PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP

“I’LL CLOSE MY EYES AND TRY TO GO STRAIGHT,” SAID PEE-WEE.

PEE-WEE HARRIS

IN CAMP

BY

PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of

THE TOM SLADE BOOKS, THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS

THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS

ILLUSTRATED BY

H. S. BARBOUR

Published with the approval of

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1922, by

GROSSET & DUNLAP

Pee-Wee Harris in Camp, also in Dutch; also in hot water, in cold water, on the stage, in politics, and in the raspberry jam. Including the true facts concerning his size (what there is of it) and his heroism (such as it is), his voice, his clothes, his appetite, his friends, his enemies, his victims. Together with the thrilling narrative of the rise and fall of the Hop-toad Patrol, as well as other delectable particulars touching the one time mascot of the Ravens, sometimes known as the Animal Cracker Patrol. How he foiled, baffled, circumvented and triumphed over everything and everybody (except where he failed) and how even when he failed he succeeded. The whole recorded in a series of screams and told with neither muffler nor cut-out.

PEE-WEE HARRIS IN CAMP

CHAPTER I—HE OPENS THE DOOR, THEN OPENS HIS MOUTH

“I’m going to brand a horse with a hot iron! I’m going to brand a double cross on him! I’m going to brand it on his hip! I’m going to get ten dollars!”

These were strange words to issue from the lips of a boy scout. Yet they were uttered by no less a scout than Pee-Wee Harris, the scout of scouts, the scout who made scouting famous, the only original scout, the scout who put the rave in Raven Patrol. They were uttered by Scout Harris who was so humane that he loved butterflies because they reminded him of butter and who would not harm a piece of pudding-stone because it aroused his tender recollections of pudding.

“I’m going to brand him to-morrow night!” he repeated cruelly. “Is there any pie left in the pantry?”

What act of inhuman cruelty he meditated against the poor, defenseless pie only his own guilty conscience knew. Before his mother was able to answer him from upstairs he had branded a piece of pie with his teeth.

Pee-wee’s mother did not come down, but she put her foot down.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she called, “but you’re not going to do it. There is one piece of pie in the pantry unless you have eaten it already.”

Pee-wee ascended the stairs armed with a dripping slice of rhubarb pie which left a scout trail up the wild, carpeted steps and through the dim, unfathomed fastnesses of the upper hall.

“I’m brandhorse,” he repeated, wrestling with a large mouthful of pie, “I’mgngtendlrs.”

The bite of pie conquered, Pee-wee proceeded to enlighten his mother as to his latest enterprise.

“You know the—”

“Don’t eat while you’re talking,” said Mrs. Harris.

“You know the Punkhall Stock Company?” Pee-wee continued excitedly. “They’re coming to the Lyric Theatre next week. They’re going to play New York successes. They advertised for a boy to brand a horse and I went to see the man and his name is Rantrnetolme—”

“Stop! Wait a minute; now go on. And don’t take another bite till you finish.”

“Mr. Ranter he’s manager and he said I’d do and I only have to be in that one play and I only have to be on the stage one minute and I’ll get ten dollars and everybody’ll clap and I bet you’ll be glad and it—anyway, it isn’t a hot iron at all, but it’s painted red so it will look hot and it doesn’t hurt the horse only it looks as if it did, so can I do it?” he concluded breathlessly. “You can’t say that red paint will hurt a horse,” he added anxiously. “Gee whiz, I wouldn’t be cruel, but red paint can’t hurt anybody.”

“What is the name of this play?” Pee-wee’s mother asked.

“The name of it is Double-crossed and I’ll tell you all about it, it’s a dandy play, a man has a double cross for trade-mark, see? And he’s a villain and he gets a kid to crawl through a hole in the fence, it’s out west in Arizona, and that kid has to brand one of the other man’s horses so the man will admit the horse belongs to the other man and the other man can take him, see? That’s what you call a plot. The man beats me if I say I won’t do it, so I do it and I don’t say anything at all and after the play is over I get ten dollars, so will you come and see me?”

“Where is the boy who usually does that?” Mrs. Harris asked, rather ruefully.

“They get a different boy in every town,” Pee-wee said, “because Mr. Ranter, he says it’s cheaper to do that than it is to pay his railroad fare all over the country, so can I do it? The iron isn’t really hot. So can I do it? Roy Blakeley and all the troop are coming to see me and maybe they’re going to get a flashlight and they’re going to clap a lot. So can I do it? I’m going to do good turns with the ten dollars so if you stand up for good turns like you told Mr. Ellsworth, you’d better let me do it or else that shows you don’t believe in good turns. So can I do it?”

In the interval of suspense which followed, Pee-wee strengthened his spirit with a bite of pie and stood ready to take still another upon the first hint of an adverse decision.

“I don’t like the idea of you going on the stage with actors, especially with the Punkhall Stock Company,” said Mrs. Harris doubtfully. “What would your Aunt Sophia say if she should hear of it?”

“How can she hear of it when she’s deaf?” said Pee-wee. “Anyway, they never hear of things in North Deadham. I only have to be on the stage about one minute and I don’t have to talk and I’d rather do it than—than—have a bicycle on Christmas. So can I do it?”

“I hope you don’t impersonate a scout,” said Mrs. Harris, weakening gradually.

“I’m the son of a cowboy that owns a ranch,” Pee-wee vociferated, “and his name is Deadshot Dan, and he gave me some peanuts when Mr. Ranter was talking to me. Gee whiz, you can tell from that that he’s not really bad, can’t you? Mr. Punkhall was there too, and he said I’d do it fine and they’ll show me how to do it at a rehearsal to-morrow morning and it doesn’t really hurt the horse, so can I do it?”

