 Section 5 of Peewee Harris. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss. Peewee Harris by Percy Keyes Fitzhugh. Chapter 21. Scout Harris Fixes It. Perhaps you will say that Peewee was not a good scout to speak with such impudent assurance to his elders, but you are to remember what I told you about Peewee, that everything about him was tremendous except his size. He was not always the ideal scout in little things, he was a true scout in the big things. When he reached the shack, he found Pepsi waiting for him, and he poured forth his grievance into her sympathetic ears. I'll fix him all right, he said. He's a coward, that's what he is, and he needn't think I'm afraid of him. I'll get even with him all right. Whenever I make up my mind to do a thing, I do it. That's one thing sure. Only we didn't make a success of our refreshment parlor, Pepsi ventured to say. But just the same, we're going to, because what do I care about it, Peewee vociferated. I know a way to get two hundred and fifty dollars, and that's more money than we ever make in this old place, and I'll have you for my partner just the same. I'm going to get two hundred and fifty dollars all at once. Can I see it when you get it? Pepsi asked. You can have half of it because we're partners, Peewee said, recovering something of his former spirits as this new prospect opened before him. Can't we have the refreshment parlor any more? Pepsi asked, wiskily. Because honest and true, we're going to make lots and lots of money in it. I know a way. Listen, Pepsi, Peewee said. Do you know what the Morse code is? It's the language they use when they telegraph. Scouts have to know all about that. Do you remember when I said, hide Kelly's barn last night? That's what that first speller said to the other one who was stuck. Didn't you notice how his little red light kept flashing away up the road? That's what it meant. They're hiding in Kelly's barn, and nobody knows it. There's a sign in the post office, and it says they'll give two hundred and fifty dollars to anybody who tells where they are. Do you think I'd tell Bariah Bungle? He added contemptuously. I'm going to tell a man named Sawyer. He's the county prosecutor. He lives in Baxter City. Only we have to go right away. I'm going back with a mail card to Baxter. Do you want to go? If you do, you have to hurry up. The last time that Pepsi had appeared before an official of the law, she had been sent to the big brick building, and she was naturally wary of prosecutors, judges, and such people. Suppose Mr. Sawyer should order herself and Piwi to the gallows for meddling in these dark mysterious matters. Piwi read this in her face. Don't be scared, he said manfully. I wouldn't let anybody hurt you. My father knows a man that's a judge, and he tells jokes and has two helpings of dessert and everything just like other people. Prosecutors aren't so bad. Gee whiz, they're better than poison ivy. They're better than school principals anyway, that's for sure. You see, I'll handle him all right. Pepsi's thoughts wander to the six merry maidens whom Piwi had handled with such astonishing skill. Can't we have our refreshment parlor any more, she asked, with a note of homesickness for the little place they had decorated with such high hope. If you'll wait, if you'll wait as much as two weeks, lots and lots and lots and lots of people will come. But Piwi was not to be deterred by sentiment and false hope. Don't you want us to have two hundred and fifty dollars, he asked cornfully. Don't you want us to buy those tents? This was too much for Pepsi. She grasped Piwi's hand, following him reluctantly as she gave a wistful look back at their little wayside shelter. The stock had not been set out for the day, and the bear counter made the place look forlorn and deserted as they went away. It's a blame sight easier than running a refreshment parlor, Piwi said. It's just like picking the money up in the street. All we have to do is go to Mr. Sawyer's office and tell him, and You have to go in first, said Pepsi. Piwi's enthusiasm was contagious, and Pepsi was soon keyed up to the new enterprise, even to the point of facing Mr. Sawyer. She had cautiously resouled, however, to remain close to the door of his office, so that she might affect a precipitate retreat at the first mention of an orphan asylum. Whatever Piwi did must be right, and she saw now that two hundred and fifty dollars won in the twinkling of an eye was better than life spent in the retail trade. Yet she could not help thinking wistfully and fondly of their little enterprise and its cozy headquarters. They sat on a rock by the roadside waiting for the mailman's auto to come along. Once in that, Pepsi felt that her fate would be sealed. She had never been away from Everdos since she had first been taken there. Baxter City was a vast place which she had seen in her dreams, a place where people were arrested and run over, and where the constables were dressed up like soldiers. She clung tight to Piwi's hand. I hate him too, she said, referring to Bariah Bungle, and it will serve him right if Whitey dies and I just hope he does because his father hit you. Who's Whitey, Piwi asked? He's Mr. Bungle's little boy, and he's all white because he's sick, and they can't take him to a great big place in the city so they can make him all well again, and it just serves him right, and I'm glad they haven't got any money. Everybody says he's going to die, and Licorice Stick knows he's going to die in a rainstorm on a Friday, that's what he said. This information about a little boy who was so pale that they called him Whitey and who was going to die in a rainstorm on a Friday was all new to Piwi. Licorice Stick is crazy, he said. What does he know about dying? He never died, did he? This brilliant argument appeared to impress Pepsi. If they took him to a hospital in New York, then he wouldn't have to die because they could fix him, Pepsi said. I heard Aunt Jamzaya say so. There are doctors there that can fix people all well again. I'll bet I'm as good a fixer as they are, Piwi said. I fixed lots of people. I fixed a whole patrol once. So they wouldn't die? They thought they were smart, but I fixed them. Fixing smarties is different, said Pepsi. If people have something to matter with their hips, you can't fix them, because anyway, if they're going to die on a Friday, even snail water won't fix them. Snail water? What's that? It's medicine made from snails. Licorice stick knows how to make it. You'll have to stir it with a willow stick, and then you get well quick. How can you get well quick when snails are slow, Piwi asked? That shows that licorice stick is crazy. It would be better to make it with lightning bugs. Lightning bugs mean there are ghosts around, said Pepsi. The lightning bugs are their eyes, but anyway, just the same, nobody can fix Whitey Bungle, because the doctor from Baxter said so, and he knows because he's got an automobile. Automobiles don't prove you know a lot, said Piwi. Just the same, Whitey is going to die, said Pepsi, and then you'll see, because when my mother didn't have any money, she died, so there. Piwi did not answer. He appeared to be thinking, and so the minutes passed as they sat there on the rock by the roadside, waiting for the mailman's auto to take them to Baxter City. Do you say I can't fix it? He finally demanded. Maybe you think scouts can't fix things. They know first aid scouts do. I can fix that, little feller. Maybe you think I can't. You come with me. I'll show you. Scouts. Scouts can do things. They're better than snails and lightning bugs. I'll show you what they can do. You come with me. Ain't you going to wait for the mailman? No, I'm not. You come with me. This apparent desertion of another cherished enterprise all in one day took poor Pepsi quite by storm. She did not understand the workings of Piwi's active and fickle mind, but she followed his sturdy little form dutifully as he trudged up the road and into a certain lane. On he went like a redoubtable conqueror with Pepsi after him. To her consternation he went straight up to the kitchen door, yes, of constable Baraya Bungle's humble abode. Pepsi stood behind him in a kind of daze and heard his resounding knock as in a dream. Then suddenly to her dismay and terror she saw Baraya Bungle himself standing in the open doorway looking fiercely down at the little khaki clad scout. Mr. Bungle, she heard as she stood gaping and listening and ready to run at the terrible officials' first move. Mr. Bungle, if you want to know where those two fellows are that stole the motorcycles, they're hiding in Kelly's barn, and I guess they'll stay there till dark, so if you want to go and get them you'll get $250 as long as you don't say who told you where they are. Without another word he turned and trudged away along the path, Pepsi following after him, too astonished to speak. End of chapter 21 CHAPTER 22 FATE IS JUST On that very morning constable Bungle performed the stupendous feat which sent his name ringing through Borden County and established him definitely as the Sherlock Holmes of Everdoze. Followed by the local citizenry who marveled at his deductive skill, he advanced against Kelly's barn in the outskirts of Berryville. Here perceiving evidences of occupation, he demanded admittance and on being ignored he forced an entrance and courageously arrested two young fellows who were hiding there waiting for the night to come. It is painful to relate that in process of being captured, one of these youthful fugitives delivered a devastating blow upon the long nose of the constable thereby unconsciously doing a good turn like a true scout and repaying him in kind for his treatment of Peewee. Thus it will be seen that fate is just for as Peewee explained to Pepsi, he got everything I wanted him to get, a punch in the nose and $250. And that shows how I got paid back for doing a good turn because if I hadn't given up