WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY
To translate some little red flashes of light and read a secret in them
was utterly beyond the comprehension of poor Pepsy. Here was a miracle
indeed, compared with which the prophecies and spooky adventures of
Licorice Stick were as nothing. And to win two hundred and fifty dollars
by such a supernatural feat was staggering to her simple mind.
Licorice Stick’s encounters with “sperrits” had never brought him a
cent. But deliberately to sacrifice this fabulous sum in the interest of
a poor little invalid that he had never seen, made Pee-wee not only a
prophet but a saint to poor Pepsy. If scouts did things like this they
were certainly extraordinary creatures. To give two hundred and fifty
dollars to a person who has boxed your ears and then to go merrily upon
your way in quest of new triumphs, that Pepsy could not understand.
The whole business had transpired so quickly that Pepsy had only seen
the two hundred and fifty dollars flying in the air, as it were, and now
they were poor again, even before they had realized their riches. And
there was Pee-wee sitting on the counter of their unprofitable little
roadside rest, with his knees drawn up, sucking a lemon stick (which
apparently no one else wanted) and discoursing on the subject of good
turns generally. There seemed to be nothing in his life now but the
lemon stick.
“You think girls can’t do good turns, don’t you?” Pepsy queried
wistfully.
Pee-wee removed the lemon stick from his mouth, critically inspecting
the sharp point which he had sucked it to. By a sort of vacuum process
he could sharpen a stick of candy till it rivaled a stenographer’s
pencil.
“Do you know what reciprical means?” he asked with an air of concealing
some staggering bit of wisdom.
“It’s a kind of a church,” Pepsy ventured.
“That’s Episcopal,” Pee-wee said with withering superiority, placing the
lemon stick carefully in his mouth again. This action was followed by a
sudden depression of both cheeks, like rubber balls from which the air
has escaped. He then removed the dagger-like lemon stick again to
observe it.
“If you have an apple and I have an apple and you give me yours, that’s
a good turn, isn’t it? And if I give you mine that’s another good turn,
isn’t it? And we’re both just as well off as we were before. That’s
recip—” He had to pause to lick some trickling lemon juice from his
chubby chin, “rical.”
Pepsy seemed greatly impressed, and Pee-wee continued his edifying
lecture. “I should worry about two hundred and fifty dollars because you
saw how people always get paid back only sometimes it isn’t so soon like
with the apples. Everything always comes out all right,” continued the
little optimist between tremendous sucks, “and if you’re going to get a
punch in the nose you get it, and you can see how Mr. Bungel got paid
back auto—what d’you call it?”
“Automobile?” Pepsy ventured.
“Automatically,” Pee-wee blurted out, catching a fugitive drop of lemon
juice as it was about to leave his chin. “Good turns are the same as bad
turns, only different. Do you see? I bet you can’t say _automatically_
while you’re sucking a lemon stick.”
“Is it a—a scout stunt?” Pepsy asked.
Pee-wee performed this astounding feat for her edification, catching the
liquid by-product with true scout agility. Whether from scout gallantry
or scout appetite, he did not put Pepsy to the test.
“I’m glad of it, anyway,” she said, “because now we can stay here and
have our store and there isn’t anybody like that pros—like that Mr.
Sawyer to be afraid of.”
“Do you think I’m afraid of prosecutors?” Pee-wee demanded to know. “I’m
not afraid of them any more than I’m afraid of June-bugs; I bet you’re
afraid of June-bugs.”
“I’m _not_,” she vociferated, tossing her red braids and looking very
brave.
“Then why should you be afraid of prosecutors? I wouldn’t be afraid of
anything that doesn’t sting.”
Pepsy said nothing, only thought. And Pee-wee said nothing, only sucked
the lemon stick, observing it from time to time, as its point became
more deadly.
“Maybe I’m not as brave as you are and can’t do things and I’m scared of
Baxter City, but I bet you I can think up as good turns as you can, so
there! And if you promise to stay here I’ll make it so lots of people
will come and you can buy the tents and that will be a good turn, won’t
it? You said if you make up your mind to do a thing you can do it.”
“I wouldn’t take back what I said,” said Pee-wee, finishing the lemon
stick by a terrible sudden assault with his teeth.
“Well, then, _so there_, Mr. Smarty,” she said with an air of triumph,
“I’m going to do a good turn, you see, because I made up my mind to it
good and hard, and we’ll make lots and lots of money. So do you promise
to stay here and keep on being partners? Do you cross your heart you
will?”
If Pee-wee had been as observant of Pepsy as he was used to being of
signs along a trail he might have noticed that her eyes were all ablaze
and that her little, thin, freckly wrist trembled. But how should he
know that his own carelessly uttered words had burned themselves into
her very soul? “_If you make up your mind to do a thing you can do it._”