Pee-wee Harris in camp

“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.”

“It was so dark,” said Artie; “it was a kind of a pinkish brown.”

The meeting had now resolved itself into a “social” which was the way that meetings in the lecture room usually ended and the three scouts were the “lions” of the occasion. The great actor and friend of animals was the hero of the evening and ate four plates of ice cream and a couple of dozen cookies to show his sympathy for “dumb creatures.” His tender heart beat joyfully (on his left side) and so overcome was he that his eyes filled with tears when he ate a stuffed green pepper. There seemed no danger of Aunt Sophia learning the terrible truth about her nephew and, with her baleful influence removed, the social end of the meeting became a real scout affair.

“The trouble with you girls is you don’t think of anything but animals,” Artie said. “If you were real scouts you’d have seen that the tree in that picture wasn’t a real tree and that the stable was only painted.”

“That’s deduction,” Pee-wee interrupted loudly, as he wrestled with a mouthful of cake; “that shows you’re not real scouts, because real scouts know everything, I don’t mean everything but they know all about trees and things as well as animals and you can be cruel to trees and that shows you’re a regular scout—”

“By being cruel to them?” Prudence laughed.

“There are other things in scouting besides animals,” Grove said. “Don’t get off the track when you start to be scouts—”

“Lots of times I got off the track,” Pee-wee said.

“Sure,” said Artie, “and every scout isn’t an aviator because he goes up in the air.”

“I’ve been up in the air a lot of times,” Pee-wee persisted.

“Sure, he’s a regular elevator,” said Artie.

The two scouts had, indeed, arrived in North Deadham at a most propitious moment, just when the little struggling Girl Scout organization was in danger of being turned into a humane society. The girls were treated to a glimpse of real scouts and real scouting, the fun, the banter, the jollying, the breeziness of the all-around scout spirit. And thus the blighting hand of Aunt Sophia was stayed. Pee-wee took the Black Beauty badge and prized it (there were very few things that got past him), but the badge did not monopolize the thoughts and activities of the North Deadham girls any more.

The three scouts remained at the village over the week-end and on Monday morning set forth on their hike to Temple Camp.

CHAPTER X—PEE-WEE’S ENTERPRISE

The hike to Temple Camp was uneventful; it was only after Pee-wee’s arrival there that things began to happen. On the way they discussed the question of Pee-wee resigning from the Ravens to form a new patrol. That would enable Artie, the Ravens’ patrol leader, to ask Billy Simpson of Bridgeboro to come in. That, indeed, was Artie’s main reason for hiking to North Deadham; he wished for an opportunity to talk freely over a period of several days with the irrepressible little Raven and to ascertain (as far as it was possible for any human being to ascertain) something of the plans that were tumbling over each other in that fertile mind.

The Ravens did not wish to get rid of Pee-wee, but since Pee-wee was rather a troop institution than a patrol member, Artie thought it might be as well to give Billy Simpson a chance if Pee-wee really intended to form a new patrol.

“You see, Kid,” said Artie; “you can start a new patrol but Billy couldn’t, because he’s new at the game. But I wouldn’t want it to seem— you know—kind of as if we were letting you out—see?”

“S-u-re,” said Pee-wee reassuringly; “I’ll say I discharged the Ravens and then nobody’ll think anything against me, hey? We’ll kind of let people think that I got rid of you, hey? But I can come and have supper with you sometimes, hey? Maybe I’ll bring my new patrol, hey?”

“Have a heart,” said Grove.

“Be sure to come,” said Artie, smiling. “Come when we’re out. Now listen, Kid, you’ve been in the Ravens ever since we started—”

“I was in it before you,” said Pee-wee; “I was a Raven before there were any Ravens—”

“I know it, now listen, please. You’re the kind of a scout that can get a patrol started easily because you’re a good getter; you’ve got personality.”

“Is that anything like adenoids?” Pee-wee wanted to know.

“No, it’s something that you can’t explain.”

“I bet it’s like algebra, hey?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“I bet everybody’ll want to join my new patrol on account of me being a star scout, hey?”

“The trouble is that the loose scouts at camp come from all over the country and what are you going to do when they have to go home?” Artie asked thoughtfully.

“I had an inspiration,” said Pee-wee.