that $250, he wouldn't have got punched. So you see it pays to be generous and kind like it says in the handbook. The official pride of Bariah Bungal as he led his captives back to Everdose to await transportation to Baxter City was somewhat chilled by the inglorious appearance of his face. There can be no pomp and dignity in company with the wounded nose and Bariah Bungal's nose was the largest thing about him except his official prowess. Don't tell anybody I told him, Peewee whispered to Pepsi, or you'll spoil it all and they won't give him the money. Suppose he tells himself, Pepsi said. But Officer Bungal did not tell of the keen eyes and scout skill which had put him in the way of profit and glory. For he was like the whole race of Bariah Bungal's the world over, officious, ignorant, contemptible, graphing, shaming human nature, and making feeding fugitives look manly by comparison. Bariah Bungal was greatly aroused by this epoch-making incident. Even a few stragglers from Berryville followed the crowd back as far as Uncle Ebenezer's farm, and Peewee tried to tempt them into the ways of the spendthrift with taffy and other delights which caused the reckless to fall. But it was of no use. I bet if there was a murder we could sell a lot, he said. Motorcycle thief crowds aren't very big. If the town hall burned down, I bet we'd do a lot of business. I wish the schoolhouse would burn down, hey? Murders and fires, those are the best. Especially murders, because lots of people come. I like fires better, Pepsi said. Lots and lots and lots of people go to fires. Yes, and they get thirsty watching them too, said Peewee. That's the time to shout, ice cold lemonade. There was one person in Everdos and only one who neither followed nor witnessed this triumphal march, which had something of the nature of a pageant. This was a little lame boy, very pale, who sat in a wheelchair on the back porch of the lowly bungled homestead. The house was up a secluded lane and did not command the view of the weeds and rocks of the main thoroughfare. This frail little boy, whose blue veins you could follow like a trail, had never seen or heard of Peewee Harris, scout of the first class, if ever there was one, and mascot of the Raven Patrol. He had indeed heard his father speak of cuffing a sassy little city urchin on the ear. But how should he know that this same sassy little urchin had thrown away two hundred and fifty dollars? Thrown it away? Well, let us hope not. Let us hope that those wonder workers in the big city succeeded in fixing him, as indeed they must have done if they were as good fixers as Scout Harris. Let us hope that licorice stick had gotten things wrong, as we have seen him do once before, and that little whitey bungle did not die in a rainstorm on a Friday. End of chapter 22, chapter 23, where there's a will, there's a way. To translate some little red flashes of light and read a secret in them was utterly beyond the comprehension of poor Pepsi. Here was a miracle indeed, compared with which the prophecies and spooky adventures of licorice stick were as nothing, and to win two hundred and fifty dollars by such a supernatural feat was staggering to her simple mind. Licorice stick's encounters with spirits had never brought him a cent, but deliberately to sacrifice this fabulous sum in the interest of a poor little invalid that he had never seen, made Pee Wee not only a prophet, but a saint to poor Pepsi. If Scouts did things like this, they were certainly extraordinary creatures. To give two hundred and fifty dollars to a person who has boxed your ears and then to go merrily upon your way in quest of new triumphs, that Pepsi could not understand. The whole business had transpired so quickly that Pepsi had only seen the two hundred and fifty dollars flying in the air as it were, and now they were poor again, even before they had realized their riches. And there was Pee Wee sitting on the counter of their unprofitable little roadside rest, with his knees drawn up, sucking a lemon stick, which apparently no one else wanted, and discoursing on the subject of good turns, generally. There seemed to be nothing in his life now but the lemon stick. You think girls can't do good turns, don't you? Pepsi queried whisperly. Pee Wee removed the lemon stick from his mouth, critically inspecting the sharp point which he had sucked it to. By a sort of vacuum process, he could sharpen a stick of candy till it rivaled a stenographer's pencil. Do you know what reciprocal means? He asked with an air of concealing some staggering bit of wisdom. It's a kind of church, Pepsi ventured. That's Episcopal, Pee Wee said with withering superiority, placing the lemon stick carefully in his mouth again. This action was followed by a sudden depression of both cheeks, like rubber balls from which the air has escaped. He then removed the dagger-like lemon stick again to observe it. If you have an apple and I have an apple, and you give me yours, that's a good turn, isn't it? And if I give you mine, that's another good turn, isn't it? And we're both just as well off as we were before. That's Recip. He had to pause to lick some trickling lemon juice from his chubby chin. Rickle. Pepsi seemed greatly impressed, and Pee Wee continued his edifying lecture. I should worry about $250 because you saw how people always get paid back, only sometimes it isn't so soon like with the apples. Everything always comes out all right, continued the little optimist between tremendous sucks. And if you're going to get a punch in the nose, you get it, and you can see how Mr. Bungle got paid back, Otto. What do you call it? Automobile. Pepsi ventured. Automatically, Pee Wee blurted out, catching a fugitive drop of lemon juice as it was about to leave his chin. Good turns are the same as bad turns, only different. Do you see? I bet you can't say automatically while you're sucking a lemon stick. Is it a... a scout's done? Pepsi asked. Pee Wee performed this astounding feat for her edification, catching the liquid byproduct with true scout agility. Whether from scout gallantry or scout appetite, he did not put Pepsi to the test. I'm glad of it anyway, she said, because now we can stay here and have our store, and there isn't anybody like that pros... like that Mr. Sawyer to be afraid of. Do you think I'm afraid of prosecutors? Pee Wee demanded to know. I'm not afraid of them any more than I'm afraid of Junebugs. I bet you're afraid of Junebugs. I'm not, she vociferated, tossing her red braids and looking very brave. Then why should you be afraid of prosecutors? I wouldn't be afraid of anything that doesn't sting. Pepsi said nothing, only thought, and Pee Wee said nothing, only sucked the lemon stick, observing it from time to time as his point became more deadly. Maybe I'm not as brave as you are and can't do things, and I'm scared of Baxter City, but I bet you I could think up as good turns as you can, so there. And if you promise to stay here, I'll make it so lots of people will come and you can buy the tents, and that will be a good turn, won't it? You said if you make up your mind to do a thing, you can do it. I wouldn't take back what I said, said Pee Wee, finishing the lemon stick by a terrible sudden assault on his teeth. Well then, so there Mr. Smarty, she said with an air of triumph. I'm going to do a good turn, you see, because I made up my mind to do it good and hard, and will make lots and lots of money. So do you promise to stay here and keep on being partners? Do you cross your heart, you will? If Pee Wee had been as observant of Pepsi as he was used to being of signs along a trail, he might have noticed that her eyes were all of lace, and that her little, thin, freckly wrist trembled. But how should he know that his own carelessly uttered words had burned themselves into her very soul? If you make up your mind to do a thing, you can do it. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Pepsi's Enterprise Pepsi knew the Scouts only through Pee Wee. She knew they could do things that girls could not do. She must have been dept if she did not hear this. She knew they walked with gauntless courage in great cities, and that they were not afraid of prosecutors. They were strange, wonderful things to her. They possessed all the manly arts and some of the womanly arts as well. They could track, swim, dive, read strange messages and flashes of light, sacrifice appalling riches, and think nothing of it. They could cook, sow, imitate birds, and read things in the stars. Pee Wee had not left Pepsi in the dark about any of these matters. Pepsi knew that she could not aspire to be a scout. The young propagandist had forgotten to tell her of the Girl Scouts who can do a few things if you please. But one thing Pepsi could do. She could worship at the feet of his heroic legion. If all there was to doing things was making up your mind to do them, then could she not do a good turn as well as a boy? Surely Scout Harris, the Wonderworker, could not be mistaken about anything. He had shown Pepsi, conclusively, how good turns, to say nothing of bad ones, are always paid back by an inexorable law. Punches on the nose, or kindly acts of charity and sweet sacrifice. It was always the same. Pepsi had no money invested in their unprofitable enterprise, for she had no money to invest. Neither had she any capital of scout experience to draw upon. But one little nest egg she had, she had once made a small deposit in this staunch institution of reciprocal kindness. All by herself and long before she had known of Pee Wee and the Scouts, she had done a good turn. According to the inevitable rule, which she did not doubt, the principal and interest of this could now be drawn. Why not? Somewhere, and she knew where, there was a good turn standing to her credit. It would be paid her just as surely as that splendid punch in the nose was paid to Bariah Bungle. And using this good turn that was standing to her credit, she