“You remember how scandalized your Aunt Sophia Primshock was when you kept a refreshment shack by the roadside? We have to think of others, Walter. Aunt Sophia would be—I can’t think what she’d be if she knew you joined the Punkhall Stock Company. And your cousin Prudence who is going to Vassar! I had to listen to their criticisms the whole time while I was visiting them, and your father thought they were right.”

Poor Mrs. Harris lived in mortal terror of the Primshock branch of the family which occupied the big old-fashioned house at North Deadham. No stock companies, no movies even, ever went there. No popular songs or current jokes or wise cracks of the day penetrated to that solemn fastness. All that ever reached there, apparently, were the tidings of Pee-wee’s sensational escapades, his floundering around the country in a ramshackle railroad car, his being carried off in an automobile, and, worst of all, his epoch-making plunge into the retail trade when he had sold and sung the praises of hot frankfurters by the road-side.

“I’m afraid she’d think it—unwise,” Mrs. Harris said in her gentle, half yielding manner.

“Ah now, Mudgy,” Pee-wee pleaded; “I told those men I’d do it and a scout has to keep his word, gee whiz, you have to admit that. And Aunt Sophia doesn’t have to know anything about it and I promise, I promise, not to tell her, and anyway Prudence has joined the Girl Scouts and maybe by this time she’s got to be kind of wild—kind of; and anyway I’ll never tell them so they can’t jump on you and if I say I won’t, I won’t because a scout’s honor is to be trusted. So can I do it? I won’t buy gumdrops with the ten dollars if you’ll let me do it.”

“Good gracious! Ten dollars worth of gumdrops!” said Mrs. Harris.

“Sure, that’s nothing,” said Pee-wee.

CHAPTER II—HE PLAYS HIS PART

We need not dwell upon Pee-wee’s career on the stage. It was almost as short as he was. He crawled through a hole in a fence and had no difficulty in finding the right horse, since there was only one there.

He held the iron (painted red) against the horse’s hip, then withdrew across the stage and was seen no more. The deed of villainy had been done, the double cross of the thieving ranchman had been branded upon the horse he coveted and was resolved to win “by fair means or foul.” Those were the tragic words he had used.

There was nothing so very terrible about Pee-wee’s new adventure and Mr. and Mrs. Harris were rather proud of the way in which he acquitted himself. He broke his ten dollar bill in Bennett’s Fresh Confectionery, where he treated the members of his troop with true actorish liberality. Two sodas each they had, and gumdrops flew like bullets in the play.

“Roy’s got your picture,” said Westy Martin; “I hope it comes out all right. He’s going to hang it in the cellar.”

“How did it seem not speaking for thirty seconds?” Roy asked.

“He timed you with his stop watch,” Artie Van Arlen said. “Did you see us in the front seats?”

“Now you see, it’s good to be small,” Pee-wee said. “They chose me because I could get through that hole in the fence. Fat Blanchard wanted to get the job but they wouldn’t give it to him because they were afraid he’d get stuck half way through the hole. That horse is awful nice, he likes being branded I guess; anyway he wasn’t mad about it because he licked my hand twice.”

“If I had my way I’d lick you a couple of dozen times,” said Roy. “Did you tell him about how you won the animal first aid badge?”

“Who?”

“The horse; did you tell him how that makes you a star scout?”

“What does the horse care?” Westy asked. “He’s a star actor, that’s better than a star scout.”

“I guess he had to go on the stage on account of the automobile driving him out of business, hey?” Roy said.

“Anyway, I like horses,” Pee-wee said.

“Sure,” said Roy, “and you like horse radish and horse chestnuts too. No wonder you like horses, you’re always kicking.”

“Maybe some day I’ll play—maybe I’ll play Julius Caesar,” said Pee-wee proudly.

“Sure, maybe you’ll play checkers,” said Roy; “come on home, it’s late.”

“Let’s have one more soda,” said Pee-wee.

“Which one of us will have it?” Roy asked.

“One each,” said Pee-wee; “I’ll treat. The first ones were on account of my acting in that play, kind of to celebrate, and these will be on account of my getting to be a star scout. Will you?”

“For your sake we will,” said Roy, as they all lined up again at the soda fountain. “I hate to think what will happen when you get to be an eagle scout.”

“We’ll have a soda for every badge, hey?” said Pee-wee, immediately enthusiastic over the idea.

“That’ll be twenty-one sodas each.”

“Good night!” said Roy.

“And we’ll have chocolate ones on account of that being my patrol color, hey? Only I’m going to start a new patrol before that and maybe I’ll have red for our patrol color so we’ll have strawberry sodas, hey? Because, anyway, I’m going to be an eagle scout next summer.”

“Tell us all about that,” said Dorry Benton of the Silver Foxes.

“I’ve got a lot of plans,” said Pee-wee, between mouthfuls of dripping ice cream.

“Have you got them with you?” Wig Weigand asked.

“I’m going to start a patrol up at Temple Camp and I’m going to be the leader of it on account of being a star scout and I’m going to enter one of my scouts for the marksmanship contest—”

“G-o-o-d night!” interrupted Roy.

“A tall chance a tenderfoot stands of winning that,” Dorry laughed.

“I—I bet you I can think of a way, all right,” Pee-wee vociferated. “Didn’t I fix it so Worry Chesley could get the gold cross?”

“Yes?”

“Sure; didn’t I fall off the springboard so he could save my life?”

“And the raving Ravens will have to go on raving without their little mascot?” Doc. Carson asked.

“Sure, let them rave,” said Pee-wee; “gee whiz, I can rave without them.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Roy said.