“You having many of those lately?” Grove asked.

“S-u-re, I have them all the time, I had four yesterday. I’m going to have a correspondence patrol.”

“A what?”

“Didn’t you ever hear of a correspondence school—members all over the country?”

“Oh, I see,” said Artie. “The only trouble is that it will evaporate in September.”

“Now you see it, now you don’t,” said Grove.

“It’ll be a patrol with lots of branches, like,” said Pee-wee; “just like the Standard Oil Company. Do you see? And when they go home each scout starts a patrol, no matter where. It’s kind of like a—a epidemic.”

“Worse than that,” said Artie.

“And I’m going to be the head of them all,” Pee-wee said.

“And you’re going to bring them all to dinner?” inquired Grove.

“You’ll have a couple of million scouts under you in a year or two, Kid,” laughed Artie; “it’s a good idea.”

“I invented it,” said Pee-wee. “You take a patrol. A patrol’s a patrol, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” said Grove.

“All right,” enthused Pee-wee, “if a patrol breaks up that’s the end of it, isn’t it? But the more this one breaks up the more patrols there are. I thought of it when I was eating a banana yesterday.”

“All right, Kiddo,” laughed Artie; “all I want to be sure of is that you’re not going to be sore if we take Billy Simpson in. Because I want to write to him and ask him to come up to camp and be initiated.”

“I’ll initiate him,” Pee-wee burst forth.

“And if this doesn’t work,” said Artie, “there’s plenty of material home in Bridgeboro.”

“Sure,” said Pee-wee, “I’d ask Carl Hansen because his father keeps a bakery and, anyway, I’m in the troop just the same, gee whiz, I’m with the Silver Foxes a lot.”

Grove and Artie looked at each other and walked along thoughtfully for a short distance. They could not just bring themselves to let Pee-wee leave the Raven Patrol, of which he was the main “rave.” He was theirs. They had not as many awards as the Elks and the Silver Foxes but at least they had Pee-wee. He was their great exhibit.

Artie was perplexed and just a little troubled at heart. The three patrols were full, the only way to let Billy Simpson in was to start a new patrol. It seemed likely enough that Pee-wee could do that; he was a born propagandist, a walking advertisement of scouting, but Artie did not want to drop him only to see him plunge into some outlandish enterprise which would land him nowhere.

He knew Pee-wee thoroughly, and he knew that Pee-wee, though he loved novelty and dealt in every manner of colossal scheme, after all loved his troop and his patrol and the fine, wholesome life of scouting. Good scout and good patrol leader that he was, Artie was not going to let Pee-wee be the victim of his own delusions. Moreover, now that it came to the point of actually deciding the matter he had a strange feeling something akin to homesickness at the thought of Pee-wee leaving the Ravens. Pee-wee’s own irresponsible and cheerful willingness to do so rather increased this feeling.

“Well, Kid,” said Artie finally, “as Mr. Ellsworth says, there’s room for a half a dozen more patrols in Bridgeboro, and you’re the scout to round some of those fellows up—”

“That’s my middle name, rounding fellers up,” Pee-wee interrupted with prompt enthusiasm, “and anyway I’ll see you just the same, because it’s all kind of like one family, isn’t it?”

“You said it,” said Grove.

“Sure it is,” said Pee-wee, “and you can borrow my field-glass any time you want to just the same as you always did and—”

“Don’t, Kid,” said Artie, visibly affected.

“And I’ll let you use my cooking set for the patrol just the same as I always did, that’s one thing sure; gee whiz, you can use it whenever you want.”

They walked along in silence for a few minutes. In an hour more their weary legs would be swinging from the station platform at Catskill, while they waited for the Temple Camp bus. Oh, how good that old bus seat would feel! And the camp!

Pee-wee had skipped a summer at camp (the memorable summer spent at Everdoze) and he longed to be among the familiar scenes once more. So they hiked along, Grove kicking a stone before him, Artie silent, thoughtful. Only Pee-wee seemed bubbling with joy. Pee-wee who was going to be dropped. At least that was the way it seemed to Artie.