would be the instrument which fate would choose to pay Scout Harris back for his great sacrifice of $250. You see how nicely everything was going to turn out? The person who would now do Pepsi the good turn, which would bring success and fortune to their little enterprise, and enable Scout Harris to buy three-tenths, was Mr. Ira Jensen, who lived in the big red house of the road. A very mighty man was Mr. Ira Jensen, almost as terrible in worldly grandeur and official power as a prosecutor. Not quite, but almost. At all events, Pepsi could muster up courage to go and face him, and that she was now resolved to do. Indeed, this had been her secret. End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 An Accident Mr. Ira Jensen sometimes wore a white collar, and he was a deacon in the church, and he was the one who selected the Everdose schoolteacher, and he was president of the Horton County Agricultural Association, and he had a khaki-colored swinging seat on his porch and muslin curtains in his windows. So you may judge from all this what a mighty man he was. Such a man is not to be approached except upon a well-considered plan. It required almost another week of idling in the refreshment parlor, of vain hopes and ebbing interest on the part of the Scout partner to bring Pepsi to the state of desperation needed for her terrible enterprise. A sudden and alarming turn of Peewee's fickle mind precipitated her action. Let's eat up all the stuff and make the summer house into a gymnasium, and we can give magic lantern shows in it too. What do you say, Peewee inquired in his most enthusiastic manner? We can charge five cents to get in. He did not explain whence the audiences would come. He had found an old magic lantern in the attic, and that was enough. The only stock now on hand was what might be called the permanent stock, if any stock could be called permanent where Peewee was. No longer did the fresh, greasy donut and the cooling lemonade grace the forlorn little counter. No, I won't, Pepsi said, tossing those red braids. I won't eat the things because we started here and I love them, so there. If you love them, I should think you'd want to eat them, said Peewee. That shows how much you know about logic. I don't care. I'm just going to stay here, and if you promise to wait, we'll get lots and lots of money, she said. You promised me you'd wait. She added wistfully. You crossed your heart. Won't you please wait till, till five days, maybe? Won't you please? Maybe that will be a good turn, maybe? He did not refuse. Instead, he helped himself to some gum drops out of a glass jar and appeared to be content. But Pepsi knew better than to trust the fickle heart of man, and that night she played the poor little card that she had been holding. After Uncle Ed and Aunt Gem Zaya had gone to bed, and while the curly head of Scout Harris was reposing in sweet oblivion upon his pillow, Pepsi crept cautiously down the squeaky, boxed-in stairs and paused in suspense in the kitchen. The ticking of the big clock there seemed very loud, almost accusing, and Pepsi's heart seemed to keep time with it as it thumped in her little breast. How different the familiar kitchen seemed, deserted and in darkness. The two stove lids were laid a little off their places to check the banked fire, leaving two bright crescent lines like a pair of eyes staring up at her. This light reflected in one of the milk pails standing inverted on a high shelf, made a sort of ghostly mirror in which Pepsi saw herself better than in that crinkly outlandish mirror in her little room. For a moment she was afraid to move, lest she make a noise, and so she paused, almost terrified, looking at her own homely little face on the most fateful night of her life. Then she tiptoed out through the pantry where the familiar smell of fresh butter reassured her. It seemed companionable in the strange darkness and awful stillness, this smell of fresh butter. She crept across the side porch where the churn stood like a ghost, a dish towel on its tall handle and crossed the weedy lawn where the beehives seemed to be watching her, and headed for the dark, open road. But here her courage failed. Some thought of doing her errand in the morning occurred to her, but she could not go then without saying where and why she was going, and in case of failure no one must ever know about this. So she screwed up her courage and returned to the side porch to get a lantern. She shook it and found it empty. There was nothing to do now, but brave the darkness or go down into the cellar and fill the lantern from the big kerosene can. She paused in the darkness before the sepulchral stone steps, then in a sudden impulse of determination she tightened her little hand upon the lantern, killed her nails dug into her palms, and went down, down. She groped her way to the kerosene can and finally came upon it and felt its surface. Yes, it was the kerosene can. Her trembling little hand fumbled for the tiny faucet. How queer it felt in the dark when she could not see it. It seemed to have a little knob or something on it. Her hand was shaking, but she held the little tank of the lantern under the faucet and was about to turn the handle when something, something soft and wet and silent, touched her other hand. She drew a quick breath. Her heart was in her mouth. Her hands were icy cold. Still she had presence of mind enough not to scream. But as she rose in panicked terror from her snooping posture, the lantern pulled upward against the faucet, toppling the big can off its skids. There was no plug in the can and the kerosene flowed out upon the terror-stricken child, wetting her shoes and stockings, and made a great puddle on the stone floor. She stood in the darkness, seeing none of this, which made the catastrophe the more terrible. And then, as she stood in terror, wet and bewildered, waiting for whatever terrible sequel might come, she felt again that something soft and wet and silent on her hand. She moved her hand a little and felt of something soft. Soft in a different way. Soft but not wet. Wiggle, she sobbed in a whisper. Why, why didn't you, you tell me it was you, Wiggle. But he only licked her hand again as if to say, if there is anything on for tonight, I am with you. Cheer up. Adventures are my middle name. CHAPTER 26 Pepsie's Investment For a few seconds Pepsie stood in suspense amid the spreading, dripping havoc she had caused, listening for some sound above. But the seconds piled up into a full minute, and no approaching step was heard. The danger seemed over. But the air was very redolent of kerosene. She stood in a puddle of it, and one of her stockings and both of her plain little button shoes were thoroughly wet. When she moved her toe she could feel the soppy liquid. Oh, for a light, it would lessen her terror if she could just see what had happened and how she looked. She groped her way to the small oblong of lesser darkness which indicated the open bulkhead doors and felt better when she was in the free open darkness of outdoors. Wiggle, seeming to note that something unusual was happening, kept close to her heels. She re-entered the kitchen where those accusing a ghostly red slits of eyes in the stove seemed to watch her. She fumbled nervously on the shelf above the stove and got some matches, spilling a number of them on the floor. She could not pause to gather them up while those red eyes stared. She had planned her poor little enterprise with a view to secrecy, but in the emergency and with the minutes passing she did not now pause to think or consider. Near the flower barrel hung several goodly pudding bags, luscious reminders of thanksgiving. Aunt Jamzaya had promised to make a plum pudding for Piwi in the largest one of these and he had spent some time in measuring them and computing their capacity with the purpose of selecting the most capacious. Hepsi now hurriedly took all of these and a kitchen apron along with them and descended again into the cellar. By the dim lantern light she lifted the fallen tank and replaced it on its skids. Then she wiped up the floor as best as she could with the makeshift mop which had been intended to serve a better purpose. She wiped off her soggy shoes and tried to clean that clinging oiliness from her hands. It seemed to her as if the whole world were nothing but kerosene. She did not know what to do with the drenched rags, so she took them with her when she started again for the dark road, this time with her two cheery companions, the lantern and Wiggle. She soon found the dripping rags a burden and cast them from her as she passed the well. Wiggle turned back and inspected the smelly, soggy mess, found that he did not like it, took a hasty drink from the puddle under the well spout, and rejoined his companion. It must have been close to ten o'clock when Mr. Ira Jensen, enjoying a last smoke on his porch before retiring, saw the lantern light swinging up his roadway. The next thing that he was aware of was the pungent odor of kerosene born upon the freshening night breeze, and then the little delegation stood revealed before him, Wiggle wagging his tail, the lantern sputtering, and Pepsi's head jerking nervously as if she were trying to shake out what she had to say. It took Pepsi a few moments to key herself up to the speaking point. Then she spoke tremulously, but with the kind of jerky readiness suggesting many lonely rehearsals. Mr. Jensen, she said, I have to do a good turn, and so I came to ask you if you'll help me, and the reason I smell like kerosene is because I tipped over the kerosene can. This last was not in her studied part, but she threw it in answer to an audible sniff from Mr. Jensen. You said when I came here in Stadenites, when Mrs. Jensen was sick with the flu, and everybody else was sick, and you couldn't get anybody to nurse her, you remember? She did not give him time to answer, for she knew that if she paused, she could not go on. Her