“If I’m a star scout that means I’m a hero, doesn’t it?” Pee-wee asked, his soda glass tilted up so that he might capture the last dregs. “If a scout has ten merit badges—”

“That means he has to treat to soda ten times,” said Roy; “it’s on page forty-eleven of the handbook. If he treats to soda fifteen times he’s a soda scout and he can wear the soda badge, all down the front of his coat, just like you. Come on, let’s go home, Mr. Bennett wants to shut up.”

“I wouldn’t shut up for anybody,” Pee-wee said.

CHAPTER III—SUCH IS FAME

Pee-wee’s plans, indeed, were more numerous than the miscellaneous possessions which he displayed upon his scout regalia and which set him off like a sort of animated Christmas tree. If his active brain could have been revealed to view it would have been found decorated with plans of every description; schemes and enterprises would have been seen dangling from it, as his jack-knife and his compass and his cooking pan and his watch and his coil of rope were seen dangling from his belt and jacket. His mind was a sort of miniature attic, full of junk. An artist familiar with rummage sales might picture our scout hero in all his glory. But alas, no artist could picture his brain!

At the time of the beginning of this odd train of happenings, Pee-wee had cause to be both proud and satisfied. For one thing he had eight dollars and sixty cents, the rest of his ten dollars having gone to Bennett’s.

The animal first aid badge which he had lately won, being his tenth award, had made him a star scout. The badge itself had not yet been tendered him but this would be done by the exalted powers when he reached Temple Camp. It would be done with befitting ceremony. It was not necessary for anyone to tell Pee-wee that he was a hero; he admitted it. After he had received his rank of star scout all of the pioneer[1] scouts at camp would rally to his standard, clamoring for admittance to his new, and altogether unique, patrol. So Pee-wee’s path of glory was mapped out, as far as it was possible for the human imagination to map it. The new patrol was to be called the Hop-toad Patrol, because it was by tracking a hop-toad to its savage lair that Pee-wee had won the stalking badge, one of the stepping stones to his pedestal of glory.

But the fame of Scout Harris had already gone further than he knew; it had penetrated to North Deadham, and had appealed to Aunt Sophia Primshock’s eyes, if it could not sneak in through her ears. On the very next morning after Pee-wee’s brief career upon the stage he received the following letter:

My dearest nephew Walter:

We were so pleased to see in the Council Fire column of a newspaper that you have been awarded the scout badge for first aid to animals. Prudence is so proud of her cousin that she cannot wait to see you and tell you so. When we think of all the cruelty that is inflicted on poor dumb creatures, and sometimes by boys, it makes me very happy to think that my very own nephew stands as the champion of the beasts and birds, and will not harm them or allow anyone else to harm them. That is better than selling sausages like a pedler, and if it is true that they are made of dogs it makes one’s heart ache to think of it. We want you to come here and see us very soon, and you must stay for several days.

Your proud and happy

AUNT SOPHIA

Enclosed in the envelope was another missive, rather more formal in tone, which read:

TO WALTER HARRIS, SCOUT:⸺

The Humane Committee of the Girl Scouts of North Deadham invite you to attend their rally on Saturday evening, July the tenth, and to accept the Black Beauty Cross of Mercy, for friendship and kindness to dumb creatures. This cross is given only by the North Deadham organization, to those rendering conspicuous service in the field of humanity by championing our dumb friends who cannot speak for themselves.

Katherine Kindheart

Sympathea Softe

Dorothy Docile

Prudence Primshock

Committee

The hero’s acceptance of this invitation was a little disconcerting, but it did not dim his glory. On the contrary (so far as his own efforts were concerned) it increased his glory. He wrote:

Dear Aunt Sophia and Prudence and that Committee too:

I got that animal first aid badge so now I have ten badges only I didn’t get it yet but anyway, I’m a star scout. You have to have a general knowledge of farm animals and I know a lot about them and I was kicked by a cow and she spilled the milk. I like milk too. I know what’s good for colic and you have to know that and it’s good for a horse. I don’t mean colic.

Once when I was drowning some kittens I saved two so that was a kind act to those two and that counts. It counts one point. I fixed a tin can that was tied to a dog’s tail because it was tied too tight. I know all about the different knots, too. Once I grabbed a bat because I thought it was a dish rag hanging up. I bet most girls wouldn’t be kind to mice especially rats.

If a horse falls down you have to take off his harness and the thing that goes kind of alongside his neck comes off like suspenders. Anyway I like a belt better on account of wearing my belt axe. Gee whiz I like girls and every kind of animals, only they’re scared when they get in a rowboat.

I read that story about Black Beauty that your badge is named after. I like elephants better. If you have a parrot you better not swear because he learns it. Scouts have to cut birds up in sections so as to tell the different parts of them. I’m going to wear that Black Beauty badge alongside my star badge. I’m going to go on the train that gets there in time for supper.

With love,

WALTER HARRIS

First Aid

Physical Development

Personal Health

Public Health

Life Saving

Astronomy

Swimming

Forestry

Dairying

Animal First Aid that makes ten.

P. S. I don’t mean you have to cut birds up alive only in pictures.

Aunt Sophia put on her spectacles and scrutinized this letter curiously, but in the end her eyes dwelt fondly on the words at the end of the list of badges. Pee-wee always thus summarized his glories, even in school examination papers. She gazed at the words Animal First Aid and was reassured.

As for Sympathea Softe and Katherine Kindheart and Dorothy Docile, they were greatly edified by the imposing list of Pee-wee’s triumphs.

“Physical Development,” said Dorothy, in whispered admiration; “I just bet he’s tall and dark, with a splendid chest. One can be big and gentle at the same time.”