The day was drawing to an end, the flaky clouds in the west were bright with the first tints of the declining sunlight. The birds were still. High above them a hawk sped on its way, hastening toward the dark hills. Beyond those hills was the camp. A dainty little squirrel sat on a stone wall washing its face as if getting ready to go down to supper. And away far off, far enough for its harshness to be mellowed by the distance, a locomotive whistled, long, low, melodious. It seemed a part of nature.

“Anyway, we had a peach of a hike,” Pee-wee said; “gee, I hope they have corn fritters for supper, don’t you?”

But neither Grove nor Artie answered.

At Catskill, Artie, arousing himself from his pre-occupation, said, “Look here, Kid; we’ve got to decide about it now, because I want to send a letter to Billy Simpson. If he’s coming, he’s got to come Wednesday. Hanged if I know what to do,” he added, perplexed, and perhaps a little troubled in his conscience, “I wish Mr. Ellsworth was here. What do you think? If your—your—what d’you call it?—your scheme up here doesn’t work, do you think you can round up a patrol at home?”

“You leave it to me,” said Pee-wee; “don’t all my schemes succeed? You just leave it to me, I’ll fix it.”

“It’s all right then?”

“S-u-re, it’s all right.”

Still Artie hesitated. “I don’t know what to do, Kid,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” said Pee-wee in a burst of inspiration; “let’s go get some ice cream cones.”

CHAPTER XI—BILLY SIMPSON’S CHANCE

“You’ll find us in the post office,” Grove called after Pee-wee, who was descending pell-mell on Mrs. Westgrove’s familiar candy kitchen.

“I’ll get some jaw breakers too, hey?” Pee-wee called back.

“Jiminy, I don’t know, it makes me feel awful funny to do that,” said Artie to Grove. “We’ve never lost a member before. I sort of feel as if we were taking advantage of his good nature. If it wasn’t that Billy Simpson is so crazy to get into scouting— Gee, I hate to see a scout go begging for a patrol. Suppose it was Doc. Carson or El Sawyer, or Wig Weigand? We wouldn’t drop them to make room for another like that. Hang it all, why don’t they make it nine instead of eight in a patrol?”

“Ask me,” said Grove.

“What do you think?” Artie asked.

“Pee-wee’s an odd number,” said Grove; “he belongs everywhere. We couldn’t get rid of him if we tried to. He’s wished onto the troop, he—”

“I know, but he’s a star scout, don’t forget that.”

“I’m not forgetting it,” said Grove, “only I say he’s sort of different from other members, he’s troop mascot.”

“He’s so plaguy hard to talk seriously to,” Artie said. “I wonder how much he really cares about us—I mean in our patrol?”

“You must remember, he’s a world hero,” Grove said, “and he can’t bother with just one patrol. I say, let’s give Billy a chance. I know the kid is rattle-brained but he’s willing, you can see that. He’ll land on his feet all right, or rather he’ll be just as happy standing on his head.”

“I wouldn’t want the Elks or the Silver Foxes to get him,” said Artie. “Roy jollies the life out of him but he’d grab him like that if he got the chance.”

“They’re both full,” said Grove; “I say let’s turn him loose and see what happens.”

Artie could not quite bring himself to do this with an altogether easy conscience. But since there was no discussing it with Pee-wee and since he must do one thing or the other then and there, he led the way into the post office and wrote the following letter to Billy Simpson back in Bridgeboro.

Dear Billy:—

There’s a place for you in my patrol if you want to come up. We have awards and initiations Wednesday. Walter Harris (I guess you know that fellow) is pulling out to start a new outfit. He’s the scream of the troop, I guess you know him. His mouth is always black from eating roasted potatoes. We’ll ring you in as a tenderfoot and you can learn a lot up here at camp. You’ve got the booklets already so I guess you know all about it. Tom Slade is camp assistant—everybody in Bridgeboro knows him. We’ll see Harris all the time so it will be all right—he’s everywhere at once.

It’s going to be a lively season, they’re camping all around the lake I understand. You’ll make a hit all right only don’t let your mother sneak any rubbers or cough drops or that kind of stuff into your suitcase. They’re always trying to do that. Watch your step and feel down in the corners of your bag for witch hazel and don’t bring an overcoat whatever you do. Pee-wee (that’s what we call our wandering boy) says for you to come ahead and he’ll show you how to get drowned in the lake. He’s a four reel comedy, that kid is. Don’t bring a book about “My Summer in Camp”; you’ll be too busy to spill ink. The bus will be at the station (5.22) and if it isn’t, I will.

