THE REAL EMERSON
There was a pathos in his answer to Pee-wee’s explosive enthusiasm.
“I’ll join if you think they’d like to have me,” he said.
“What d’you mean, _like to have you?”_ Pee-wee demanded. “I’m the boss
of that patrol. I’m not the patrol leader, but just the same I’ve got a
lot to say about it. Gee whiz, I’d like to hear anybody say they don’t
want you. _Just you let me hear them say it!_”
“I should think any one would like to have dinner in the woods,” said
Emerson, with a frankness that was pathetic.
“You don’t say _dinner_, you say _grub_,” said Pee-wee. “Or if you want
to, you can say _eats_. Some scouts say _feed_. But I like eats best,
don’t you?”
“You seem to be an authority on the subject,” said Emerson.
“That’s why you don’t get in with fellers, because you talk so grown-up,
kind of,” said Pee-wee, referring to this nice observation of his
friend.
“I suppose it doesn’t make much difference what you call it, as long as
you eat plenty,” laughed Emerson.
“_Oh, boy_, I’m the one to do that,” said Pee-wee. “You just watch me
when we get there. You’re going to go, ain’t you?” he asked, in a sudden
burst of apprehension.
“If they’ll let me,” said Emerson. “I don’t know how they’ll feel about
it.”
“There’s a place in my patrol, too,” said Pee-wee, ignoring these
misgivings. “My patrol’s the Ravens; you have to learn to make a noise
like a raven. Do you know ravens can talk? Just like parrots, they can.
They talk all the time.”
“Is that why you’re a Raven?” Emerson asked.
“The Silver Foxes in my troop, they’re all crazy,” said Pee-wee. “Gee
whiz, those fellers tried to tell me that your favorite book is
Webster’s dictionary. They’re a bunch of jolliers in that patrol.
“Roy Blakeley—he’s their patrol leader—he says that a civil engineer
means an engineer that’s polite; that shows how crazy he is, and they
have him for leader. He says that goldfish are sun-fish that got
sunburned. He tried to make me think they didn’t choose you for the
traffic patrol, because you’re too rough. No wonder he can’t get a new
member for his patrol because, gee, there are no more fellers in
Bridgeboro crazy enough. They ought to be the loons instead of the
Silver Foxes, that’s what I told him.
“Warde Hollister, he’s in that patrol, he says you ought to start the
Rabbit Patrol but, oh, boy, I’m glad there’s a place in my patrol and I
bet you’ll like us too. You know Artie Van Arlen? He’s leader in my
patrol. And you know Bert Carson? The feller whose sister has a
birthmark on her neck? It’s the shape of Cuba, but anyway we call him
‘Doc’ because he studied first aid—he’s in my patrol.”
Pee-wee paused, breathless, and for a few minutes as they followed the
narrow trail no word was spoken.
“Do you like being in the woods?” Pee-wee asked.
“Yes, I do,” said Emerson.
Missionary and propagandist though he was. Pee-wee was not strong on
tact. His unguarded talk, intended only to encourage, had chilled the
budding interest of his friend. So that was the way they talked! His
favorite book, the dictionary.... Too rough for the traffic patrol....
He should start the Rabbit Patrol....
“Gee whiz,” said Pee-wee, as he tramped doggedly along, “they’d never
call you Arabella any more when you join the scouts, that’s one thing
sure.”
Emerson had been hailed by this name, but he had never thought that he
was known by it among the boys of Bridgeboro. He had not known (for such
a boy never knows) that his nice phraseology was material for mirth. He
had not known that his mincing walk and adult manner were ironically
characterized as “rough.” The Bridgeboro boys had not often made fun of
him to his face; particularly the scouts had not. But just the same,
they had left him out of their lives and plans, and among themselves (as
he now saw) his name had been a byword for effeminacy.
It is fatal for a boy to talk too well and use an approved phraseology.
It was this misfortune which had won for Emerson his various posts of
monitorship in school. And by a universal law no monitor can be popular.
That was the pathos of it, that he was ostracized without really knowing
the reason. But now he was beginning to see a little of the light in
which the boys regarded him.
He had walked as far this night in the city as anybody could be expected
to walk, and there was nothing against him on that score. He had also
shown that he was human by partaking liberally of soda and candy, and
there was nothing against him on that score. He had shown himself manly
and self-reliant in the city, quite the leader. But he had “treated”
Pee-wee instead of “blowing” him. He had talked of “seeing the sights”
instead of “piking around.” Pee-wee’s enthusiasm ignored these defects,
but would the boys see Emerson for the really generous, first-rate
fellow that he was?
He did not ask himself this question, for he did not know that he was a
generous, first-rate fellow. He only knew that he didn’t fit in, and he
wondered why. That was why he felt shaky about joining the scouts and
going to camp with them. When he had spoken of the “great outdoors” to
several of them, they had laughed at the phrase. When he had once asked
Connie Bennett where he was going in his “natty regalia,” Connie had
answered, “To a pink tea, Arabella.” It was the “natty regalia” business
which had done the mischief. But why? And how was Emerson to know?
There is only one way for a boy like Emerson to deal with a group of
boys and that is with some sort of a knock-out blow.