SCOUT HARRIS FIXES IT
Perhaps you will say that Pee-wee was not a good scout to speak with
such impudent assurance to his elders. But you are to remember what I
told you about Pee-wee, that everything about him was tremendous except
his size. He was not always the ideal scout in little things. He was a
true scout in the big things.
When he reached the shack he found Pepsy waiting for him and he poured
forth his grievance into her sympathetic ears. “I’ll fix him all right,”
he said; “he’s a coward, that’s what he is, and he needn’t think I’m
afraid of him. I’ll get even with him all right. Whenever I make up my
mind to do a thing I do it, that’s one thing sure.”
“Only we didn’t make a success of our refreshment parlor,” Pepsy
ventured to say, “but just the same we’re going to because—”
“What do _I_ care about it?” Pee-wee vociferated. “I know a way to get
two hundred and fifty dollars and that’s more money than we’d ever make
in this old place. And I’ll have you for my partner just the same. I’m
going to get two hundred and fifty dollars all at once.”
“Can I see it when you get it?” Pepsy asked.
“You can have half of it because we’re partners,” Pee-wee said,
recovering something of his former spirits as this new prospect opened
before him.
“Can’t we have the refreshment parlor any more?” Pepsy asked wistfully.
“Because, honest and true, we’re going to make lots and lots of money in
it; I know a way—”
“Listen, Pepsy,” Pee-wee said. “Do you know what the Morse Code is? It’s
the language they use when they telegraph. Scouts have to know all about
that. Do you remember when I said _hide Kelly’s barn_ last night? That’s
what that first feller said to the other one who was stuck. Didn’t you
notice how his little red light kept flashing away up the road? That’s
what it meant. They’re hiding in Kelly’s barn and nobody knows it.
“There’s a sign in the post office and it says they’ll give two hundred
and fifty dollars to anybody who tells where they are. Do you think I’d
tell Beriah Bungel?” he added contemptuously. “I’m going to tell a man
named Sawyer, he’s the county prosecutor, he lives in Baxter City. Only
we have to go right away. I’m going back with the mail car to Baxter. Do
you want to go? If you do you have to hurry up.”
The last time that Pepsy had appeared before an official-of-the-law she
had been sent to the big brick building and she was naturally wary of
prosecutors, judges and such people. Suppose Mr. Sawyer should order
herself and Pee-wee to the gallows for meddling in these dark,
mysterious matters. Pee-wee read this in her face.
“Don’t be scared,” he said manfully; “I wouldn’t let anybody hurt you.
My father knows a man that’s a judge and he tells jokes and has two
helpings of dessert and everything just like other people. Prosecutors
aren’t so bad, gee whiz, they’re better than poison-ivy; they’re better
than school principals anyway, that’s sure. You see, I’ll handle him all
right.”
Pepsy’s thoughts wandered to the six merry maidens whom Pee-wee had
“handled” with such astounding skill. “Can’t we have our refreshment
parlor any more?” she asked, with a note of homesickness for the little
place they had decorated with such high hope. “If you’ll wait, if you’ll
wait as much as—two weeks—lots and lots and lots and lots of people will
come—”
But Pee-wee was not to be deterred by sentiment and false hope. “Don’t
you want us to have two hundred and fifty dollars?” he asked scornfully.
“Don’t you want us to buy those tents?” This was too much for Pepsy. She
grasped Pee-wee’s hand, following him reluctantly, as she gave a wistful
look back at their little wayside shelter. The “stock” had not been set
out for the day and the bare counter made the place look forlorn and
deserted as they went away.
“It’s a blamed sight easier than running a refreshment parlor,” Pee-wee
said; “it’s just like picking the money up in the street. All we have to
do is to go to Mr. Sawyer’s office and tell him and—”
“You have to go in first,” said Pepsy.
Pee-wee’s enthusiasm was contagious and Pepsy was soon keyed up to the
new enterprise, even to the point of facing Mr. Sawyer. She had
cautiously resolved, however, to remain close to the door of his office,
so that she might effect a precipitate retreat at the first mention of
an orphan asylum.
Whatever Pee-wee did must be right and she saw now that two hundred and
fifty dollars won in the twinkling of an eye was better than life spent
in the retail trade. Yet she could not help thinking wistfully and
fondly of their little enterprise and its cosy headquarters.