So long,

Artie Van Arlen, P. L. Ravens.

P. S. Don’t worry about the kid, it’s all fixed.

The funny thing about this letter was that it was mostly about Pee-wee. Artie seemed to welcome the coming guest, but to be thinking mostly about the departing guest. But there was one thing in the letter which perhaps threw some light on the character of Billy Simpson. And then again, perhaps it did not.

“Don’t worry about the kid, it’s all fixed.”

Was Billy Simpson that kind of a fellow? The kind who would be likely to worry? The kind that would want to make sure that everything was all right? The kind that wouldn’t step into another fellow’s shoes? If he was, why then he had a pretty good preliminary equipment for scouting.

Evidently Artie knew something about him....

CHAPTER XII—ADVICE FROM THE VETERAN

Pee-wee saw Billy Simpson for the first time on Wednesday when the awards were given out. At Temple Camp this was done at the beginning and at the end of the season. The first of these two occasions was mostly for the purpose of enrolling new scouts, the latter for the purpose of tendering the badges and other awards won during the season. The ceremonies were sometimes held under the Honor Oak, as it was called, or, if the weather was bad, in the pavilion.

If Pee-wee was beset by any lingering regrets at seeing another admitted to his place among the Ravens, he did not show it. He applauded and shouted uproariously when Billy Simpson had taken the oath and in a voice of thunder volunteered a valuable hint or two to the new scout.

“Make them let you sit in my place next to Uncle Jeb and you’ll always get two helpings of dessert,” he shouted. “Don’t get near the foot of the messboards because there isn’t any more by the time they get that far.”

And again, while the tenderfoot badge was being placed on Billy’s new khaki suit, and just as Artie was placing a Raven Patrol pennant in his hand, the voice of the veteran arose again, “Grove Bronson owes me two gumdrops for our hike up; tell him I said to give them to you so they don’t have to go outside the patrol.”

Presently Pee-wee himself was on the little platform receiving the star scout badge. Mr. Ellsworth, the Bridgeboro troop’s scoutmaster, was not at camp that season, so Mr. Waring, one of the resident trustees, had the honor of raising Pee-wee to the dizzy altitude of the stars.

“Scout Harris,” said he, “stands before us, a scout without a troop or a patrol, because no patrol or troop is large enough to hold him. (Great applause.) He resigned from a full patrol to make room for a new scout—a typical scout good turn. Those of you who were here two years ago will remember Scout Harris—”

“Tell them I’m the one that did the double-dip off the springboard,” Pee-wee whispered to Mr. Waring. “Tell them I’m the one that stalked a wasp.”

“Scout Harris,” said Mr. Waring, laughing, “is the only scout that dipped a wasp—”

“Not dipped him,” Pee-wee shouted.

“He is the only scout that ever stalked a wasp. Everybody knows Scout Harris. In the interval since last summer he has passed the several remaining tests requisite to his becoming a star scout and I now on behalf of the Boy Scouts of America, present him with the star scout badge.” (Great applause.)

“Tell them I chose life saving instead of pioneering, but anyway I’m going to win the pioneering badge to-morrow,” Pee-wee said as the star award was being fastened to his elaborately decorated regalia. “Tell them I’m going to start a new kind of a patented patrol; go on, tell them.”

It was not necessary for Mr. Waring to tell the audience anything for Pee-wee’s voice could be heard to the very outskirts of the crowd, and a chorus of joyous approval greeted him.

“Hurrah for Scout Harris!”

“Three cheers for the ex-Raven!”

“Three cheers for the ex-ray!”

“What’s the matter with the animal cracker?”

“Congratulations to the Ravens!”

“You’re in luck, Artie.”

“I’m going to start an extensible patrol!” Pee-wee fairly yelled.

“Tell us all about that.”

“I invented it!” he screamed.

“Bully for you!”

“I’m a lance!” he shrieked.

“A how?”

“He means a free lance.”

(Uproarious laughter.)

“Let him speak.”

“How can we stop him?”

“I’m more than a patrol member!” Pee-wee shouted. “You can be more than a thing by not being a thing, can’t you?”

“Oh, posilutely,” one called.