“Of course,” said Sympathea, “look at elephants; they’re as gentle as can be.”

“Oh, I hope he isn’t like an elephant,” said Dorothy; “they’re so clumsy. And they just eat, eat, all day. They just live on peanuts.”

“I pictured him as tall and lithe,” said Miss Katherine Kindheart; “like a—like a tree. I think that one familiar with forestry is almost sure to be tall. The swimming award too! Oh, I just long to see him. I think that forestry is such perfectly scrumptious word too. Forestry! It sort of reminds me of Daniel Boone and Buffalo Bill—calm and stately; you know what I mean.”

“Or General Pershing,” said Sympathea.

“Or Eugene O’Brien,” said Dorothy, who was something of a movie fan.

“Oh don’t you just long to see him?” they all asked each other.

CHAPTER IV—HE ADVANCES

Pee-wee started for North Deadham in full scout regalia, carrying a duffel bag instead of a suitcase, wishing to detach himself as much as possible from the manners and customs of civilization. A new feature of his motley array was a can-opener dangling from his belt, intended to suggest the rugged scout’s dependence on his own culinary art in the dense wilderness. It was rather suggestive of Heinz 57 varieties.

On the train he made some memorandums in his scout report book looking to the future government of his new patrol. The following is a sample.

If any hop-toad can’t learn the pace he has to have his legs tied together for an hour.

Every feller that gets a new hop-toad gets a piece of chocolate but he has to give it to his patrol leader for the treasury.

If a hop-toad can’t croak like a frog he has to be turned over on his back and somebody sit on him till he croaks.

A hop-toad has to be given to the tom-cats if he can’t learn because the tom-cats want more because they only have six.

On account of going fast hop-toads have to have sticks in their mouths.

I’m going to try to get tents near where the Robins were before the other fellows chased them away.

When the train stopped at North Deadham, the girls of the Humane Committee saw descending from it a diminutive figure clad in khaki, and Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like him. His scout report book bulged out of his pocket, his jack-knife and his compass and his can-opener jangled in a kind of martial tune, his step was the step of a conqueror. Beneath his flapping scout hat his curly hair showed and upon his face was a frown, a terrible frown, the frown of a hero.

The only discordant note in the martial figure that he presented was the stick of lemon candy which he was sucking. During his ride various articles, chiefly edible, had been left upon his lap for inspection, and he bought them all, and they now bulged and protruded here and there upon his scout attire.

Removing the stick of lemon candy from his mouth, he contemplated the girls who had come to meet him, uttered the single word “Hello” and replaced the candy in his mouth.

“Did you ever in your life?” gasped Sympathea.

“He is certainly not an elephant,” said Dorothy.

“Or a Daniel Boone or a Buffalo Bill,” chimed in Miss Kindheart.

“I’d rather be myself than them,” said Pee-wee.

“Yes, why?” asked one of the reception committee anxiously.

“Because they’re dead.”

“Oh, we’re so glad to see you, Walter,” said Cousin Prudence, embracing him till he rattled like a Ford car; “I thought you’d never, never, come to see us. And you’ve won the animal first aid badge! Oh, isn’t that perfectly wonderful!”

“I won a lot of others too,” Pee-wee said; “I’ve got nine badges. See them on my sleeve? When the tenth one is put there I’ll be a star scout. I’m going to be a patrol leader, too. I lost a marshmallow on that train. Are you going to have that meeting to-night?”

“We certainly are and you’re going to be the main attraction. You’re going to sit on the stage! Isn’t that just perfectly fine? I don’t believe you’ve ever been on a stage, now have you? Do you think you’ll be afraid?”

It was very hard for Pee-wee to admit that there was anything in the world he hadn’t done; and to have it intimated that he, the actor in Double-crossed, had never been on the stage, was as much as he could bear. But he remembered his voluntary promise to his mother and modified his answer.

“Sure, I’ve been on platforms and they’re the same as stages,” he said; “only they’re kind of different. When we get our awards we have to go on platforms. Do you think I’m scared of audiences? Gee whiz, they won’t hurt you. I’m not even scared of bears and they’re not as bad as audiences, that’s one thing sure.”

“But I mean a regular stage,” chirped Sympathea, “with woods painted in back and everything.”

“I’ve even been lost in the woods,” Pee-wee announced proudly. “Do you think I’m scared of painted woods? You can’t get lost in those. I’ve been—I’ve been—famished in the woods, when I was lost.”

“I thought scouts never got lost,” Miss Dorothy Docile carolled forth.

“That shows you don’t know anything about them,” Pee-wee said disdainfully; “they know all about getting lost; they get lost better than anybody else. Then they find their way out by resourcefulness. Do you know what that means?”

“Isn’t that perfectly wonderful?” said Miss Katherine Kindheart.

“That’s nothing,” Pee-wee said; “you go around in a circle when you get lost; do you know why?”

“No, do tell us.”

“Because your heart is on your left side. You have to know all about astronomy if you’re a scout.”

“That isn’t astronomy, that’s anatomy,” said Cousin Prudence.

“Woods is my middle name,” said Pee-wee.

“Isn’t that a perfectly lovely name?” said Sympathea. “Walter Woods Harris.”

“I don’t mean it’s really my middle name,” Pee-wee said. “Suppose I was crazy about mince pie. I’d say my middle name was mince pie, but it wouldn’t be Pee-wee, I mean Walter Mincepie Harris, would it?”

“And do you really go round in a circle when you get lost?” Cousin Prudence asked him.

“S-u-re,” said Pee-wee conclusively, “your left side goes ahead of your right side—”

“And what becomes of your right side?” Katherine asked.

