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Pee-Wee Harris (Version 2)

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<h2 id='chXXI' class='c008'>CHAPTER XXI</h2></div> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c009'> <div>SCOUT HARRIS FIXES IT</div> </div></div> Perhaps you will say that Pee-wee was not a good scout to speak with such impudent assurance to his elders. But you are to remember what I told you about Pee-wee, 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 Pepsy 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,” Pepsy ventured to say, “but just the same we’re going to because—” “What do I care about it?” Pee-wee vociferated. “I know a way to get two hundred and fifty dollars and that’s more money than we’d 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?” Pepsy asked. “You can have half of it because we’re partners,” Pee-wee said, recovering something of his former spirits as this new prospect opened before him. “Can’t we have the refreshment parlor any more?” Pepsy asked wistfully. “Because, honest and true, we’re going to make lots and lots of money in it; I know a way—” “Listen, Pepsy,” Pee-wee 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 feller 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 Beriah Bungel?” 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 the mail car to Baxter. Do you want to go? If you do you have to hurry up.” The last time that Pepsy 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 Pee-wee to the gallows for meddling in these dark, mysterious matters. Pee-wee 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 sure. You see, I’ll handle him all right.” Pepsy’s thoughts wandered to the six merry maidens whom Pee-wee had “handled” with such astounding 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 Pee-wee was not to be deterred by sentiment and false hope. “Don’t you want us to have two hundred and fifty dollars?” he asked scornfully. “Don’t you want us to buy those tents?” This was too much for Pepsy. She grasped Pee-wee’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 bare counter made the place look forlorn and deserted as they went away. “It’s a blamed sight easier than running a refreshment parlor,” Pee-wee said; “it’s just like picking the money up in the street. All we have to do is to go to Mr. Sawyer’s office and tell him and—” “You have to go in first,” said Pepsy. Pee-wee’s enthusiasm was contagious and Pepsy was soon keyed up to the new enterprise, even to the point of facing Mr. Sawyer. She had cautiously resolved, however, to remain close to the door of his office, so that she might effect a precipitate retreat at the first mention of an orphan asylum. Whatever Pee-wee 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 cosy headquarters. They sat on a rock by the roadside waiting for the mailman’s auto to come along. Once in that Pepsy felt that her fate would be sealed. She had never been away from Everdoze 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 Pee-wee’s hand. “I hate him, too,” she said, referring to Beriah Bungel, “and it will serve him right if Whitie dies and I just hope he does, because his father hit you.” “Who’s Whitie?” Pee-wee asked. “He’s Mr. Bungel’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 Whitie, and who was going to die in a rainstorm on a Friday was all new to Pee-wee. “Licorice Stick is crazy,” he said. “What does he know about dying? He never died, did he?” This brilliant argument appeared to impress Pepsy. “If they took him to a hospital in New York then he wouldn’t have to die because they could fix him,” Pepsy said. “I heard Aunt Jamsiah say so. There are doctors there that can fix people all well again.” “I bet I’m as good a fixer as they are,” Pee-wee 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 Pepsy. “If people have something the 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 have to stir it with a willow stick and then you get well quick.” “How can you get well quick when snails are slow?” Pee-wee 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 Pepsy; “the lightning-bugs are their eyes. But anyway, just the same, nobody can fix Whitie Bungel, 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 Pee-wee. “Just the same Whitie is going to die,” said Pepsy, “and then you’ll see, because when my mother didn’t have any money she died, so there.” Pee-wee 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 the one day, took poor Pepsy quite by storm. She did not understand the workings of Pee-wee’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 Pepsy after him. To her consternation he went straight up to the kitchen door, yes, of Constable Beriah Bungel’s humble abode! Pepsy 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 Beriah Bungel himself standing in the open doorway looking fiercely down at the little khaki-clad scout. “Mr. Bungel,” she heard as she stood gaping and listening and ready to run at the terrible official’s first move, “Mr. Bungel, if you want to know where those two fellers 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 two hundred and fifty dollars as long as you don’t say who told you where they are.” Without another word he turned and trudged away along the path, Pepsy following after him, too astonished to speak. <div class='chapter'> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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