“I’m a star—”

“Sure, you’re a big dipper.”

“You mean a little dippy.”

“Anybody that wants to join my new patrol can do it,” Pee-wee announced. “It’s going to be named the Hop-toads—”

“Why don’t you have a troop with three patrols; the hop, skip, and jump?” someone called.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Pee-wee shouted.

“Where’s your headquarters?” a scout shouted.

“I won’t tell you because I’ve got an inspiration,” Pee-wee called.

“Let’s see it.”

“Did you invent it?”

Pee-wee being the last honor recipient on the program, the gathering ended in a kind of grand climax of fun and banter, through which he more than held his own. He was too preoccupied with new schemes to think much about the Ravens and their new member. Neither was he greatly concerned about the opinion of the camp in general. He had often said that he could “handle” Temple Camp with both hands tied behind him. And so he undoubtedly could, provided his tongue were left free....

CHAPTER XIII—AN INSPIRATION

The Hop-toad Patrol consisted of two small scouts besides Pee-wee. So there was plenty of room for extension upward. Willie Rivers and Howard Delekson were the names of these two tenderfeet, and what they lacked in size and numbers they made up in admiration for their leader.

Probably no army ever mobilized had such profound confidence in their commander as these two staring-eyed little fellows had for Pee-wee. To them he was not only a star scout, he was the whole firmament. One of them came from Connecticut, the other from New York, and neither had scout affiliations prior to their admission into Pee-wee’s organization. The rule that none but scouts should visit camp was often waived to welcome some lone and budding tenderfoot into the community.

The way these two little fellows gazed at Pee-wee and the veneration in which they held his prowess and resourcefulness was almost pathetic. Their first dutiful tribute was to vote for him for patrol leader, and as he voted for himself, the election was carried by a “unanimousness,” as he called it.

The pennant of the Hop-toads, bearing a crude representation of their humble namesake reptile, was displayed over an old discarded float which had been drawn up on shore, but after several days of patient waiting it became more and more evident that if Scout Harris were going to enlist a full patrol he would have to start a selective service draft. The star scout badge did not prove as magnetic as he had counted on its being, or else the stray scouts in camp were frightened away by the glamour of such fame and heroism. At all events, the unattached scouts (of whom there were not a great many) did not rally to Pee-wee’s standard.

He soon abandoned the extensible patrol idea, (for Pee-wee’s mind was quite as extensible as the purposed patrol) in favor of another which seemed to hold out some prospect of adventure and a very considerable prospect of financial success.

“Did you ever hear of sea scouting?” he asked his worshipping patrol.

“You go on the ocean, don’t you?” Willie Rivers ventured to ask.

“As long as it’s water it doesn’t make any difference,” Pee-wee said. “Do you know what an inspiration is?”

“Is it an animal?” Scout Delekson asked.

“Is it something you win—maybe?” Scout Rivers asked, doubtfully.

“It’s something you get,” Pee-wee said contemptuously. “I just had one and I don’t look any different, do I?”

They gazed at him and were forced to admit that the inspiration had not altered his heroic appearance.

“It’s a sudden idea,” Pee-wee said.

“Oh,” said Scout Rivers.

“That’s why you can’t see it,” said Scout Delekson.

“Do you know what I’m going to do? Will you say that you’re with me? Even if I go to—to—foreign shores?”

“Are we going to China?” Scout Rivers asked.

“No, we’re going across the lake; shh, don’t say anything. Have either one of you got an onion?”

Neither of them had an onion but they looked at Pee-wee as if they were ready to follow him to the ends of the earth.

“When the pilgrims started to come to America, everybody stood around crying,” Pee-wee said; “but that isn’t what I want an onion for. Did you ever hear of invisible writing? If you write with onion juice it won’t show, but if you hold the paper over a fire the writing will come out plain. Shh.”

The patrol stared, but did not utter a word. They realized that they were in for something terrible; they stared fearfully but were brave.

“If you take an onion to school with you,” Pee-wee said, “you can write notes to the feller across the aisle and he can hold them over the radiator and then read them. But don’t ever tell anybody; don’t ever tell any girls because they can’t keep secrets.”

“Can’t I tell my sister?” Willie asked.