“It comes along after your left side,” Pee-wee explained.

“And doesn’t it ever, ever catch it?”

“No, so that’s why you go round in a circle; see? Now I’ll close my eyes and try to go straight. I’ll show you.”

The demonstration of this item of scout lore was highly satisfactory and very scoutish; for scouts are supposed to smile and Pee-wee’s escort of honor did more than that, they screamed. Closing his eyes, Pee-wee strode forward verging more and more toward the curb until he stumbled and went head over heels into the gutter, where his feminine admirers gathered about him, clamoring to aid the hero.

Pee-wee was equal to the occasion. “A scout is supposed to spread mirth,” he said, rising and brushing the mud from his regalia. He had certainly spread mirth as thoroughly as the mud was spread upon his scout uniform. “I’ll tell you something else about anatomy too,” he said. “Just then when I fell down in the mud it reminded me of it. Do you know how many muscles it takes to make a smile?”

“No, do tell us,” said Cousin Prudence as she brushed him off, laughing uncontrollably.

“Thirteen,” said Pee-wee.

“No wonder you were unlucky,” said Sympathea, shaking with laughter.

“It takes sixty-four muscles to make a frown,” Pee-wee continued. “So you’re doing a lot of extra work if you frown,” he added, pulling up his torn stocking.

The girls’ Humane Committee must have been of an economical turn, for they did not use sixty-four muscles, or anything like that number. They roared and screamed, and held their sides and brushed him off and readjusted his official junk upon his diminutive person, and just kept on laughing and laughing and laughing.

CHAPTER V—HE STORMS THE INNER FORTRESS

Having risen from the gutter like so many world heroes who began as poor boys, Pee-wee proceeded to expatiate on the honorable company which had come out of that lowly and muddy abode into the dazzling halls of fame.

“That’s where Mr. Temple began who started Temple Camp,” he said. “Wait till I see if I’ve got my money all right; I’ve got seven dollars and fifty-two cents not counting my ticket because my father paid for that. I’ll treat you all to sodas.”

“Oh I just couldn’t eat a thing while I’m laughing so,” Miss Dorothy Docile explained; “thank you just as much.”

“Can’t you eat when you’re laughing?” Pee-wee asked incredulously.

“No, can scouts eat while they laugh?”

“S-u-re, they can eat while they’re sleeping even. If you dream about eats they taste just as good don’t they?”

“Can they eat while they’re going around in a circle?” Sympathea asked mischievously. “You know we’re girl scouts, but we really don’t know much about girl scouting, because we’ve only just started. Don’t you think our Black Beauty award is a splendid idea?”

“Sure, I have lots of dandy ideas,” Pee-wee said; “but anyway you’ve got a right to kill snakes—snakes and mosquitoes. But I haven’t got any right to kill a lion.”

“Oh, I hope you never did that,” said Cousin Prudence.

“Sure I didn’t,” Pee-wee assured her.

If any proof of his courage was required, he gave it in his martial advance up the wide, old-fashioned, thickly carpeted stairway which led to the inner fortress where Aunt Sophia Primshock sat bundled up in a big wheel chair. No weapon had she but her spectacles, but she used those in such a way as to make her terrible to behold. Her eyes made sudden flank movements around the side of them; they went “over the top” as well; and peered straight through them in a way of terrible scrutiny.

Aunt Sophia Primshock had all kinds of money and several different kinds of rheumatism. As fast as there was a new kind, she secured it. She was very deaf, but not too deaf to hear Pee-wee. It was not quite as bad as that. Next to her collection of rheumatics was her collection of cats. In the august presence Pee-wee now appeared in all his scout glory—marred only by a hole in his stocking—followed by Cousin Prudence.

“I am very glad to see my nephew,” said Aunt Sophia, as Pee-wee advanced to receive her kiss, “and I am not only glad but proud to call him my nephew,” she added. “I don’t know much about this scouting, I’m afraid it makes boys a little wild. But when a boy registers his friendship for dumb creatures I am proud, more than proud, to call him my nephew. You have seen the girl’s committee? They are dear, sweet girls, all of them.”

“Oh yes, he fell for us, Mother,” said Prudence.

“Fell for you?”

“Yes, he fell all over himself, but he isn’t hurt.”

“And what is better still, he would not inflict any hurt,” said Aunt Sophia. “And what a fine boy he is, eh Prudence? A splendid, kind, humane boy, with a heart—”

“On his left side, Mother,” said Prudence; “he proved it to us and we know he has a heart.”

Aunt Sophia smiled indulgently. Like most persons who are under the spell of one idea she was not even curious about matters in general. It was perfectly evident that she had captured the helpless, struggling, little Girl Scout troop and turned it into a humane society. There was no doubt that the “committee” had originated in that solemn apartment.

“You can kill snakes because they kill birds,” Pee-wee said; “and cats kill birds too.”

There was no answer to this so Aunt Sophia said, “I was so happy when I heard—saw it printed in a newspaper—that my nephew had won the badge for first aid to dumb creatures.” (Aunt Sophia always called animals dumb creatures.) “That is better than running after circuses and going to—to shows. Isn’t it? I had a brother, a very dear and promising brother, many, many years ago, and he joined a troupe of play actors, which made his poor mother very, very sad.” Pee-wee wriggled nervously but listened with respect. “The scout boys, they don’t—they don’t fill their brains with—with wild west shows? What is that you have there?”

“That’s my handbook, and this is my scout report book,” Pee-wee exclaimed, glad enough to expound the ins and outs of scouting.

“Ah yes, and if you do a kind act you jot it down?”

“Sure.”