momentum kept her going. You said then, just before I went home, you said I was, you said you'd do me a good turn some day, because I helped you. So now, oh boy, that's staying with us. We have a refreshment parlor, and nobody comes to buy anything, and he wants to buy some tents, and we have to make a lot of money. So will you please have them have the county fair in Berryville this year, so lots of people will go past our summer house. We have lemonade, and he calls the people and tells them, only there ain't any people. But lots and lots and lots of people come to the county fair from all over, don't they? So now I'd like it for you to do me that good turn if you want to pay me back. Thus Pepsi, standing tremulously but still boldly, her thin little hand clutching the lantern, played her one card for the sake of Pee Wee Harris, Scout. Standing there in her oil-soaked gingham dress, she made demand upon this staunch bank of known property for principle and interest in the matter of the one great good turn she had won before she had ever known of Scout Harris. It never occurred to her, as she looked with frank expectancy at Mr. Jensen, that her naive request was quite preposterous. To his credit, be it said, Mr. Jensen did not deny her too abruptly. Instead he spread his knees and arms and, smiling genially, beckoned her to him. I can't, I'm all kerosene, she said. Never you mind, he said. You come and stand right here while I tell you how it is. So she sat down the lantern and stepped forward and stood between his knees, and then he lifted her into his lap. Well, well, well, you're quite a girl. You're quite a little girl, ain't you, huh? So you came all the way in the dark to ask me that. Here you sit right where you are and never you mind about kerosene. If you ain't scared of the dark, I reckon I ain't scared of kerosene. Now, I want you should listen because I'm going to tell you just how it is, and then you'll understand. Because I call you a little kind of a heroine, that's what I call you. He wasn't half wrong about that, either. And Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Seen in the Dark. So then he told her how it was about the county fair, which shortly would open. He told her very gently and kindly how Northvale had been chosen, because it was the county seat, and how he was powerless to change the plans. He looked around into her sober face and sometimes lifted it to his, and at almost every hope, blighting sentence, asked her if she did not understand. He told her all about how county fairs are big things, planned by many men, months and months in advance. And at each pause and each gently asked question, she nodded silently as if it was all quite clear and plausible, but her heart was breaking. But I'm not going to forget about the good turn I owe you, no sirree, he added, finally, as he set her down on the porch, much to Wiggle's relief. And I'm coming down the road to pay you a visit and look over that refreshment stand of yours and see if I can't make some suggestions, maybe. Now, what do you say to that? Pepsi nodded soberly, her thoughts far away. You'll see me along there, Mr. Jensen added cheerily, as he patted her little shoulder. And I give you fair warning, I'm the champion donut eater of Borden County. She smiled still wistfully and gulped, oh, ever so little. That's what I am, he added with another genial pat. So now you cheer up and run back home and go to bed, and don't you lie awake crying. You tell that little scout, fella, I'm coming to make you a visit, and that I usually drink nine glasses of lemonade. Now you run along and get to bed quick. Thanks, she said her voice trembling. So Pepsi took her ways silently along the dark road. Her bank had failed. She could do nothing more. This was a strange sequel to follow Peewee's glowing representations about good terms. She did not understand it. And now that she had failed, the catastrophe in the cellar loomed larger, and she saw her nocturnal truancy as a serious thing. What would Aunt Jamzaya think of this? Pepsi had been forbidden to go away from the farm at night, except to weekly prayer meeting. The cricket sang cheerfully as she returned along the dark road, a disconsolate little figure swinging her lantern. She was weary, weary from exertion and disappointment and foreboding. Her good scout enterprise was suddenly changed into an act of sneaking disobedience. The physical exhaustion which follows nervous strain was upon her now, and her little feet lagged in their soaking shoes, and once or twice she stumbled with fatigue. From what burden is heavier than a heavy heart? The soothing voices of insect life which softened the darkness and cheer the wayfarer in the countryside seemed only to mock her with their myriad carefree songs. And to make matters worse, there suddenly rang in her ears from far over to the west, the loud clatter of those loose planks on the old bridge along the highway, as a car sped over it. You have to go back. You have to go back. Then the noise ceased suddenly, and there was no sound but the calling of a scree-child somewhere in the intervening woods. Pepsi sat down on a rock by the roadside partly to rest and partly because she did not want to go home. She knew, or she ought to have known, that Aunt Gemziah was pretty sure to be lenient about a harmless transgression was so generous emotive. But the warning voice from that unseen bridge disconcerted her. It was not long after she was seated that her head hung down, and soon the gentle comforter of sleep came to her, and she lay there, hallowing her head on her little thin arm. But the comforter did not stay long, for Pepsi dreamed a dream. She dreamed that all the people of the village, Simeon Drouser, Nathaniel Knapp, Darius Drag, this sneering deadwood gamely, and even the faithless Arabella Bellison, the school teacher, were pointing fingers a yard long at her and saying, You have to go back to the big brick building. You have to go back. You have to go back. On the big donut jar in the refreshment parlor sat Licoristic saying, You have to go back the next time at Thunders. She shook her fist at Licoristic and called him a smarty and said she would not go back. But they all laughed and sang, You have to go back. You have to go back. Miss Bellison was the worst of all. You have to go back. You have to. With a sudden start, Pepsi sat up on the rock, wide awake. Go back. You have to go back. She still heard. Her forehead throbbed and her face felt very hot. There was a ringing in her ears. She was feverish, but she did not know that. All she knew was that everybody was against her and that the bridge had put them up to it. She was dizzy and had to put her hand on the rock to steady herself. The lantern light was extinguished, but she did not remember the lantern or wiggle. She felt very strange and wanted a drink of water. Her hand trembled and her little weak arm, with which she had braced herself against the rock, felt weak. And her head throbbed. Throbbed. Where were all those people? She felled around for them. Then she heard the voice again, far off through the woods, up along that highway. It was just an innocent automobile. You have to go back. Pepsi rose to her feet with a start, reeled, reached for a tree and clutched it. I'll stop it. I'll make it. It's stop. I'll tear it. I'll pull them off, she said. I won't go back. I won't. I won't. I won't. Staggering across the woods, she entered the woods. Each tree there seemed like two trees. She groped her way among them, dizzy, almost falling. Sometimes the woods seemed to be moving. Perhaps it was by the nearest chance that she stumbled into the trail which led through the woods to the highway, ending close to the old bridge. But once in the familiar path, she ran in a kind of frenzy. No doubt the fever gave her a kind of temporary artificial strength, as indeed it gave her the crazy resolve, somehow, to still that haunting voice forever. Crazed and reeling, she stumbled and ran along, pausing now and again, to press her throbbing head, then running on again like one possessed. At last she came out of the woods, suddenly, onto the broad, smooth highway. There was the bridge, silent and, no, not dark, for there was a bright spot somewhere underneath it, and gray smoke wriggling up through those cracks between the planks. And there, yes, there, crawling away in the darkness was a black figure, a silent, stealthy figure, stealing away. To the dazed feverish girl, the figure seemed to have two pairs of arms. She tried to call, but could not. Her scream of delirious fright died away into a murmur as she staggered and fell prone upon the ground and knew no more. But never again, never, never would those cruel planks taught her with their heartless prediction, never would they frighten the poor, sensitive, fearful, little red-headed orphan girl any more. Chapter 28. Stock On Hand It was Joey Burnside, the burliest and heartiest of the volunteer firemen, who carried Pepsi back through the woods to the farm while still the conflagration was at its height. There was not timber enough left from the old bridge to kindle a scout campfire. A few charred remains had gone floating down the stream, and these fugitive remnants drifting into tiny coves and lodging in the river's bends were shown by the riverside dwellers as memorials of the event which had stirred the countryside more than any other item of neighborhood history. Under the gaping space of disconnected road, the stream flowed placently, uninterrupted by all the recent hubbub above it. The straight highway looked strange without the bridge. Pepsi had a fever all that night, but toward morning she fell asleep, and Aunt Jam Zaya, who had watched her through the night, tipped out into the little room under the eaves and out again to tell Pee Wee that he had better wait, that all Pepsi needed now was rest. Can't I just look at her? Pee Wee asked. So he was allowed to stand