THE CLEW
Pee-wee never knew until now how much he cared about his little
companion of the summer and how little he cared about their roadside
enterprise except so far as she was concerned in it.
All morning the almost continuous procession passed along the road
reviewed by a gaping assemblage on the platform in front of the post
office. Many motorists who read the enticing promises along the way
paused for refreshment only to find the little rustic shelter bare and
deserted.
But they were not the only ones to be disappointed. Upon the front porch
of Doctor Killem’s house there sat in a wheel chair the queerest little
figure ever seen outside of a soup advertisement. He was of the kewpie
type, all head and eyes, and he had a kind of ridiculous air of stern
authority about him as he sat all bundled up in blankets soberly
reviewing the passing cars. So odd and gnomelike was he that he might
have stepped out of the pages of “Alice in Wonderland.” He would have
made a good radiator ornament on an automobile.
This, you will know, was little Whitie Bungel, who seemed not at all
disconcerted at being elsewhere than in his own home. He had been moved
about so much without any exertion on his own part that he was quite at
home anywhere.
Though Pee-wee had spoken in high hope to Pepsy about their unexpected
and glowing prospects, he was haunted by thoughts of the terrible thing
which was to happen on the morrow. Pepsy was to be taken away, back to
the big brick building which she hated, just as the planks of the old
bridge had foretold.
Pee-wee’s loyalty was so staunch that he did not even consider the
things his aunt had said. He was going to save Pepsy from that place and
make her the sharer of the fortune that was within their grasp. He made
this resolve with the same generous impulse as that which had caused him
to put two hundred and fifty dollars within the reach of Mr. Bungel who
had boxed his ears.
“I’m lucky,” he said to himself as he trudged down to the post office;
“I’ll fix things all right. I’ll show them; I don’t care, I’ll show
them. They won’t take her back to that place, not while I’m around.”
He did not know how he was going to prevent this but he had unbounded
faith in his capacity to fix things and in his good luck.
So, as he trudged along, stepping out of the way of many cars, he came
to the home of Doctor Killem.
“Hello, soldier,” piped up a little thin voice upon the porch.
“I’m not a soldier,” said Pee-wee.
“My father can arrest people,” said the little gnome, looking straight
ahead of him.
“That doesn’t prove I’m a soldier,” said Pee-wee.
“You’ve got a uniform,” said the gnome. “I’m not afraid of soldiers. My
father’s got a lot of money, he’s got two hundred and fifty dollars and
I’m not going to get dead.”
“Where’s your father?” Pee-wee asked.
“He’s up the road and he’s going to catch people and put them in jail.”
“Is he?”
“Why do you say ‘Is he?’ I didn’t go to the hospital last night. Do you
want to know why?” He asked questions as if they were riddles.
“Yes, why?” Pee-wee asked, half interested.
“Because the bridge burned down. Do you like bridges?”
“It isn’t a question of whether a person likes them or not,” Pee-wee
said, preoccupied with his own sorrow and worry, yet amused in spite of
himself at this queer little fellow.
“Yes it is,” said Whitie Bungel.
“All right then, it is,” said Pee-wee.
“Why did you say it wasn’t?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I guess I was thinking of something else.”
“What were you thinking of?”
“Oh, I don’t know—nothing.”
“Why did you say you were?”
“You didn’t tell me about why you didn’t go to the hospital last night.”
“I can see things that other folks can’t see,” Whitie announced.
“You’re like Licorice Stick,” said Pee-wee.
“He’s black,” Whitie said.
“I know he is.”
“Then how am I like him? I’m white. My name is Whitie.”
Pee-wee felt like a prisoner at the bar of justice with this little
personage swathed in blankets, staring down at him. His wrappings
covered his neck and all that could be seen of him was his face,
perfectly motionless. Finally he said as if he were pronouncing
sentence.
“Doctor Killem took me in his auto. We had to turn around and come back
when we came to the bridge burning down. He’s going to take me another
way. I saw a man getting dead.”
“Where?” Pee-wee asked, his interest somewhat aroused.
“Will you give me that tin thing if I tell you?”
“That isn’t a tin thing, it’s a compass, it tells you which way to go.”
“Can it talk?”
“No, it can’t talk.”
“Then how can it tell you?”
“It points its finger.”
“You’re crazy.”
“All right,” Pee-wee laughed in spite of himself. “You tell me about the
man getting dead and I’ll give you the tin thing.”
“He was lying down in the bushes and wriggling.”
“Where? Near the bridge?” Pee-wee asked.
“Doctor Killem didn’t see him and he laughed at me. He said I was seeing
things. Can you wriggle? I looked back out of the window and saw him.”
“Did you tell your father about it?” Pee-wee asked, hardly knowing what
to think of this information.
“My mother made him give her the two hundred and fifty dollars so I
wouldn’t get dead. Do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up?”
“No; what?”
“A giant.”
“Well, you’d better hurry up about it.”
“Do you know where my father got that two hundred and fifty dollars?”
“Where?”
“It was a prize for catching thieves. _You_ can’t catch thieves.”
“I know it,” Pee-wee said.
“Are you going to be a thief when you grow up?”
“No, I guess not,” said Pee-wee.
“You can have three guesses.”
“All right, I guess not three times. Now, tell me if you told your
father about seeing that man getting dead.”
“Yes, and he said I’m always seeing things; everybody says that. Maybe
I’ll get dead when it rains.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Pee-wee said; “Licorice Stick’s been telling you
that. Didn’t you say you were going to be a giant first?”
“You’re not a giant.”
Alas, Pee-wee knew this only too well. He knew too that it would be
quite impossible to get anything in the way of a connected narrative out
of this stern little autocrat. Whether he had actually been “seeing
things” or had only seen something in his queer little inner life, who
should say? Evidently no one took him very seriously. And this fact did
not seem to trouble him at all.
Removing the compass cord from about his neck, Pee-wee advanced to
proffer his second gift to the Bungel family. Little did that stiff,
serious little figure know that the much-needed money which Mrs. Bungel
had been wise enough to take from her husband, had come from the same
source. Pee-wee searched in vain for any sign of hands in those
enveloping blankets. There were no hands, there seemed to be no body
even; just two eyes looking straight ahead as if their owner were not
going to assist at all in the transfer of the little gift. So Pee-wee
laid the compass on the porch rail.
“There you are,” he said; “that needle always points to the north.”
The two severe eyes stared down at the compass on the rail but their
owner made no attempt to reach it as Pee-wee started off. If Pee-wee had
not been so worried and preoccupied he would have thought that he had
never seen anything so absurdly amusing in all his life.
“Come back and say good-by,” the little voice commanded.
Pee-wee returned and stood in the exact spot where he had stood before
and said, “Good-by.” Although the little pale face did not turn the
fraction of an inch, the staring eyes followed Pee-wee as he went along
the road.