“Let me see them,” said Aunt Sophia holding out her hand; “my arm is very stiff. Did you bring me my tea, Prudence dear?—I eat very little and go about almost none at all. I am very, very stiff.”

“That’s because you don’t sleep outdoors,” Pee-wee said. “I bet if you went scout pace you wouldn’t be stiff. Do you want me to show you how?”

“Goodness gracious no, my dear! Let me see what is in the books—”

“Rolling down hills is good too,” said Pee-wee; “I bet if you try that you won’t be stiff. Lots of scouts roll down in barrels, because that shakes them up. I’ll get a barrel for you if you want to try it.”

Aunt Sophia did not want to try it, but she was presently to be shaken up in quite another way. Gazing with increasing severity through her spectacles she saw sprawled upon the page the dreadful words.

If any hop-toad can’t learn the pace he has to have his legs tied together for an hour.

Every feller that gets a new hop-toad gets a piece of chocolate—

If a hop-toad can’t croak like a frog he has to be turned over on his back and somebody sit on him till he croaks.

Aunt Sophia looked up, dumbfounded, speechless. She readjusted her spectacles, as if even they might be deceiving her, and read:

A hop-toad has to be given to the tom-cats—

She read no more. Rather she saw the page in a kind of trance. Her astonished eyes jumped from one blood-curdling memorandum to another, picking out the more heartless words and phrases. Given to the tom-cats ... chased the Robins away ... turned on his back till he croaks ... hop-toads ... sticks in their mouths....

Horrors, oh horrors! Here before her very eyes was a series of recipes for cruelty! Directions, suggestions, memorandums written in cold blood for the torture of hop-toads!

Pee-wee sensed the situation, but it was too late. The hop-toads were already on their backs, the sticks were in their mouths, they were croaking, or being fed alive to tom-cats, the robins had been chased from their nests and their little ones, the boys were standing around eating chocolate while the toads suffered, the massacre was on.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Pee-wee said, facing the awful face of his outraged aunt. “You see hop-toads, they’re really not hop-toads; do you see?”

“I do not see,” said Aunt Sophia.

“I’ll tell you all about it. Scout patrols are named after animals; there’s a patrol at Temple Camp named the Robins, see? My new patrol is going to be named the Hop-toads, because they’re all going to be good at scout pace, see? Gee whiz, you don’t care if we make fellers hold sticks in their mouths, do you? Because they can run better that way. A hop-toad means a—a scout. I’m a hop-toad. Maybe I don’t look like one but I am.”

Aunt Sophia was just about convinced—by a very, very narrow margin. She was convinced, but she remembered the awful things upon that fly-leaf. She was still a little, just a very little, suspicious. But she accepted Pee-wee’s explanation....

CHAPTER VI—CARRIED BY A MINORITY

That same memorable Saturday was the day on which Pee-wee’s troop was to go to its summer quarters at the beloved Temple Camp. As every scout knows, Temple Camp is a little in from the Hudson River in the neighborhood of Catskill.

North Deadham is about thirty-five miles north of Bridgeboro. Roughly speaking, North Deadham would be on a line between Bridgeboro and Temple Camp. The brilliant idea of spilling the beans in North Deadham is attributable to Artie Van Arlen, patrol leader of the Ravens—Pee-wee’s own patrol.

“What do you say if two or three of us start hiking on Friday and camp along the way and bang into North Deadham in time to foil our young hero?” said Artie. “Foiling is his middle name, so we’ll try a little of it. Then we’ll wrap him up and take him along to camp with us. What do you say?”

“You mean hike all the way?” asked Connie Bennett of the Elks.

“Sure.”

“Declined with thanks,” said Connie. “Let him stay there a while. What’s the use of starting out hunting for trouble? He’s wished onto the Ptomaine Committee or whatever they call it; let them worry for a while.”

“Anybody in the Silver Foxes want to hike it?” Artie asked.

“We promised Mr. West of the West Shore Railroad, we’d go that way,” said Roy; “we can’t break our words. The train will be waiting for us.”

“Some scouts!” said Grove Bronson of the Ravens.

“I’d just love to stop at North Deadhead for our young hero,” said Hunt Ward of the Elks, “but you know how the directors of the railroad would feel.”

“Sure, a scout’s honor is to be trusted,” said Roy.

“How about his feet?” Artie shot back. “Can you walk from the station to the train? You make me tired, you fellows.”

“If you’re so tired what do you want to hike for?” Roy asked. “You’re so wide awake and full of pep, what do you want to go to Fried ham or Dead-ham for? I should worry about Deadville or whatever you call it. Right away when we get rid of Pee-wee you want to go and get him. They’ve just had whooping cough at Temple Camp; isn’t that bad enough? The raving Ravens are raving again, no wonder the railroads are losing money with the Raven Patrol walking all over the country.”

“Who’ll volunteer?” Artie said.

“A large chunk of silence,” said Roy.

“I won’t,” called one.

“Neither will I,” shouted another.

“Not for mine,” piped up a third.

“We’ll all volunteer not to hike,” said Roy. “Let the scouts in the books do the hiking.”

“I will,” said Grove Bronson.

“He hasn’t got the railroad fare,” shouted Roy.

“All right,” said Artie, “you and I’ll hike together, Grove; we’ll take the north turnpike—”

“Be sure to put it back when you get through with it,” said Roy, “and give our kindest regards to the animated animal cracker and if you’re going to hike from Deadtown to camp the best way is to follow the Franklin Turnpike as far as Idaho and take the second turn to your left. That’ll take you into the Great Salt Lake. Don’t hurry, take your time.”

“The pleasure is ours,” said Artie.

“If you don’t get to camp till next summer it’ll be all right,” said Roy. “Tell Pee-wee he’ll find us near the lake and we hope he’ll drop in.”

