,” the postman said, a faint smile
hovering at the corner of his mouth, “one, two, —”
Out of Pee-wee’s wrath and anguish came an inspiration. “Stick the
letter in the banana,” he said, holding the banana down.
“I don’t know about that,” the postman said, ruefully.
“I know about it,” Pee-wee thundered down at him. “You said I had to
take it or not; that letter belongs to me and you have to deliver it.
This banana, it’s—it’s the same as a mail box—you stick the letter in
the banana. You think you’re so smart, you thought you’d make me throw
away the banana, _naaah_, didn’t you? I wouldn’t do that, not even
for—for—secretary—for the postmaster-general, I wouldn’t! A scout has
resource.”
“All right, you win,” said the postman, good-humoredly, “only look out
you don’t fall; here you go, hold on tight.”
Clutching to the knotty projection of trunk, Pee-wee reached the other
hand as low as he could and the postman, smiling, stuck the corner of
the coveted letter into the mealy substance of the banana.
“You win,” the postman repeated laughingly; “it shows what Scout Harris
can do with food.”
“Food will win the war,” Pee-wee shouted. “You thought you could make me
throw away my banana but you couldn’t. I knew a man that died from not
eating a banana, I did.”
“Explain all that,” the postman said.
“He threw a banana away on his porch instead of eating it and later he
stepped on it and slid down the steps and broke his leg and they took
him to the hospital and compilations set in and he got pneumonia and
died from not eating that banana. So there!”
“That’s a very fine argument,” the postman said as he went away.
“I know better ones than that!” Pee-wee shouted after him.