“No, sisters are even worse than regular girls,” said Pee-wee; “sisters are the worst kind. Now I’ll tell you what you have to do. You sit here on this float and watch it till I get back, then we’ll sail out on the lake with sealed orders; do you know what those are?”

“Like captains of ships have?” Willie ventured.

“Sure, and if anybody asks you what we’re going to do you tell them I’m going to win the pioneering badge, but don’t tell them anything else; understand?”

The two small boys sat side by side on the edge of the float watching their leader as he disappeared around the main pavilion. Their admiration of him knew no bounds. They felt that they were already a part of some dark mystery. It was very easy indeed for them to refrain from telling anybody anything, since they did not know anything to tell....

CHAPTER XIV—THE AUTOCRAT

The enterprise which Pee-wee was now about to launch was the most gigantic of any that had ever emanated from his seething brain. We shall have to follow it step by step. His first call was at Administration Shack where he asked Tom Slade, camp assistant, if he and his patrol might have the use of the old float for cruising.

“You know the one I mean,” he said; “it’s the one I fell off of that summer when I was diving for licorice jaw breakers. Don’t you remember the day my mouth was all black? It’s got four barrels under it to hold it up—”

“What, your mouth?” young Mr. Slade asked.

“No, the old float, and the barrels are airtight, because they were filled with water when the float was drawn up and I’ve got two in my patrol and they haven’t shrunk, I mean the barrels, so will it be all right for us to pitch our tent on that old float and kind of be sea scouts, because anyway all of us know how to swim and I saved a scout from drowning last summer. Can we?”

Young Mr. Slade was not too ready with his approval of this scheme; he said he would take a look at the old mooring float.

Pee-wee did not wait for his approval but proceeded immediately to the cooking shack where he accosted Chocolate Drop, the smiling negro chef.

“I want an onion and an empty bottle and a lot of other things to eat,” he said. “Three of us are going camping on an old float and we want beans enough to last for a week and some Indian meal and some flour and some bacon and I’ll give you a note to say we’ll pay for them. We want some sugar too, and some egg powder and if the bottle’s full of olives or pickles, it won’t make any difference because we can empty it and we want some coffee too and some potatoes.”

“Lordy me, Massa Pee-wee! What else you want, eh? Yo’ hev a reckezishon from Massa Slade, hey?”

“I’ll get it,” said Pee-wee; “you get the stuff ready.”

It was the rule that supplies for bivouac camping and camping outside the community limits should be supplied by the commissary at nominal prices. Scouts could give their I. O. U.’s for such supplies and these charges appeared upon the regular bills for board and accommodation. But requisitions, properly endorsed by either scoutmaster or camp official, were necessary to the procuring of such supplies.

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” Pee-wee shouted, waving all doubts aside; “I’ll get it from Tom Slade. Do you know what an enterprise is? I had an inspiration about an enterprise and my patrol is going to make lots of money and we can pay for everything, because if you’ve got an inspiration about an enterprise you can get credit, can’t you?

“Listen, Chocolate Drop, do you remember that summer when all the scouts were jollying each other about going scout pace around the lake? Do you remember? Do you remember you said that every scout that went scout pace around the lake in an hour could have three helpings of dessert for the rest of the season? Gee whiz, you’re the boss of the desserts, you have a right to do that, haven’t you? Gee whiz, you’ve got just as much right to offer prizes for scout stunts as anybody, haven’t you? Because anyway you’re an official. One thing sure, you’re the boss of the eats, aren’t you?”

Chocolate Drop was certainly the boss of the eats, desserts included. Not even John Temple himself was such an autocrat as Chocolate Drop in his Utopian dominion. Within those hallowed precincts he waved his frying-pan like a sceptre of imperial authority. He and he alone was never interfered with by officials higher up. Not even the National Scout Commissioner could tell Chocolate Drop what he should serve for dessert. The President of the United States could not add or subtract one dab of icing to or from those luscious cakes.

Every time an honor medal was awarded the proud recipient received an “honor pie” from Cooking Shack, a huge round medal, as it were, more precious than shining gold. Yes, the will of Chocolate Drop was supreme and he spoke to the multitude as no one else could speak.