CHAPTER VII—MENTAL TELEGRAPHY

Thus it happened that while Scout Harris, friend and champion of the dumb creatures, was preparing to receive the tribute that was due him, two scouts of his patrol were tramping along the dusty road as the sun went down, on the last part of their long hike to North Deadham. They crossed the frontier of the village unnoticed. The only sentinel there was a rooster on a fence and he was asleep at his post, or rather his perch.

The invading column passed through McCrockett’s Lane and rested under a weeping willow tree, where they kindled a little fire and brewed some coffee and fried some bacon. If the weeping willow could but have known their business it would have laughed rather than wept.

Their supper finished, the invaders trampled the fire out and played mumbly peg under the tree just as if nothing were going to happen. Scout Harris said afterward that just at that time (seven thirty) a strange desire for fried bacon came over him and that he smelled coffee. Thus soul speaks to soul across space in the mystic realm of scouting!

At exactly eight o’clock by a cow-bell in a neighboring field, verified by their own trusty scout watches, the invaders followed a northwesterly course through the village square into Gordon’s Hollow and thence to Main Street and to a certain commissary where they made ready for the terrible work in hand by two stimulating ice cream cones, which sent the blood coursing through their veins and gave them strength and courage.

Passing the district school with great caution they succeeded in a skilfully conceived flank move around the entire police department, who was standing on a corner talking with an unsuspecting citizen. This was at exactly seven minutes after eight by the town hall clock which wasn’t going, no doubt in honor of the great occasion.

Singular to relate, at precisely four minutes after eight by Pee-wee’s reliable scout watch, and just as he was starting with his cousin Prudence for the church lecture hall, he was conscious of a shivering and decided to return and get his scout jacket. It was at that very moment that the invading legion partook of ice cream cones. Perhaps it was only a coincidence but so strong was the thought of ice cream cones in Pee-wee’s mind that he bought two (treating his cousin Prudence) on their way to the church. A most singular and harrowing thing to relate is that these two separate parties almost met in Pop Carroway’s Candy Parlor.

The lecture room of the church was ablaze with light from eight kerosene lamps. One of these had a reflector on it, to be used perhaps as a sort of spotlight on the hero’s entrance.

Aunt Sophia, by reason of her collection of aches and pains, did not attend this gala meeting. She stayed at home with her cats. But the minister was there and the Girl Scouts from South Deadham and Deadham Centre were there.

This gay outpouring of nearly fifty people was not exactly in honor of Pee-wee. It was a Girl Scout rally intended to stir up interest in the local movement. But since Pee-wee, like a true scout, was always prepared to take whatever came along, he appropriated all the stray glory that was floating around.

Being the only boy in town, he was something of a lion and was viewed with becoming awe by the spectators as he sat wedged in between his cousin Prudence and one of the other girls on the platform. His martial appearance was somewhat modified when he pulled up his rebellious stocking, but his frown was terrible and his belt axe was so skilfully displayed as to strike dismay to the most courageous heart.

His nine merit badges (the final badge still lacking) were revealed upon his sleeve. He and the two maidens who flanked his sturdy form occupied but two chairs and from the rear of the little meeting room Artie Van Arlen and Grove Bronson, lurking there unseen, beheld the picture of these three as a sort of human sandwich (the kind sold at railroad stations) with the middle part of almost microscopic proportions. All of the valor in Scout Harris’s diminutive body seemed to be squeezed up into his head by the flanking pressure of his feminine hostesses and he gazed out upon the assemblage, silent, uncomfortable, terrible.

The organization business of the evening being concluded and a couple of songs about the woods having been sung, Miss Sympathea Softe arose, replaced a straying lock of hair with skilful daintiness, wriggled a little with becoming stage fright, and proceeded to explain the happy idea which the Girl Scouts had hit on in the Black Beauty Award.

CHAPTER VIII—A PREDICAMENT

“Humanity and kindness,” she said in finishing, “are as broad as the skies. So we planned not to confine our award to our local circle or even to Girl Scouts everywhere. There are Boy Scouts as well and we must not forget them.”

“There are more of them than there are Girl Scouts,” Pee-wee spoke up, “because I can prove it—”

“And their activities are reported in newspapers throughout our country—”

“They’re in Boys’ Life too,” Pee-wee announced vociferously, to the great amusement of the audience.

“The Boy Scouts,” continued Sympathea, “have an award called the First Aid to Animals Badge. It is the intention of our little troop to tender the Black Beauty Cross to every scout winning that award. The first one that we are going to honor is the cousin of one of our members, Prudence Primshock; a scout from Bridgeboro, New Jersey, a star scout who has won the badge that stands for humaneness in his troop—Walter Mincepie Harris—”

“Good night, he’s disguised as a mince pie,” Grove whispered to Artie; “the plot grows thicker, as Roy would say.”

“Excuse me,” said Sympathea blushing, “I mean Walter Woods Harris. I’m just a little nervous and (great and reassuring applause) I hardly know what I’m saying. We all know that Boy Scouts are heroes, that their hearts are always on the left, I mean on the right, I mean they’re in the right place. Walter—Scout Harris, will you please stand up and—”

“Hold while there is yet time!” came a voice from the rear of the little lecture room. “Water Mincepie Harris is not what he seems! He has disgraced the beloved mince pie and he is trying to deceive you all!”

“It’s Grove Bronson!” shouted Pee-wee, jumping from his seat.

“IT’S GROVE BRONSON!” SHOUTED PEE-WEE.

