END OF THE RELAY RACE
As the sun slowly sank behind the hills Pee-wee finished his tomato and
even as the deeper twilight erased the crimson glow from the wooded
hilltops, he wiped the vivid red from his round face and smacked his
lips and sent his tongue on a sort of clean-up tour about the exterior
of his mouth.
Then he crept out under a neighboring pine tree, and gathering a few
stray twigs, proceeded to amplify the little pyramid of kindling which
he had built under a tempting looking black pot which stood on two
miniature walls of brick.
He lifted the tin cover from this pot and gazed fondly, proudly, within
at his handiwork, a hunters’ stew, ready for boiling. With a rough
wooden spoon he stirred it revealing tempting bits of carrot, pearly
shavings of onion, and substantial pieces of meat. There was stew enough
there for two, on a two helping basis, and it would keep till the morrow
in case his elaborate calculations of the movements of the relay racers
proved inaccurate. He replaced the cover on the pot, gave a look of
defiance down at camp, and resumed his seat upon the doorstep.
There is something very captivating in making calculations and then
waiting for their nice fulfillment. In starting his famous relay race
from Westwood, New Jersey, Pee-wee had included Spring Valley,
Haverstraw, Fort Montgomery, Newburgh, Plattekill, New Paltz, Kingston,
Saugerties, and Catskill, as the relay points. All of these places were
large enough to have scouts and he had Alton Beech’s assurance that
there would be no difficulty in passing the letter to some willing
messenger in each of the towns named. Each messenger would be able to do
his allotted errand and return to his home without a long absence.
Allowing for lunches, sodas, ice creams, parental objections with
attendant pleas, etc., Pee-wee had determined that some time between
seven o’clock and midnight on that very night the final messenger should
arrive. He was waiting for him with a welcome—the best kind of a
welcome, a hunters’ stew.
And having thus regaled him he intended to instruct him in the stern
requirements of pioneer life. He intended to inform him of his romantic
vow to shun the tame conveniences and facilities of camp and to depend
on their own resources. He would show him how these things were done. He
would surprise him with that interesting item of scoutcraft that they
could live without current and continuous aid from the civilized world.
During the last day or two Temple Camp had degenerated into something
hardly better than a crowded city, and Pee-wee scorned it.
The most authentic account of this singular climax to Pee-wee’s
adventures that summer is that he was dozing on the doorstep of the
cabin at about eleven P. M. having heroically refrained from eating up
to that hour. At least that was the testimony of Alton Beech his
Westwood acquaintance.
Upon being awakened by the sound of merry voices our hero, rubbing his
eyes, was aware of two distinct groups of scouts standing in the
moonlight. It is said that the moon was laughing, but perhaps that is an
exaggeration. In the foreground stood Alton Beech, and there is no doubt
at all that _he_ was laughing. To Pee-wee’s drowsy eyes this joyous
apparition seemed to be surrounded by a throng of strange scouts,
containing not one familiar face. In the background the whole of Temple
Camp seemed to be crowding in mirthful expectation.
“Wh—what—are—who—you—what are _you_ doing here?” Pee-wee stammered,
addressing the first messenger of the now momentous enterprise.
“W—a—a—you doing here—Beech—are you Beech?”
“Here we are,” said Alton Beech cheerily, as Pee-wee, approaching a
state of full wakefulness sat and stared. “You see the trouble was that
your letter—well it was too good. The relay race instead of going in
relays, it just piled up, no one would turn back, so here we all
are—except two. Fort Montgomery and Haverstraw are missing. It was the
cabin and the two helpings of dessert that did it. Don’t blame us, you
wrote the letter. I flunked in Spring Valley and ’phoned home that I was
going the limit. Spring Valley went as far as Newburgh with me and
refused to go home. New Paltz said he was going straight through. Don’t
blame me, it was your letter. You started a pile-up race, not a relay
race, Scout Harris. So here we are and _gee-williger_ but we’re hungry.
Have you got supper ready?”
“Oh absolutely, positively,” said Roy Blakeley stepping forward, “just
let’s see that letter a minute will you?”
Roy took the famous document from Alton Beech and in the light of his
flashlight read aloud the words which had brought this catastrophe down
upon our hero’s head:
To Walter Harris if they don’t know who you mean ask for
Pee-wee Temple Camp Leeds Ulster County N. Y. This letter is
brought by relays and each scout that gets it takes it to
another scout only he has to be sure to go north toward
Temple Camp everybody up that way knows where that is and
knows me two. Whoever brings it to me and delivers it into
my hand stays at Temple Camp for the rest of the summer and
his meals free absolootly positivly and they always give to
helpings sometimes and bunks in Mamoriel Cabin with me
_posativiy sure_.
P.S.—This is true. and I mean it.
Walter Harris,
Alligator Patrol.