His liking was expressed in crullers, his tribute to prowess or heroism found voice in puddings. He conquered with fried corn cakes. He made friends and converts with fudge. His cookies were like so many merit badges. He was such an artist that he could reproduce these in icing. Once, upon a mince pie (a hot one) Chocolate Drop designed in luscious jelly the First Aid badge. For Chocolate Drop had a sense of humor....

CHAPTER XV—BON VOYAGE

Pee-wee had the freedom of the cooking shack. Being a specialist on eats, he was honored with this privilege. It was like a college degree conferred upon him, in testimony of his wonderful achievements in the world of food. He now sat upon a flour barrel strategically near a dishpan full of cookies. As he talked his hand made occasional flank movements in the direction of this pan. Sometimes he captured some prisoners.

“That offer still holds good,” he said, as he munched a cookie, “because you never took it back. So it’s open yet?... Isn’t it?” he concluded anxiously.

“It’s open yet, Massa Pee-wee, coze it ain’t never been done nor ever will n’ it was jes’ a joke n’ a lot of nonsense ’n’ you better not try it coze ’f you do you’ll jes get dem feet of yourn wet ’n’ Chocolate Drop he hev ter put cough mixture in dem cakes. How you like dat, Massa Pee-wee?”

“Anyway will you cross your heart that if any feller hikes scout pace around the lake in an hour he can have three helpings of dessert for the rest of the time he stays?”

“So dats th’ kind of a insperize you got?” Chocolate Drop laughed, showing his white teeth and placing his flour covered hand on Pee-wee’s khaki shirt. “Dere’s my hand on it, Massa Pee-wee. You jes’ go scout pace around dat lake in sixty minutes n’ you get dat three helpings all de time you here. You hear that?”

“Or any other scout?”

“Das it,” laughed Chocolate Drop.

“Three helpings? Regular size ones?”

“You ain’t nebber see no other sizes hab you, roun’ here?”

“All right,” said Pee-wee, jumping off the barrel and beating the flour from his shirt, “you’re a scout just as much as anybody else here is, because Mr. Temple says that the rules are for everybody that has anything to do with scouting, and the rule says a scout has to keep his word, see?”

“It don’t say nuthin’ ’bout him keeping cookies, does it?” the cook asked. “Here, you take a pocketful ’n’ doan’ you lose no sleep ’bout ole Chocolate Drop keepin’ his word coze he am a scout. ’N’ you come back here with your paper signed ’n’ you get rations for one week, ’n’ extrees. Now how’s dat?”

That was perfectly satisfactory and Pee-wee returned to the float where a curious throng of scouts was assembled. The two little hop-toads seemed rather embarrassed to be the center of so much interest.

Tom Slade was also there considering the seaworthy qualities of the old float. He found the four barrels (one under each corner) filled with water which had kept the staves tight, and it was only necessary to pump the water out to have as bouyant a raft as one could want, its flooring well clear of the surface of the water. So gayly did it ride when it was pushed in that it seemed more likely to go up in the air than to sink. As for tipping over, a ferry-boat was cranky compared with it. It was in no more peril of capsizing than a turtle is.

In the presence of the curious multitude (rivaling the watchers who had seen the Pilgrim Fathers depart), the food (properly requisitioned) was put on board, the tent was raised, and a couple of old grocery boxes and a dilapidated camp stool contributed as deck furniture. Nor was this all; for Tom Slade, always careful and thorough, made the two small followers of the great adventurer swim from the float to the springboard to determine their skill in that necessary art.

Since nothing less than a volcanic upheaval could capsize the float, the only danger seemed to be that of falling off it. This danger was greatly minimized by the placid character of the lake which was usually as gentle as a cup of tea. It would have been difficult for this gallant bark to drift out to sea by reason of the surrounding mountains which completely enclosed the little lake. The only real peril lay in the possibility of a storm so terrific as to lift the float and blow it over the mountains. But even then it would stand a good chance of alighting in the Hudson River and being stopped before it reached New York. For the rest, as young Mr. Slade said dryly, the reckless voyagers would have to take their chances.

Behold, then, the new Hop-toad Patrol standing on the deck of their gay platform as it bobbed near the shore, with Scout Harris, a patrol leader at last, posing defiantly upon a keg of assorted edibles and raw materials for cooking. Under one arm he held a tin lock-box (for what terrible purpose no one knew), while in his hand he held an apple (extracted from the keg), for what purpose everybody knew.

