E-text prepared by Roger Frank and Sue Clark

It was often observed by Roy Blakeley that whenever Pee-wee opened his mouth he put his foot in it. Unquestionably he put something in it on a very large percentage of the occasions when it was open, and there is no denying that it was open a great deal of the time; probably a hundred and twenty per cent of the time.

There was probably nothing about Pee-wee which he opened as often as his mouth, unless it was his scout handbook. And on one occasion when he opened his scout handbook, he put his foot in it with a vengeance. And thereby hangs a tale. There can be no doubt that Pee-wee knew all about scouting—oh everything. But the trouble was that he did not know all about scouts. And this was his undoing.

It is a harrowing story with a frightful ending. Scouts right and left died—laughing. As one of the girls connected with it said, “it was just killing.”

The story, as I shall relate it, begins with Pee-wee sitting on the railing of his porch, reading his scout handbook. He was glancing over the hints on camping, for he and Townsend Ripley were going to Temple Camp in Townsend’s flivver and although they would probably be not more than two or three days making the trip, Pee-wee intended to carry a commissary which would hold out for several weeks. He was not going to run any risk of being stranded in the desert wastes of Ulster County without supplies.

Pee-wee was now the “feature” of the new Alligator Patrol, of which Townsend Ripley was patrol leader. But in a certain sense it might be said that the new Alligator Patrol was a part of Pee-wee. It was just as much a part of him as his voice and his appetite, and these were certainly parts of him.

In a broad sense, it cannot be said that Pee-wee was in anything (unless it was the apple barrel in the cellar). Things were in Pee-wee, all sorts of things, patrols, troops, ideas, everything. He consumed everything that he touched. Even the Boy Scouts of America was a part of Pee-wee.

Pee-wee had deserted the Ravens of the First Bridgeboro Troop for the purpose of organizing a new patrol. That was at Temple Camp and he had organized the Pollywogs, consisting of two members who for a while submitted to his autocratic sway. But the Pollywogs became frogs and hopped away. There was too much coming and going at Temple Camp for permanent organization.

Returning to the more stable population of his own town, Pee-wee had formed the Alligators and, like the true dictator that he was, had made Townsend Ripley patrol leader. But the power behind the throne was Scout Harris.

Shortly after the formation of the Alligator Patrol (which was intended to form the nucleus of a new Boy Scouts of America) it was annexed (in defiance of international law) to the First Bridgeboro Troop and thus came under the wise and kindly supervision of Mr. Ellsworth, scoutmaster of that familiar and lively troop.

With four patrols, Ravens, Silver Foxes, Elks and Alligators, Mr. Ellsworth, that never-tiring friend of scouting, had his hands full. In the new patrol was little Joe McKinny, alias Keekie Joe of Barrel Alley, so really Mr. Ellsworth’s hands were more than full, they were overflowing.

When school closed the entire troop excepting Pee-wee and Townsend Ripley went to Temple Camp in the Catskills. The reason why Townsend deferred his going was because his parents intended shortly to go to Orange Lake, near Newburgh, to spend the summer and wished Townsend to drive them there in the flivver.

He intended then to motor on to Temple Camp, which, as all friends of the Bridgeboro boys know, is situated among the mountains five or six miles in from Catskill Landing. Pee-wee, who loved everything, above all things loved motoring, and he had lingered behind to accompany Townsend and, as he said, “show him the right way.”

“You have our sympathy,” Roy Blakeley of the Silver Foxes had said to the leader of the new patrol.

“That’s all right,” Townsend had said; “the flivver makes lots of noise and will drown his voice. Don’t worry about me, I’m all right. We’ll come rattling up to camp in a few days.”

“Maybe we’ll be there in two days,” Pee-wee had shouted.

“Don’t hurry,” Roy had answered.

“Maybe we’ll be there by Saturday,” Pee-wee had announced in a voice of thunder.

“Any time you’re passing we’d be glad to see you—pass,” Roy had said.

“Drop in some time when you’re at the lake,” Connie Bennett had remarked.

And so they had gone and Pee-wee had spent three rather lonesome days waiting for Townsend’s parents to get ready to go to Orange Lake. It was during that time that he had his great inspiration.

Pee-wee had had many inspirations; they seemed to grow wild in his brain. But this was by far the greatest one of all. And it furnished an example of how great events may flow from trifling causes. For this world catastrophe started with a gum-drop. When that fateful gum-drop hit the pavement in front of Pee-wee’s porch, it was like the famous shot at the battle of Concord, which is said to have been heard around the world.

If, with that gum-drop (several years before), Pee-wee had hit the Grand Duke of Servia plunk in the eye, the universal conflagration could hardly have been greater than it was in this momentous summer, the events of which are now faithfully to be related.