“That’s absolutely good,” Roy said. “It says whoever brings it. It
doesn’t say _one_ must bring it, it doesn’t say how many. You’re all
welcome to Memorial Cabin. Greetings and salutations. A scout never
turns back. Have you got supper ready, kid?”
“You’re crazy!” Pee-wee shouted. “Do you think I can cook for eight
scouts? Do you—”
“Resources, resources,” said Warde Hollister.
“A scout can do anything,” said Westy Martin.
“He never breaks his vow,” said Doc Carson.
“He doesn’t depend on civilization,” said Dorry Benton.
“Oh positively not,” said Roy; “he depends on his own initials. Just
make yourselves at home and he’ll have supper ready in a couple of
jiffies. You fellows came to the right place, you can all have
forty-eleven helpings of resources. He knows that a scout never turns
back. Some night after supper drop down to camp and see us.”
“Come down and watch us eat,” said another Temple Camper.
“I’m afraid they can’t do that,” laughed another; “they’re supposed to
be leading the primitive life up here.”
“Do you think we’re going to starve?” Pee-wee thundered. “Do you think
because a scout that plans a thing and then says what he’d do if that
thing happens like he planned only it doesn’t—do you suppose they have
to starve on account of a lot of lunatics like you, especially Roy
Blakeley? That shows how much you know about logic! Do you say that
eight is the same as two?”
It shall never be written that Temple Camp was lacking in hospitality,
and there was no intention of allowing Pee-wee to attempt the
entertainment of this human avalanche. Nor, indeed, had the avalanche
any intention of imposing on our hero, for each member of the invading
host had come supplied with funds. For a pick-up troop they were a
pretty fine lot of fellows. It was Tom Slade, the young assistant, who
stepped into the breach in this most critical and apparently portentous
moment in the life of P. Harris.
“Look here, kid,” he said. “You’ve got to take this whole crowd or none
at all. This is the net results of your relay race. Take it or leave it.
You forgot that a scout never turns back; in scouting relay races are a
myth. They just _ain’t_. A scout that starts always wants to see the
finish. All that stuff in the scout handbook is nonsense. No scout ever
handed a letter about eats and things to another scout and then went
home—_never_. You’re all off on scouting, kid.
“Now look here, kid, this is Alton Beech’s crowd and you’re not going to
break up the party. We’ve got a vacant cabin for these fellows and
they’re going to bunk in it and eat down in camp. See? So you just start
your little fire and forget about this bunch and your unknown chum will
come along pretty soon, I’ll take care of that.”
“What do you mean?” Pee-wee demanded.
“You’ll see,” said Tom. “Start your fire and get ready. I’ve got the
right idea on this unknown pal business better than you have. You’re way
off the track, kid. You start your little fire and leave the rest to me.
Come on, Beech, come on the rest of you fellows, you must be hungry.”
It was not long after this that our lonely hero, somewhat squelched by
recent happenings, heard an outlandish but strangely familiar noise and
soon was aware of two lights poking their way up through the woods. Ah,
that beloved, familiar, medley! That fond chorus of squeaks and rattles
and unmuffled chugging. Those beams of light bisecting each other from
Lizzie’s cross-eyed headlights. Up the hill she came, in and out among
the trees, and over obstacles of fallen trunks, puffing, clanking,
rattling, buzzing, pausing, swerving, but triumphing over every
challenging obstruction. Lizzie!
“That you, kid?” called Townsend cheerily.
“Look out for the woodpile,” Pee-wee said, his heart dancing with
surprise and joy.
“Let the woodpile worry,” said Townsend. “Got supper ready?”
“It’s—it’s just beginning to steam,” said Pee-wee; “look out you don’t
run over it. It’s going to be dandy, Townsend, it’s all nice and thick,
with lots of carrots; I made it, Townsend.”
“Whooaa, Liz,” said Townsend as the beloved companion of their long
journey came to a full stop and appeared to shake itself like a dog
emerging from the water. “Say ‘I’m hungry,’ Liz.” The Ford emitted three
uncanny syllables which sounded not unlike those plaintive words. “That
Slade fellow seems to be the big boss around here, doesn’t he?” said
Townsend stepping down. “Well, here I am, or here _we_ are, I should
say. It seems you can’t lose me, kid. First I was going to walk up and
then I said, no, Liz belongs in this outfit. Can you accommodate the two
of us, kid? Slade bet me I couldn’t make it. Why it’s like the Lincoln
Highway, kid. Did you hear Liz laughing?”
For almost the first time in the history of his loquacious career
Pee-wee Harris could not speak. Liz was looking at him with one bent up
cross eye and in its light Townsend Ripley, his unknown guest indeed,
saw that the eyes of his travelling companion were glistening.
“Can’t lose us, kid,” said Townsend.
But Pee-wee said nothing, and in the glare of that funny headlight all
askew Townsend could see that the eyes of his young friend glistened
more and more.
That is the funny part of it, that Pee-wee Harris did not speak.