“What’s the big idea, kid?” some flippant scout called.

“Don’t hurry back,” called another.

This encouraged a laughing chorus as the float drifted out upon the lake.

“Come over and see us some time when you can’t stay.”

“If you happen to be passing we’ll be glad to see you—pass.”

“Remember, the other side of the lake is best for camping.”

“What’s the tin box for? Buried treasure?”

“Speech, speech!” half a dozen yelled.

“No hard feeling, is there?” one clear, earnest voice called. It was that of the new raving Raven, Billy Simpson. “You sure about plenty of fun?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Pee-wee shouted at the boy who had succeeded him in the patrol. He scorned to answer any of the others. “I’m pronouncing the world—”

“He means denouncing,” said a scout.

“Do you mean renouncing?” another called.

“I’ll give you a tip,” he called to Billy Simpson; “because I’m not mad at you on account of your joining—”

“He’s more to be pitied than blamed,” Roy Blakeley shouted.

“It’s better than if he was in the Silver Foxes,” Pee-wee screamed. “Hey, Billy Simpson, you look for a bottle with invisible writing and hold it over the campfire, so that proves I’m not sore at you! It’s a mystery.”

“A how?” several called.

“We’re going to make a fortune,” Pee-wee yelled defiantly. “We’re going to be the richest patrol—”

“On the other side of Black Lake,” a laughing voice called.

“You’d better all look at regulation seven,” Pee-wee shouted; “you’d better all look at regulation seven, that’s all I say!”

His mouth now embraced the remainder of his apple in a touching, last farewell. His voice was stifled by the clinging core. Then, in a kind of agony of parting forever, he threw the core from him and it floated through the air like a thrown kiss, and landed plunk in one of the twinkling eyes of Roy Blakeley, patrol leader of the Silver Foxes.

The Hop-toad Patrol was off upon its great adventure.

CHAPTER XVI—REGULATION SEVEN

“The plot grows thicker,” said Roy. “What’s all this about a bottle?”

“And regulation seven,” said another scout. “What the dickens regulation is that? Let’s go up and see.”

Just for the fun of it they all strolled up toward Main Pavilion. Fastened to the trunk of an oak tree just outside it was the bulletin-board at which Hervey Willetts, the most picturesque scout that had ever visited camp, had thrown a luscious, soft tomato, which exploit had an interesting sequel elsewhere told. How strange the camp seemed that summer without the captivating personality of that wandering minstrel.

“He said he wouldn’t be here this summer,” said a scout reminiscently.

“That’s what makes me think maybe he will be,” said another.

“Anything’s likely with him,” said a third.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, here it is—seven,” said a scout, following the rules down with his finger, and reading aloud:

7—The rights of property, owned or hired, are to be respected by all scouts. A scout shall not trespass upon any farm or other property while a guest at this camp. It is likewise unscoutlike for a scout to enter without permission the cabin, tent or precincts, of another scout, or of a troop or patrol of which he is not a member. He shall not use without permission any boat or canoe assigned to other scouts. No explanation of practical joking or of other innocent intent shall excuse him from the stigma of trespassing when he crosses or enters property officially assigned to others within the camp limits.

“What’s the idea?” a scout asked curiously. “Just a few of us sat on the edge of the float. The kid didn’t seem to object.”

“Maybe he means we’d better not go near his stalking signs while he’s away,” another said. “He’s watching a couple of nests in that big elm.”

“I guess he’s got the rule mixed up with some other rule,” another suggested. “Everything is all jumbled up in his massive dome.”

Since the scouts were in the habit of observing at least the spirit of this good rule, the group concluded that Pee-wee’s ominous warning referred to some other rule. He had been greatly excited, as was natural when setting off upon a cruise of perhaps a mile or more.

There was one scout among them, and only one, who entertained any serious thoughts about Pee-wee and his epoch-making enterprise. This was Billy Simpson. He could not rid his mind of the thought that his position in the Raven Patrol was somewhat that of a usurper. He had sized Pee-wee up very accurately and he had an uncomfortable feeling that the little former mascot was merely on a sort of adventurous spree and did not realize what he had done in his thoughtless resignation from the patrol.