FIRST AID
“Watch now, and catch it,” Townsend called, as an ink bottle drained of
its former contents and filled with soothing cylinder oil sailed up
through the window. With this Pee-wee soothed the feverish little
mountains which had risen here and there on his face and hands, and his
knowledge of this makeshift medicine and his prompt application of it
saved him much suffering.
When his face appeared, presently, in the window it presented a rather
novel appearance. For enough ink had been left in the bottle to color
the oil and our hero looked not unlike a new kind of circus clown, or
perhaps a sort of human leopard.
“That shows you how scouts have to be resourceful,” Pee-wee called.
“All right, Kid,” laughed Townsend; “take a squint up the road with the
glass and let’s try to find out if there’s any sign of a gas station.”
“I’ll tell you just what there is?” Pee-wee said, studying the long
stretch of road with his field-glass. “Now I can see everything plain.
This is a dandy glass. About a half a mile up the road—that’s just this
side of the village—up there there are some cars parked and a lot of
people—”
“Smash-up?” Townsend asked.
“I can’t see any, but there are men kind of going from one car to
another. I guess it’s a hold-up, hey?”
“Wait a minute, I think I’ll come up there,” said Townsend. He had heard
so much and Pee-wee’s accounts were so impulsive that perhaps he thought
it wise to ascend himself. Perhaps he was a little curious to see the
interior of that little aerial abode, the scene of one of the greatest
battles in history.
At all events, he took off his coat, hung it on the woven wire spring
nearby and started to shinny up the gate. But the gate which had held
Scout Harris would not hold his larger companion. He had ascended
perhaps six or seven feet, when it started to go down with an
accompanying sound of squeaking gear wheels, disturbed after many years
of slumber and accumulating rust.
“Going down, ladies’ millinery next floor,” said Townsend.
He was precipitated to the ground, the gate lying in a horizontal
position above him, like a victorious wrestler, and blocking at least
half of the road.
“Foiled,” he said cheerily, as he arose, brushing off his clothing with
his hand.
“_Foiled?_” roared Pee-wee, in a voice of terrible accusation. “_I’m_
the one that’s foiled! How am I going to get down?”
At this, Townsend saw fit to lie down on his back again and roar.
“How am I going to get down?” Pee-wee demanded in a voice of thunder.
“Wait a minute till I stop laughing,” said Townsend. “The pl—pl—the plot
seems to be—be—growing thicker. I can’t laugh and think at the same
time.”
“Well then, think first,” called the motley hero; “I want to come down.
If it’s a smash-up up the road—”
“I don’t think it’s a smash-up, Kid,” laughed Townsend. “From what you
say I think it’s an inspectors’ drive.”
“What’s that?” Pee-wee called.
“Oh, every now and then the auto inspectors have a kind of intensive
campaign to round up people who drive without licenses,” said Townsend,
companionably. He was lying on his back on the ground, hands clasped
above his head as if nothing whatever had happened, and seemed disposed
to chat. Pee-wee, his face resplendent with gorgeous spots, looked down
on him scornfully. “You’ll get an inspiration, Kid, don’t worry,” said
Townsend.
Pee-wee took another look through the field-glass and seemed to be of
Townsend’s way of thinking. “What do you mean? What do they do?” he
asked.
“Oh, they hang out outside a town usually and stop everybody that comes
along,” said Townsend sociably, “and every one that hasn’t got his
license cards is invited to stay whether he wants to or not and when
they get a nice little batch of them they parade them into town and
they’re all fined and live happily forever after. Is it hot up there?”
“Have you ever been arrested for that?” the human leopard demanded.
“No, because I can always shuffle out my little driver’s license, but
they stop me about six times a minute when I’m away from Bridgeboro,
because I look so young and innocent. I’m under age and I’ve got a
special under-age license, that’s why. It’s because I’m so smart and am
such an expert driver. I always _foil_ them as you would say. It must be
getting on toward suppertime, I’m hungry. I think I’ll get supper.”