in the doorway and see his partner as she lay there sleeping the good sleep of utter exhaustion. When she wakes up, Aunt Jam Zaya said pleasantly. Pee Wee knew the circumstances of her being found at the burning bridge and brought home, but he asked no questions, and Aunt Jam Zaya said nothing of the events of that momentous night. It seemed to be generally understood that this matter was in Aunt Jam Zaya's hands for thorough consideration later. Meanwhile, Pee Wee went across the lawn and down the road to the scene of their hapless enterprise. The roadside rest could boast now of but two jars, one of peppermint sticks, and one of gumdrops, both in rapid process of consumption, and a number of spools of tire tape, but the absence of donuts and sausages and lemonade, this was nothing. It was the absence of Pepsi that counted. Pee Wee took his customary eye-opener consisting of a gumdrop. He had to shake the jar to get a red one, that being the kind he preferred. Then he drew his legs up on the counter and proceeded to work upon the willow whistle he was making. His handiwork soon reached that stage of manufacture, where it was necessary to soak the willow bark in water, so as to cause it to swell. He thereupon distributed the remaining gumdrops impartially between his mouth and his trousers pocket and filled the empty jar with water, dropping his handiwork into it. Thus by gradual stages, and without any sensational closing out sales, the refreshment stand was steadily going into a state of liquidation, even the lemon sticks being reduced to a liquid. There was no stock on hand now, but two peppermint sticks and some tire tape. Suddenly a most astonishing thing happened. The sound of an automobile horn was heard in the distance, a deep, melodious, dignified horn. Not since the passing of the six merry maidens had such welcome music sounded in peewees and raptured ears. The signs had alled and made right. The ice cream had been made cold, the sausage is hot, and the ground glass had been put where it belonged. No longer did our taffy stick like glue. Indeed, there was no taffy of any kind on hand, not withstanding these blatant announcements. Along came the automobile, an eight-cylinder super-junkster. And yes, it was followed by another, and still another. Peewee could see the imposing procession as far down as the bend. Some detour, a good-natured voice said. Detour, Peewee whispered in sudden and terrible excitement. Then, as the full purport of the staggering truth burst upon him, he issued forth from the roadside rest and contemplated the approaching pageant with joy bubbling up like soda water in his heart. Nevermind, said another voice, we can get some eats in this jungle, thank goodness, what I wouldn't do to a couple of hot frankfitters. A sudden chill cooled the fresh enthusiasm of Scout Carras. I'll buy every blame donut they've got in the place, somebody shouted. We won't leave a thing for the rest of the cars that have to plow through this jungle. I suppose this is what motorists will be up against for six months. What do you know about that? This eats merchant ought to clear a couple of million. I'll dicker with him for everything hot that he's got. I'm starving. Same here, shouted another. Frantically, like a soldier waving his country's emblem in the last desperate moment of forlorn hope, Scout Carras clamored over the counter and grasped the jar containing two peppermint sticks. Peppermint sticks, peppermint sticks, he shouted at the advancing column. Get your peppermint sticks. They quenched thirst and, and satisfy your hunger. They're filling. They warm you up. Peppermint is hot. Oh, get your peppermint sticks here. And the Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Industrial Conditions Pee-wee emerged safely, if not triumphantly, from this ordeal amid much laughter, and was just congratulating himself upon his skillful handling of the trade in a period of acute shortage when he received a knockout blow. In depositing the trifling price of the peppermint sticks in his trouser pocket, he discovered there four gumdrops glued together and clinging so affectionately that nothing could part them. At the moment of this discovery, Scout Carras, thus driven into a corner and standing at bay with nothing but one huge consolidated gumdrop for defense, heard the unmistakable sound of another car crawling over the rocks and hobbles of that outlandish road in second gear. On, on, on it came like some horrible British tank. And now again he heard voices. We can eat about twenty of them in my patrols. Hmm, yum, are we hungry? Oh, no. Oh, no, hot frankfritters. Oh, boy, lead them to me. I could even eat the sign I'm so hungry. Put her in high. What do we care about the road? Pee-wee listened and waited in terrible suspense. Scouts. He knew something about the scout capacity. Then upon the fresh morning air there floated another voice calling a sentence which he knew too well it was the good scout motto. Hey there, you, whoever you are, Mr. Refreshman, be prepared. We're S-C-O-U-T-S. We are and we're H-U-N-G-R-E-E. We haven't had anything since breakfast at 4.30. We had to come around through this rocky tour or detour or whatever you call it. Somebody ate the bridge last night. Are there any Scouts down in this South African backyard? If Pee-wee had not heard that familiar motto, be prepared, he would have known the approaching caravan to be Scouts by their talk in Bander. Be prepared. Pee-wee glanced at the bear counter and the empty jars in the shiny dishpan which held nothing but Pepsi's ball of worsted and the terrible ornamental thing that she was knitting. There they were, just as she had laid them the day before. Poor little Pepsi. Then they descended upon him as only hungry Scouts can descend. Pee-wee's glowing promises which decorated the woods, in which he could not fulfill, had brought the party to a state of distraction. It was a big crackerjack touring car overflowing with Scouts and driven by a smiling scout master. It seems as if they ought to have been pressed in and down with a shovel, like ice cream in a court box. For the love of, one of them began, look what's here, it's a scout. That, shouted another, let's have the magnifying glass, will you? Pee-wee straightened himself up to his full height. The big crackerjack touring car stopped. Some detour, the scout master said, with an air of infinite relief. Do they have Scouts down here? A member of the party asked. I'm only staying here. I belong in Bridgeboro, New Jersey, Pee-wee said. Don't talk about bridges, another scout said. Talk about something pleasant. A scout is supposed to save life. Scout law, number six. Let's have a couple of thousand hot dogs, will you? We're dying. And forty-eleven dozen donuts with the holes removed. Do you, I, eh, do you need any tire tape? Pee-wee stammered, playing for time. Tire tape? What do you take us for? A lot of blowouts? Let's have some eats and we'll take care of the blowout. Come on, hurry up. A scout is supposed to be prepared, piped up a natty scout wearing the bronze cross. Where's all the food? The scout master asked, glancing at the empty counter. We were led to suppose. Don't you know what a shortage is? Pee-wee piped up in sheer desperation. We know what a shorty is, one of the party shot back. You don't expect us to eat a shortage, do you? Another said. Come ahead, hurry up. A scout isn't supposed to be cruel. You can always depend on scout signs that you find in the woods. A scout that puts up scout signs. Those are different kinds of signs, Pee-wee shouted. Those are trail signs. You think you're so smart. That shows how much you know about, about three strikes out, one of the scouts shouted. About, about industrial conditions, Pee-wee concluded. Don't you know what a, what'd you call it of? Yes, that's what you call it. A scout laughed. Don't you know what a reconstruction period is? Pee-wee fairly yelled amid uncontrollable laughter. If something happens like a war, or a, a bridge burning down, or something or other, that makes business conditions, what you call it. It makes them all kind of upside down, doesn't it? Sometimes kind of things are hard to get. Everybody knows that. We can see it, a scout said. By this time the scout master was laughing heartily, but with the greatest good humor. Pee-wee continued bravely to the great amusement of the party. Gee whiz, nobody ever came along this road. You admit that scouts are hungry, don't you? We proclaim it, said the scout master. I ate a lot of stuff and my aunt wouldn't cook any more stuff for us, because nobody ever came and it got stale. And I ate too much of it. That's what she said. So now anyway we're going to start in again because the business world and we're, we're going to speed up production. All right, speed up the auto and good luck to you, the scout with the bronze cross said. He seemed to be the patrol leader. There was a little fraternal chat before this boisterous troop moved on and all seemed interested in Pee-wee and his enterprise. They were on their way to camp somewhere down the line. You'll succeed all right, they called back to him, only be sure to have plenty of stuff on hand when we come back in a couple of weeks or we'll kill you. Do you like waffles and honey? The proprietor shouted after them. We've got the bees working overtime for us, a scout called back. I'll have a lot of those, 10 cents each, Pee-wee announced. Do you like clam chowder, he called, raising his voice to cover the increasing distance. Good luck to you, you'll make it a go all right. I'm lucky, I always have good luck, the small optimist screamed at the top of his voice. Do you like peanut taffy? Do you like hot corn? He added, fairly yelling this sudden inspiration after the departing sufferers with butter and pepper on it. Do you like that? I'll have some. These were the last words they heard as the big car moved slowly over the rocky, grass-grown road. They are good words to end a chapter with, hot corn with pepper and butter on it. Oh boy. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30, Paid in Full Pee-wee was just about to make a frantic rush to the house when he saw another automobile coming along the road, brushing the projecting foliage aside as some stethyly advancing creature might do. Not far behind it, he could hear other gears grinding along that impossible road in second gear. The world seemed to be making a pathway, or rather a highway, to Pee-wee's door. The sequestered overgrown road with its intertwined and overarching bows was become a surging thoroughfare. The birds, formally unmolested in their wanted huts, complained to one another of this sudden intrusion into their domains. A way back where this obscure road branched off the highway to furnish the unfrequented access to Everdos in Berryville, a sign had been placed that morning with an arrow pointing toward the depths of the Everdos jungle. Detour, highway closed, follow yellow arrows. These yellow arrows appeared at intervals along the Everdos road, thus guiding the motorist back to the highway at a point a mile or two below the gap where the bridge had been. Everdos was on the map now, in dead earnest. The little hamlet nestling in its wooded valley was destined to review such a procession of pierce arrows and packers and Cadillacs, iron, fords, and jitney buses as it had never dreamed of in all its humble career. Who was responsible for this, or was an accident responsible? Who, if anyone by the mere touching of a match, had started a blaze which would illuminate poor little Everdos? Everdos had gone to bed at 8 p.m. in obscurity. It had awakened to find itself dragged into the light of day. Already constable Bungle was devising a formidable code of traffic regulations, traps and snares to catch the prosperous and make them pay tribute as they passed along. As early as seven o'clock, that vigilant agent of the peace had placed a sign in front of the post office where he was won to Lloyder reading, No parking here, but all the while he hoped that the unwary would park there and pay the three dollars in cost. But of all the signs which appeared in Everdos on that day, when fate, like an alarm clock, had awakened it out of its slumber, there was one which thrilled the soul of Peewee Harris and caused consternation to everyone else. Disappeared in front of the town hall and at a number of other strategic places in and out of the village. Come and read it, come and read it, shout at little Silas Net as he madly intercepted Peewee who, as I have said, was about to run to the house. It's a melopoly or something like that, Mr. Drouser says, come and read it. So before going to the house Peewee went and read it, he did not know that the stern phraseology had been penned ever so tenderly and with a twinkle in the eye of the writer. He did not know that it was a tribute or shall we say the repayment of a good turn to the little red-headed girl who, all unaware of this hubbub, was sleeping in her little bedroom under the ease. Strange that such a little girl could thus shake her fist by proxy at the grasping villagers. Notice, the property on both sides of the road from two miles north of the Everdos line to the boundary of Ebenezer Quiggs Farm is of private ownership. Anyone attempting to sell or vend or who erects any tent or shack for such purpose upon said property will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Ira C. Jensen. So Pepsi had kept her word after all. Her one poor little investment of kindness had paid a hundred percent dividend and the partners were the owners of a monopoly or monopoly whichever you choose to call it. Chapter 31. Circumstantial Evidence Along the road and over the stone wall and straight across the bed of Tiger Lily's sped pee-wee, using his own particular mode of scout pace, patent not applied for. Across the side-port and into the kitchen he went pale-mell, shouting in a voice to crack the heavens. It's a monopoly. I mean a monopoly. We've got a monopoly. Where's everybody? Hey, Aunt Jamzaya, where are you? Where's Uncle Ed? Hurry up and make some donuts. There's a detour. Cars. Hundreds of cars from the highway. They're coming along the road. You ought to see. Where's the ice pick? Can I have some lemons? Are there any cookies left? I left two on the plate last night. Where's the sugar so I can? He paused in a frenzy of his haste and enthusiasm as Aunt Jamzaya opened the sitting room door very quietly and seriously. Come in here, Walter, she said. Her manner kind, gentle, but serious, disconcerted pee-wee and chilled his enthusiasm. The very fact that he was summoned into the sitting room seemed ominous for that holy of holies was never used. Not more than once or twice in pee-wee's recollection had his own dusty shoes set upon that sacred oval-shaped rag carpet. Never before had he found himself within reaching distance of that plush album that stood on its wire holder on the marble table. This solemn apartment was the only room in the house that had a floor covering, and the fact that pee-wee could not hear his own footfalls agitated him strangely. Uncle Ed sat in the corner near the melodian, looking strangely out of place in his ticking overalls. Is—is she dead? Pee-wee whispered fearfully. Sit down, Walter, Aunt Jamzaya said. No, she isn't dead. She's better. Uncle Ed said nothing, only watched pee-wee keenly. Pee-wee seated himself, feeling very uncomfortable. Walter said his aunt, something very serious has happened, and I'm going to ask you one or two questions. You will tell me the truth, won't you? I'll answer for him doing that, said Uncle Ed. Sure I will, said Pee-wee proudly. Walter, do you know what Pepsi's secret was? You remember she said she had a secret that would make lots and lots of people come and buy things from you. Girls are—Pee-wee began. He was going to say they were crazy, but remembering the one that lay upstairs, he caught himself up and said, They're kind of—they think they have big ideas when they haven't. I shouldn't worry about their secrets. But some of Pepsi's ideas and plans have been very big, Walter, her aunt said ruefully. You see, we know her better than you do. She's very, very queer. I'm afraid no one understands her. I understand her, said Pee-wee. She believes in bad luck days. Aunt Jamzaya paused the moment, considering. Then she went straight to the point. Pepsi wants to do right, dear, but she will do wrong in order to do right, sometimes. We have always been a little fearful of her for that reason. She—she can't argue in her own mind and consider things as—as you do. I know lots of dandy arguments, Pee-wee announced. You know, Walter, her father was a— he was a—not a very good man. And Pepsi is—queer. Last night she made a dreadful mess in the cellar. She was at the kerosene. Oh, it just makes me sick to think of it. She had some rags soaked with kerosene. Some of them were found by the well. The others, Aunt Jamzaya lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, and wept for a moment silently. What others, Pee-wee asked. The ones that were used to set fire to the bridge, dear. Oh, it's terrible to think of it. Poor, poor Pepsi. That is what is bringing lots and lots of people along our road today, Walter. Pepsi was found lying unconscious near the bridge. She had kerosene all over her. One charred rag was found over there. It just makes me—it makes me— Pee-wee arose and laid one hand on the back of the hair-cloth chair. He, too, was concerned now. You—you didn't tell her. You didn't blame. Accuser, did you? He asked. No, I didn't. His aunt breathed wordly. I asked her to tell me all about last night, and she would tell me nothing. She said that the planks on the bridge tormented her. To almost everything I asked her, she said, I won't tell. She is very, very stubborn. She was always so. Because, anyway, Pee-wee said, alluding to his former query. If anybody says she burned down the bridge on purpose, it's a lie. I don't care who says it, it's a lie. She's—she's my partner, and it's a lie. If—even if the minister says it, it's a lie. Listen, my dear boy, said his aunt kindly. I'm not angry with Pepsi, poor child. I'm not accusing her, and you must have talked about the Revit Mr. Gloomer telling lies. Pepsi tried to burn down the orphan home once for some trifling grievance. We can't take the responsibility of the poor child any longer. I'm afraid that any minute Varaya Bungal will want to take her—arrest her. I know she's your partner, dear, but it would be better for us to send her back to the state home, where she will probably be kept than to let her be arrested. I don't think she knew what she was doing. Poor, poor child. Aunt Gemzaya broke down completely, crying in her handkerchief. So Uncle Ed finished what little there was to say. We had to send for him, Walter, said he. She'll be better off there for a spell, I reckon. I ain't so sure about her doing it, though it looks bad. Least ways she didn't know what she was doing. But don't you worry. Peewee did not wait to hear more. He just could not stand there. When—when are they coming? he asked. I reckon—tomorrow, boy. Now you look here. But Peewee had gone. Up the narrow box downstairs he went, never asking permission. He could see nothing but a big enclosed wagon, dark inside, with Pepsi inside it. He had no more idea what he was going to do that day than the man in the moon, but he knew what he was going to do that very minute, when a scout makes up his mind to do a thing. Into the little room under the eaves he strode, his eyes glistening, but his heart staunch and his resolve indomitable, and she smiled when she saw him. She was sitting up and she looked ever so little in her nightclothes and ever so plain with her tightly braided red hair. But her eyes were clear, and she smiled when she looked up at him. I won't tell anybody where I went, she said, because