“Yes, and your patrol leader, Artie Van Arlen!” said Artie, “come to foil your attempt to disguise yourself as an animal cracker, I mean an animal lover. You the tyrant of the hop-toads! Don’t speak! It is too late. These people shall know the truth! They shall know what scouts, including sprouts, really are!”

By that time the people were turning around, some curious, some laughing. The meeting was small enough to be quite informal and no suggestion of rudeness seemed to attach to the sensational interruption of the ceremonies. What the people saw were two khaki-clad forms and bronzed faces, with merry mischief shining through their looks of dignity and mock anger. Sensations were not common in North Deadham. The little audience hardly knew how to take this sudden turn of affairs, when suddenly Pee-wee called in a voice of thunder.

“Did you bring my aluminum cooking set and my stalking shirt?”

That settled it for the audience. The girl scouts began to laugh, the rest followed suit; only Grove and Artie remained grimly silent and sober. They were very funny. The people, including the girls were indeed beginning to see what scouts really are; that with all their wholesome goodness they never take themselves too seriously.

“No!” said Artie, as the two made their way to the little platform. “But we brought the picture taken of you, Scout Harris, while you were branding a horse with a red hot iron, taken by Roy Blakeley as a proof—”

“He’s crazy!” yelled Pee-wee. “Did you bring my shirt? Are you hiking up to camp?”

“Oh, let us see it! Let us see it!” said Prudence excitedly.

“They didn’t bring it,” Pee-wee said, “but it’s just like the one I’ve got on only lighter color.”

“Oh, we mean the picture,” the girls all chimed in at once.

“It’s a joke!”

“Oh, isn’t it terrible!”

“He didn’t really do it?”

“Let me see it.”

“Let me see it first.”

“Oh, it’s too shocking!”

“What does it all mean?”

By this time the Girls’ Humane Committee, as well as several other girl scouts and a fair sprinkling of the audience were crowding about Grove and Artie, looking at the large photo which they held. It was an exceptionally good photo taken with Roy’s fine camera; it was a masterpiece of his skill in photography. It showed Pee-wee in the very act of branding the horse. The girls gazed at it dumbfounded, then burst into a medley of denunciation.

“Oh, it’s perfectly terrible!”

“How could he do it?”

“When did he do it?”

“Where did he do it?”

“Why did he do it?”

“For money,” said Grove; “for a paltry ten dollars.”

Pee-wee was about to scream his denunciation of this horrible attack when he recalled his promise to his mother never to tell Aunt Sophia (and that would include her household) about his disgraceful appearance on the stage with “play actors.”

“There it is,” said Artie; “look at it yourselves. It is a picture of Walter Mincepie Harris of Bridgeboro, New Jersey, branding a horse with an iron.”

There was no doubt about it. There was only one Pee-wee Harris in the world. And there he was in that picture. The girls contemplated it, amazed, speechless. Yet, of course, it must be a joke. They did not really believe.... Oh no, he would explain. Of course, he would explain, Such a silly....

“Oh, I think it’s just a perfectly horrid picture,” said Miss Dorothy Docile. “How did you ever happen to have it taken? Tell us about it.”

“I—I—eh—I can’t tell you,” said Pee-wee.

“What?”

“I can’t tell you,” he repeated.

“You mean you really did it?” Miss Kindheart inquired, in frantic anxiety.

“I can’t tell you anything about it,” Pee-wee said; “so that’s all I’m going to say.”

Silence is confession. Sympathea Softe held up her arms in horrified despair. Katherine Kindheart stared at Pee-wee with surprised and stony eyes. Dorothy Docile shuddered, looking at him as if he were a curiosity. And still he was silent. He could not speak. A scout’s honor is to be trusted.

“I can keep a secret if girls can’t!” he suddenly shouted in mingled defense and recrimination.

“A secret,” moaned Cousin Prudence. “Oh, he did it in secret. Thank goodness, poor, dear Mother isn’t here.”

As for Grove and Artie, they had not expected this. They had promised themselves the delight of witnessing Pee-wee’s confusion and then of listening to his thundering explanation. That would have been entertainment for everybody. But there stood Pee-wee, seeming by his silence to confess his guilt; there he stood refusing to explain.

On the whole, it was a blessing that Aunt Sophia was not there.

CHAPTER IX—PEE-WEE’S PAST REVEALED

With Pee-wee refusing to explain there was just the shadow of a chance that he might be cruelly misjudged. For after all, photographs do not lie, and unfortunately Cousin Prudence and her friends knew little of “stage plays.” Grove and Artie, having created the sensation they had counted on, were quick to set Pee-wee right before the multitude.

“He was in a show,” said Artie before Pee-wee had a chance to stop them.

“You’re not supposed to tell! You’re not supposed to tell!” Pee-wee shouted. “On account of Aunt Sophia getting shocked! You’re not supposed to tell!”

“We should worry about Aunt Sophia,” said Artie; “if she never does anything worse than brand a horse with a cold iron in a play—”

“She can’t, she’s got rheumatism,” Pee-wee shouted.

“Oh, was it in a play?” Miss Dorothy Docile carolled forth. “Isn’t that just perfectly lovely!”

“I knew there was something romantic about him, even before I saw him,” said Sympathea.

“Oh, just to think he’s an actor like Douglas Fairbanks,” said Miss Kindheart.

“We won’t say a word to Aunt Sophia, will we, Prudence?” Sympathea said. “You all have to promise you won’t say a word to Aunt Sophia. That’s the dark chapter in his history and we won’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Oh, isn’t it perfectly angelic to have a dark chapter in one’s history?”

“I’ve got darker ones than that,” said Pee-wee; “once I was out all night being kidnapped in an automobile, only I found I wasn’t being kidnapped after all.”