“If you think you’re so smart,” shouted Pee-wee, “tell me how I’m going
to get down out of here. Don’t you suppose _I_ want to eat supper, too?
_Gee whiz!_”
“Oh, I mean smart driving an automobile,” said Townsend.
“You make me sick,” shouted Pee-wee.
“How about the big handle up there?” Townsend asked.
“I pulled it,” said Pee-wee, “and it doesn’t work.”
“Exasperating,” said Townsend. “I think I’ll fry some of those
griddle-cakes; let’s see, you use flour—and—”
“Don’t you touch the eats as long as I’m up here,” Pee-wee thundered.
“Do you think I’m going to stand up here and see you eat?”
“You could look out of one of the other windows,” said Townsend. “I
appreciate how you feel.”
“I feel hungry!” roared Pee-wee.
Townsend arose, sauntered over to the car and dug among the luggage.
Returning to his former lolling place, he lay down on his back again and
began to eat a banana.
“You throw one of those up here,” Pee-wee shouted.
Townsend took another from his pocket and sitting up threw it so it fell
just short of the window.
“You did that on purpose,” roared Pee-wee.
“I’m so weak from hunger that I can’t throw,” said Townsend. “Wait till
I’ve had a little nourishment and I’ll try again. Let’s talk about the
relay race. No, let’s tell Ford stories. Why is a—”
“_You throw that banana up here, do you hear!_” Pee-wee fairly screamed,
glaring down like a frowning judge from his high rostrum, his face
decorated with vivid smudges, his scowl terrible to behold.
“Why is this Ford like a stew?” Townsend asked. “Do you give it up?”
“You give that banana up,” shouted Pee-wee. “No fooling—now! Here comes
an automobile along the road; now maybe you’ll get arrested for blocking
up the road with that big gate and it’ll serve you right.”
“Here you go,” laughed Townsend, throwing the banana so that it struck
the round countenance of our hero. “What kind of a car is it, a roadster
or a two seater?”
“It’s a roadster,” said Pee-wee, studying it with the glass. “I think
it’s a Buick.”
“Inspector’s car probably,” said Townsend languidly.
“You’d better get up,” Pee-wee said.
“You’d better get down,” said Townsend.
“How am I going to do it?” Pee-wee yelled.
“Don’t ask me,” said Townsend. “You’ve got a banana peel; can’t you slip
down on that?”
“You think you’re funny,” Pee-wee roared. “I’d like to know how I’m
going to get down out of here.”
“So would I,” said Townsend.
“Do you think I can stay here forever? Ask that woman if she’s got a
ladder?”
“Got a ladder?” Townsend called to the woman.
“Gottaderlad Idner (shrug) no spick,” said the woman.
“She says the ladder has gone back to Italy,” said Townsend. “Shall I
ask the goat?”
“You make me tired,” Pee-wee yelled.
“Have you seen anything of a ladder?” Townsend asked the goat.
“You’re crazy,” Pee-wee shouted.
“He says he ate the ladder for dessert last Sunday,” said Townsend. “How
near is the car?”
“It’s coming along fast and it’s a Buick roadster,” said Pee-wee.
In deference, perhaps, to the approaching vehicle, Townsend dragged
himself to his feet and, yawning, ambled over to where he had hung his
coat. It was not where he left it. But it was not far off.
It lay within the picturesque enclosure, one of its sleeves pulled out,
part of its lining in a state comparable to shredded wheat and one of
its pockets inside out. Nearby lay the tattered remnant of his leather
wallet. Out of the mouth of the billy goat dangled a railroad
time-table, partially consumed. He was not a discriminating goat for it
was an Erie time-table.
A hasty inspection of the carnage revealed the worst and bespoke a
massacre more horrible than the charge of the homeless wasps.
“What’s the matter?” Pee-wee called.
“The goat ate my wallet and eleven dollars and my driver’s license,”
called Townsend.
“G—o—o—d _night_!” shouted Pee-wee.