I was a smarty, and I thought I could make somebody do a good turn ever so, ever so, ever so big, and they'd only laugh at me if I told them what it was. So I'm not going to be a telltale cat, pep, he said. It shows that you're right, because lots and lots of automobiles are coming along our road since the old bridge burned down, and it's a detour, and that means hundreds and hundreds of them have to go past our refreshment place, and we're going to make lots of money. And I thought of a dandy idea. It's what they call an inspiration. We're going to name the place Pepsi Rest, because Pepsi will remind people to buy chewing gum, because that has Pepsi in it, and as soon as you're all well, we'll start in and keep on being partners, because we have a monopoly. Do you know what that is? It's when you can sell all you want of something, and nobody else can sell it. Mr. Jensen, he put up a sign, and he said no one should sell things on his property, and he owns all the property along the road, and you bet everybody is scared of him. So now we're going to have a great big business, and we began as poor boys, I mean girls, I mean a boy and a girl. So don't you believe anything that anybody tells you, not even Aunt Jamzaya, because you know how I told you that I was a good fixer, and I'm always lucky, you have to admit that. Can I be the one to count the money? Pepsi asked. Sure, and I'll be the one to eat what's left of the things that won't keep, said Peewee. Only don't you worry no matter what you hear. She was on the point of telling him how Mr. Jensen had done his good turn after all, and all about what she remembered of the previous night. But she decided that she was not going to have a boy laughing at her, and put it within his power to call her a telltale cat some day. So instead she threw her arms around him and said, oh goody, goody, you know how girls do. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 The Clue Peewee never knew until now how much he cared about his little companion of the summer, and how little he cared about their roadside enterprise, except so far as she was concerned in it. All morning the almost continuous procession passed along the road, reviewed by a gaping assemblage on the platform in front of the post office. Many motorists who read the enticing promises along the way paused for refreshment, only to find the little rustic shelter bare and deserted. But they were not the only ones to be disappointed. Upon the front porch of Dr. Killam's house there sat in a wheelchair the queerest little figure ever seen outside of a soup advertisement. He was of the Cupid type, all head and eyes, and he had a kind of ridiculous air of stern authority about him as he sat all bundled up in blankets, soberly reviewing the passing cars. So odd and gnome-like was he that he might have stepped out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland. He would have made a good radiator ornament on an automobile. This, you will know, was little whitey-bungle, who seemed not at all disconcerted at being elsewhere than in his own home. He had been moved about so much without any exertion on his own part that he was quite at home anywhere. Though Peewee had spoken in high hope to Pepsi about their unexpected and glowing prospects, he was haunted by thoughts of the terrible thing which was to happen on the morrow. Pepsi was to be taken away, back to the big brick building which he hated, just as the planks of the old bridge had foretold. Peewee's loyalty was so staunch that he did not even consider the things his aunt had said. He was going to save Pepsi from that place and make her the sharer of the fortune that was within their grasp. He made this resolve with the same generous impulse as that which had caused him to put two hundred and fifty dollars within the reach of Mr. Bungle who had boxed his ears. I'm lucky, he said to himself, as he trudged down to the post office. I'll fix things all right. I'll show them. I don't care. I'll show them. They won't take her back to that place, not while I'm around. He did not know how he was going to prevent this, but he had unbounded faith in his capacity to fix things and in his good luck. So as he trudged along, stepping out of the way of many cars, he came to the home of Dr. Killam. Hello, soldier. Piped up a little thin voice upon the porch. I'm not a soldier, said Peewee. My father can arrest people, said the little gnome, looking straight ahead of him. That doesn't prove I'm a soldier, said Peewee. You've got a uniform, said the gnome. I'm not afraid of soldiers. My father's got a lot of money. He's got two hundred and fifty dollars, and I'm not going to get dead. Where's your father? Peewee asked. He's up the road, and he's going to catch people and put them in jail. Is he? Why do you say is he? I didn't go to the hospital last night. Do you want to know why? He asked questions as if they were riddles. Yes, why? Peewee asked, half interested. Because the bridge burned down. Do you like bridges? It isn't a question of whether a person likes them or not, Peewee said, preoccupied with his own sorrow and worry, yet amused in spite of himself at this queer little fellow. Yes, it is, said Whitey Bungle. All right, then. It is, said Peewee. Why did you say it wasn't? Oh, I don't know. I guess I was thinking of something else. What were you thinking of? Oh, I don't know. Nothing. Why did you say you were? You didn't tell me about why you didn't go to the hospital last night. I can see things that other folks can't, Whitey announced. You're like licorice stick, said Peewee. He's black, Whitey said. I know he is. Then how am I like him? I'm white. My name is Whitey. Peewee felt like a prisoner at the bar of justice with this little personage, swathed in blankets, staring down at him. His wrappings covered his neck, and all that could be seen of him was his face, perfectly motionless. Finally, he said, as if he were pronouncing sentence, Dr. Killam took me in his auto. We had to turn around and come back when we came to the bridge burning down. He's going to take me another way. I saw a man getting dead. Where, Peewee asked, his interest somewhat aroused, will you give me that tin thing, if I tell you? That isn't a tin thing. It's a compass. It tells you which way to go. Can it talk? No, it can't talk. Then how can it tell you? It points its finger. You're crazy. All right, Peewee laughed in spite of himself. You tell me about the man getting dead, and I'll give you the tin thing. He was lying down in the bushes and wriggling. Where, near the bridge, Peewee asked? Dr. Killam didn't see him, and he laughed at me. He said I was seeing things. Can you wriggle? I looked back out of the window and saw him. Did you tell your father about it, Peewee asked, hardly knowing what to think of this information. My mother made him give her the two hundred and fifty dollars, so that I wouldn't get dead. Do you know what I'm going to be when I grow up? No, what? A giant. Well, you'd better hurry up about it. Do you know where my father got that two hundred and fifty dollars? Where? It was a prize for catching thieves. You can't catch thieves. I know it, Peewee said. Are you going to be a thief when you grow up? No, I guess not, said Peewee. You can have three guesses. All right, I guess not three times. Now, tell me if you told your father about seeing that man getting dead. Yes, and he said I'm always seeing things. Everybody says that. Maybe I'll get dead when it rains. Don't you believe it, Peewee said. Licoristics been telling you that. Didn't you say you were going to be a giant first? You're not a giant. At last, Peewee knew this only too well. He knew, too, that it would be quite impossible to get anything in the way of a connected narrative out of this stern little autograph, whether he had actually been seeing things or had only seen something in his queer little inner life who should say. Evidently no one took him very seriously, and this fact did not seem to trouble him at all. Removing the compass cord from about his neck, Peewee advanced to proper his second gift to the bungle family. Little did that stiff, serious little figure know that the much needed money which Mrs. Bungle had been wise enough to take from her husband had come from the same source. Peewee searched in vain for any signs of hands in those enveloping blankets. There were no hands there seemed to be nobody even. Just two eyes looking straight ahead as if their owner were not going to assist at all in the transfer of the little gift. So Peewee laid the little compass on the porch rail. There you are, he said. That needle always points to the north. The two severe eyes stared down at the compass on the rail, but their owner made no attempt to reach it as Peewee started off. If Peewee had not been so worried and preoccupied, he would have thought that he had never seen anything so absurdly amusing in all his life. Come back and say goodbye, the little voice commanded. Peewee returned and stood in the exact spot where he had stood before and said goodbye. Although the little pale face did not turn the fraction of an inch, the staring eyes followed Peewee as he went along the road. And of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 The Trampled Trail Peewee felt as if he were emerging from some enchanted spot in the Arabian Nights, abounding with giants and men getting dead. He had no more belief in what this imperious little imp had told him than he had in the predictions of Licoristic or the homely superstitions of Pepsi. Indeed, if he had thought seriously of these erratic snapshot bits of information about figures wriggling in the dark and getting dead, he would never have mentioned these things to Licoristic whom he ran plunk into as that aggregation of rags and nonsense sat upon a stone wall up the road engaged in the profitable occupation of watching the passing cars. Licoristic's business was contemplating the