They sat on a rock by the roadside waiting for the mailman’s auto to
come along. Once in that Pepsy felt that her fate would be sealed. She
had never been away from Everdoze since she had first been taken there.
Baxter City was a vast place which she had seen in her dreams, a place
where people were arrested and run over and where the constables were
dressed up like soldiers. She clung tight to Pee-wee’s hand.
“I hate him, too,” she said, referring to Beriah Bungel, “and it will
serve him right if Whitie dies and I just hope he does, because his
father hit you.”
“Who’s Whitie?” Pee-wee asked.
“He’s Mr. Bungel’s little boy and he’s all white because he’s sick, and
they can’t take him to a great big place in the city so they can make
him all well again and it just serves him right and I’m glad they
haven’t got any money. Everybody says he’s going to die and Licorice
Stick knows he’s going to die in a rainstorm on a Friday, that’s what he
said.”
This information about a little boy who was so pale that they called him
Whitie, and who was going to die in a rainstorm on a Friday was all new
to Pee-wee.
“Licorice Stick is crazy,” he said. “What does he know about dying? He
never died, did he?” This brilliant argument appeared to impress Pepsy.
“If they took him to a hospital in New York then he wouldn’t have to die
because they could fix him,” Pepsy said. “I heard Aunt Jamsiah say so.
There are doctors there that can fix people all well again.”
“I bet I’m as good a fixer as they are,” Pee-wee said; “I fixed lots of
people; I fixed a whole patrol once.”
“So they wouldn’t die?”
“They thought they were smart but I fixed them.”
“Fixing smarties is different,” said Pepsy. “If people have something
the matter with their hips you can’t fix them. Because, anyway, if
they’re going to die on a Friday even snail water won’t fix them.”
“Snail water, what’s that?”
“It’s medicine made from snails; Licorice Stick knows how to make it.
You have to stir it with a willow stick and then you get well quick.”
“How can you get well quick when snails are slow?” Pee-wee asked. “That
shows that Licorice Stick is crazy. It would be better to make it with
lightning-bugs.”
“Lightning-bugs mean there are ghosts around,” said Pepsy; “the
lightning-bugs are their eyes. But anyway, just the same, nobody can fix
Whitie Bungel, because the doctor from Baxter said so, and he knows
because he’s got an automobile.”
“Automobiles don’t prove you know a lot,” said Pee-wee.
“Just the same Whitie is going to die,” said Pepsy, “and then you’ll
see, because when my mother didn’t have any money _she_ died, so there.”
Pee-wee did not answer; he appeared to be thinking. And so the minutes
passed as they sat there on the rock by the roadside, waiting for the
mailman’s auto to take them to Baxter City.
“Do you say I can’t fix it?” he finally demanded. “Maybe you think
scouts can’t fix things. They know first aid, scouts do. I can fix that
little feller; maybe you think I can’t. You come with me, I’ll show you.
Scouts—scouts can do things—they’re better than snails and
lightning-bugs. I’ll show you what they can do; you come with me.”
“Ain’t you going to wait for the mailman?”
“No, I’m not. You come with me.”
This apparent desertion of another cherished enterprise all in the one
day, took poor Pepsy quite by storm. She did not understand the workings
of Pee-wee’s active and fickle mind. But she followed his sturdy little
form dutifully as he trudged up the road and into a certain lane.
On he went, like a redoubtable conqueror with Pepsy after him. To her
consternation he went straight up to the kitchen door, yes, of Constable
Beriah Bungel’s humble abode! Pepsy stood behind him in a kind of daze
and heard his resounding knock as in a dream. Then suddenly to her
dismay and terror she saw Beriah Bungel himself standing in the open
doorway looking fiercely down at the little khaki-clad scout.
“Mr. Bungel,” she heard as she stood gaping and listening and ready to
run at the terrible official’s first move, “Mr. Bungel, if you want to
know where those two fellers are that stole the motorcycles, they’re
hiding in Kelly’s barn and I guess they’ll stay there till dark. So if
you want to go and get them you’ll get two hundred and fifty dollars as
long as you don’t say who told you where they are.”
Without another word he turned and trudged away along the path, Pepsy
following after him, too astonished to speak.