THE SHORT CUT
But Pee-wee did not “stand by” for continuation of the regular program.
The Jamboree Jazz Band had no more charms for him.
He had heard and read of startling announcements being made over the
radio, of interruptions in deference to appalling S.O.S. calls, of
appeals for cooperation and assistance from the constituted authorities
here and there. But never in his wildest dreams (and his dreams were the
wildest) had he, Walter Harris, ever been asked, directly and indirectly
to cooperate in the apprehension of a fugitive criminal. He felt now
that in a way he had been appointed a member of the great metropolitan
police force and that a terrible responsibility had been placed upon
him.
“That’s very interesting,” said Emerson, unmoved by the dramatic
character of the announcement.
“Interesting?” roared Pee-wee. “Do you call it interesting if—if—if a
lot of gypsies steal a car and we have to be on the lookout for them? Do
you call it _interesting_, just kind of, if we have to hurry out of here
to circumspect thieves?”
“Do you mean circumvent?” Emerson asked.
“I mean _foil_!” Pee-wee shouted. “Come ahead, we have to catch them,
hurry up, where did I leave my cap?”
“I don’t know,” said Emerson, arising dutifully but reluctantly. “You
said scouts always know where they leave things.”
“In the woods I said,” roared Pee-wee. “If a scout hides something in
the woods he can always find it. Caps are different,” he added,
instituting a frantic search for his ever elusive cap.
“I should think the best place to keep it would be on your head,”
Emerson commented, “then you’d always know where to find it. Mine’s
downstairs on the hat rack.”
Pee-wee presently apprehended his cap on the top of the bookcase and
then hurried downstairs intent on apprehending the fugitives from New
York. Emerson followed with a calmness quite disproportionate to the
dramatic character of their errand. He had just begun thoroughly to
enjoy the broadcasting and was listening in with quiet interest when
suddenly he found himself launched again upon the sea of adventure.
Having accustomed himself to the clamor and turmoil of the Jamboree Jazz
Band and begun to enjoy the novelty of the distant, unseen
entertainment, he would have preferred to let well enough alone. But he
was beginning to learn that one who followed Pee-wee must be prepared
for anything or must be willing to do anything whether he is prepared or
not.
“What are we going to do?” Emerson asked as they hurried along the dark
street.
“We’re going to take a short-cut to the state road,” Pee-wee answered,
“because that’ll surely be the road they’ll take.”
“Why will it?” the reasonable Emerson asked.
“Because it will be. We’re going to lie in ambush along the road just
where it leaves town where we can see every car that comes along. Do you
know where Lanky Betts keeps his frankfurter stand in the summer? We’re
going to hang out there. That little shack is open,” Pee-wee panted as
they ran, “and we can wait inside of it because the door is broken and
we can get in and it’ll be all right because I know Lanky because I buy
lots of frankfurters from him when the shack is open and root beer
too—you get great big ice cream cones there.”
Emerson was not too hopeful of a triumphant sequel to their midnight
excursion into the detective field; he felt that it was a long call
between the rather unconclusive information of the broadcaster and the
actual halting of the criminals in this neighborhood. But the mention of
frankfurters touched a responsive chord in his nature, for the night was
chill and raw and even the lowly frankfurter appealed to him.
“It’s a pity we can’t get something to eat there now,” he observed.
“We’re not supposed to be thinking of eats now,” panted our hero.
This was rather odd, coming from Pee-wee.