world, and he always attended strictly the business. Lordy me, he said, rolling his eyes, you don't go nowhere as that kid eat tell you, that wriggling man, he know man, he a spirit, don't you go near that bridge, you get a spell, you keep away from that bridge. How much this had to do with Peewee's actually going to the scene of the fire it would be hard to say. If he had not talked with Whitey, he probably would not have gone. At all events, he had nothing else to do and he wanted to think. So he followed the trail through the woods to the highway. It seemed quite probable that Whitey's jerky sentences were about true, that the doctor had been compelled to turn back by reason of the burning bridge. The fact that Whitey was holding his Imperial Court on the doctor's porch made this part of his story seem true. Perhaps it would be about right to say that Little Whitey's spasmodic announcements directed Peewee in his idle wanderings on that morning when he was fearful and sick at heart. Long afterwards he remembered with interest that it was Little Whitey Bungle for whose recovery he had sacrificed $250 and not a little glory, who put him in the way of the terrible discovery that he made on that fateful day. And the funny thing about it was that the little gnome had given the clue to his benefactor and not his father, who knew nothing about the frightful revelation of that morning until it was all over. So perhaps there is a little god of good turns after all, who, all unseen, administers punches in the nose and pays back $250 gifts and so forth, and has the time of his life watching how these things work out. Or a payback spirit, as Licrestick might have called him. As Peewee approached the scene of the fire, he saw in the bushes something which caught his eye. This was a torn fragment of clothing. The bushes were trampled down at the spot. It was not hard for the scout to follow this line of trampled brush which was so disordered that he thought it could not have been caused by a walking or fleeing person. It was well away from the area where the men had fought the flames. Here and there something brown and sticky on the leaves caught the scout's eye. Someone had crawled stealthily through here. Or else dragged himself through. Peewee shuddered at this thought. He examined the trampled channel more carefully, and from this examination he was satisfied of one fact which made him uneasy, apprehensive. The weight which had crushed the bush down had been a prone, dead weight. At intervals of perhaps three or four feet were gathered wounded strands of the tall grass, as if some groping hand had reached ahead, gathering and pulling on them. Pulling a helpless weight. Peewee knew this for what he saw with the eyes of a scout. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 The Trail's End This trampled channel petered out in a comparatively bare area across which was more brush. Almost hidden in this was a tumbled down shack, hardly bigger than a closet, in which boys who had been want to die from the old bridge had donned their bathing suits. It had been thrown together as a storage place for fishing tackle and crab nets, and these latter, rotten and gray with age, still hung in the dank, musty place. Peewee paused a moment, irresolute, nervous. He had a strange feeling, a feeling of apprehension which amounted to a certainty. And as he paused, two charred bits of timber from the old bridge still held together by a rusty brace creaked, and the creaking seemed loud in the stillness of desolation. A rusty can, the discarded receptacle of bait, lay at his feet, and in his hesitation and transient fear he kicked it, and followed it, kicking it again. Then, banishing such cracked-up excuses for delay, he put aside his fears, and went around the tiny shelter to where the rotted door hung loose upon one broken hinge. Within lay a human figure. The hair was wet and matted, and prickly leaves were stuck in it. The face was streaked with blood. The clothes were torn. One of the legs lay in a very unnatural attitude. The eyes were wide open and staring with a glassy look at some rough fishing rods which lay across the rafters above. One of the arms was outstretched, and the hand lay open as if its owner were saying, Here I am, you see. There was something very appalling about that dumb attitude of speech and welcome when the voice and the eyes could not speak, for he had got dead. This poor troubled creature got dead after committing one hideous crime to hide another. The people in the nearest house along the now deserted highway came at Peewee's breathless summons and gazed down silently, but would not touch the figure with outstretched arm and open hand that seemed to say, Step in, you're welcome. Here I am. So they called the coroner and the body of Deadwood Gamely was born away, and it was soon known that he had died from injuries received in falling down the embankment which he was scrambling up after setting fire to one of the supports of the old bridge. He had not done this horrible thing willfully, at least for money to spend. That very day a warrant was issued for his arrest in Baxter City for embezzlement of funds which he had stolen from the bank in which he had been employed. But the angel of death had traveled faster than the law. That the contractors, or one of them, who wished to benefit the county with a modern bridge, had offered Gamely pay to do this dreadful deed of arson, seem certain. But it seemed equally certain that the wretched boy had balked at this frightful enterprise, putting it off from day to day until discovery and arrest for his other crime stared him in the face. He had waited until the very night before the day on which his petty thefts would be revealed. Then in frantic desperation he had taken this only means of acquiring a sum of money quickly. No one could say this for a certainty. But in a story where we have witnessed so many good turns, may we not dismiss poor Deadwood Gamely and his tragic end from our thoughts with the hope, nay, even the confidence that his second crime was not a deed of willing choice, there was more money misappropriated by Tom, Dick and Harry before the new steel bridge was up than ever poor Deadwood Gamely, with his silly clothes and hat would have dared to steal. And so the tax rate went up and commissioner somebody or other got a new automobile and county engineer Grabsen built a big house and so on and so on and so on. But before the new multi-million dollar bridge was finished, the Pepsi roadside rest was flourishing as the only real melopoly in Everdos. Chapter 35 Exit So it befell that the big black wagon belonging to the brick orphan home came and turned around and went back again. It got in the way of all the automobiles that were headed for the home of fresh donuts, a new sign, and was a nuisance generally. The men who drove it didn't buy so much as a gumdrop, but what cared the partners? For such a business were they doing, as would make the standard oil company turn green with envy, their financial rating was so high that you couldn't see it without a telescope. Every time there was a strike over at the new bridge, the partners reaped a profit from the delay. Thus labor unconsciously put business in the way of monopolies. And so the great enterprise prospered. The advertising department had now two steady employees, Licoristic and Wiggle. Licoristic covered the road up as far as Berryville with a huge placard hung from his neck. Wiggle proudly flew an inflated balloon from his tail bearing the appropriate reminder, hot dogs at the Pepsi rest. One evening, oh, it must have been about six o'clock, the weary partners were closing up their little shack for the night. Pepsi was counting the money and Pee-wee was eating the cookies that were left over, for he was conscientious and must open shop with a fresh supply each day. Sometimes he would have a dozen or more to eat, but he did it bravely, from a sense of duty. A scout is dutiful. Presently there hove in sight a large figure walking. Oh, it's Mr. Jensen, said Pepsi. Hurry up and finish the cookies or he'll want them. He always does that. Mr. Jensen came up mopping his bar head. Any lemonade left? He asked. There's about one glass, Pee-wee said. In accordance with his invariable daily custom, Mr. Jensen bought up the remainder of the stock, drank several glasses of cider, and chatted with the partners. Ain't heard of any rivals, have you? He asked. We've got the whole detour eating out of our hands, said Pee-wee, which was literally true. Making money fast, huh? You taking good care of this little gal of mine? Pepsi smiled at him, and he put his arm around her and kissed her and said, if he don't take good care of you, you just come and let me know. Then he winked at Pee-wee. When he was gone, something reminded Pee-wee to look into the big lemonade cooler and make sure it was empty. It was not quite empty, there being about ten lemon pits, a slice of rind, and a small piece of ice left in the bottom of it. But this was worth going after, and Pee-wee went after it. With all his strength he raised the goodly cooler to a position above his head and tilleted to his mouth. His arms trembled under its weight, and his hands slipped upon its cold, beady sides. The several drops of highly diluted lemonade trickled down into his mouth, but the flavor pits and rind remained at bay at the bottom of the cooler. They would not roll, but they might fall. Pee-wee held the cooler up to a perfectly perpendicular position above his upturned face. Then, oh horrors, the wet cooler slipped through his hands, and the curly head of Pee-wee Harris disappeared within it. If the postman who found him wrestling valiantly with a banana and clinging with the other hand could only have seen him in this new and terrible predicament. And thus the curly head and terribly frowning countenance of Scout Harris disappears out of our story into a new realm of joy.