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Pee Wee Harris

<h2> CHAPTER XXXI </h2> CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE Along the road and over the stone wall and straight across the bed of tiger-lilies sped Pee-wee, using his own particular mode of scout pace, patent not applied for. Across the side porch and into the kitchen he went, pell-mell, shouting in a voice to crack the heavens. "It's a monolopy—I mean a monopoly! We've got a monopoly! Where's everybody? Hey, Aunt Jamsiah, where are you? Where's Uncle Eb? Hurry up and make some doughnuts? 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 his frenzy of haste and enthusiasm as Aunt Jamsiah opened the sitting room door, very quietly and seriously. "Shh, 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 stood 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 foot-falls agitated him strangely. Uncle Eb sat in the corner near the melodeon looking strangely out of place in his ticking overalls. "Is—is she—dead?" Pee-wee whispered fearfully. "Sit down, Walter," said Aunt Jamsiah; "no, she isn't dead, she's better." Uncle Eb 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 one or two questions. You will tell me the truth, won't you?" "I'll answer fer him doin' that," said Uncle Eb. "Sure I will," said Pee-wee proudly. "Walter, do you know what Pepsy'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 should worry about their secrets." "But some of Pepsy's ideas and plans have been very big, Walter," his 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 Jamsiah paused a moment, considering; then she went straight to the point. "Pepsy 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 Pepsy is—queer. Last night she made a dreadful mess in the cellar. She was at the kerosene; oh, it makes me just sick to think of it. She had some rags soaked with kerosene. Some of them were found out by the well. The others—" Aunt Jamsiah 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 Pepsy. That is what is bringing lots and lots of people along our road to-day, Walter. Pepsy 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—accuse her—did you?" he asked. "No, I didn't," his aunt breathed worriedly. "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 Pepsy, poor child. I'm not accusing her, and you mustn't talk about the Rev. Mr. Gloomer telling lies. Pepsy 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 Beriah Bungel 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 Jamsiah broke down completely, crying in her handkerchief. So Uncle Eb finished what little there was to say. "We had to send fer 'em, Walter," said he. "She'll be better off there fer a spell, I reckon. I ain't so sure about her doin' it, though it looks bad. Least ways, she didn't know what she was doing. But don't you worry—" Pee-wee did not wait to hear more. He just could not stand there. "When—when are they—coming?" he asked. "I reckon to—morrow, boy. Now, you look here—." But Pee-wee had gone. Up the narrow, boxed-in stairs he went, never asking permission. He could see nothing but a big enclosed wagon, dark inside, with Pepsy 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 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 big. And they'd only laugh at me if I told them what it was. So I'm not going to be a tell-tale 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 Pepsy Rest, because Pepsy will remind people to buy chewing gum, because that has pepsin 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—not even Aunt Jamsiah. Because you know how I told you I was a good fixer and I'm always lucky, you have to admit that." "Can I be the one to count the money?" Pepsy asked. "Sure, and I'll be the one to eat what's left of the things that won't keep," said Pee-wee. "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 tell-tale cat some day. So instead she threw her arms around him and said, "Oh goody, goody!" You know how girls do. <h2> CHAPTER XXXII </h2> THE CLEW Pee-wee 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 Doctor Killem's house there sat in a wheel chair the queerest little figure ever seen outside of a soup advertisement. He was of the kewpie 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 gnomelike 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 Whitie Bungel, 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 Pee-wee had spoken in high hope to Pepsy about their unexpected and glowing prospects, he was haunted by thoughts of the terrible thing which was to happen on the morrow. Pepsy was to be taken away, back to the big brick building which she hated, just as the planks of the old bridge had foretold; Pee-wee's loyalty was so staunch that he did not even consider the things his aunt had said. He was going to save Pepsy 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. Bungel 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 Doctor Killem. "Hello, soldier," piped up a little thin voice upon the porch. "I'm not a soldier," said Pee-wee. "My father can arrest people," said the little gnome, looking straight ahead of him. "That doesn't prove I'm a soldier," said Pee-wee. "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?" Pee-wee 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?" Pee-wee 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," Pee-wee said; preoccupied with his own sorrow and worry, yet amused in spite of himself at this queer little fellow. "Yes it is," said Whitie Bungel. "All right then, it is," said Pee-wee. "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 see," Whitie announced. "You're like Licorice Stick," said Pee-wee. "He's black," Whitie said. "I know he is." "Then how am I like him? I'm white. My name is Whitie." Pee-wee 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. "Doctor Killem 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?" Pee-wee 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," Pee-wee 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?" Pee-wee asked. "Doctor Killem 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?" Pee-wee asked, hardly knowing what to think of this information. "My mother made him give her the two hundred and fifty dollars so 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," Pee-wee said. "Are you going to be a thief when you grow up?" "No, I guess not," said Pee-wee. "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," Pee-wee said; "Licorice Stick's been telling you that. Didn't you say you were going to be a giant first?" "You're not a giant." Alas, Pee-wee 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 autocrat. 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, Pee-wee advanced to proffer his second gift to the Bungel family. Little did that stiff, serious little figure know that the much-needed money which Mrs. Bungel had been wise enough to take from her husband, had come from the same source. Pee-wee searched in vain for any sign of hands in those enveloping blankets. There were no hands, there seemed to be no body 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 Pee-wee laid the 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 Pee-wee started off. If Pee-wee 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 good-by," the little voice commanded. Pee-wee returned and stood in the exact spot where he had stood before and said, "Good-by." Although the little pale face did not turn the fraction of an inch, the staring eyes followed Pee-wee as he went along the road. <h2> CHAPTER XXXIII </h2> THE TRAMPLED TRAIL Pee-wee 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 Licorice Stick, or the homely superstitions of Pepsy. 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 Licorice Stick 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. Licorice Stick's business was contemplating the world and he always attended strictly to business. "Lordy me!" he said, rolling his eyes, "you don' go nowheres that kid 'e tell you. Dat wrigglin' man, he no man, he a sperrit. Don' you go near dat bridge, you get a spell. Yo keep away f'm dat bridge." How much this had to do with Pee-wee's actually going to the scene of the fire it would be hard to say. If he had not talked with Whitie 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 Whitie's jerky sentences were about true, that the doctor had been compelled to turn back by reason of the burning bridge. The fact that Whitie 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 Whitie's spasmodic announcements directed Pee-wee 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 Whitie Bungel (for whose recovery he had sacrificed two hundred and fifty dollars 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 two hundred and fifty dollar gifts and so forth, and has the time of his life watching how these things work out. Or a "pay back sperrit" as Licorice Stick might have called him. ... As Pee-wee 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. Some one had crawled stealthily through here. Or else dragged himself through. Pee-wee 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. Pee-wee knew this for he saw with the eyes of a scout. <h2> CHAPTER XXXIV </h2> 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 wont to dive 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. Pee-wee 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 Pee-wee's breathless summons and gazed down silently but would not touch the figure with outstretched arm and opened hand that seemed to say, "Step in, you're welcome, here I am." <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG alt="p185 (80K)" src="images/p185.jpg" width-obs="100%" /> </div> So they called the coroner and the body of Deadwood Gamely was borne 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 not 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 seemed 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 till 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 Grabson built a big house and so on, and so on, and so on. But before the new million-dollar bridge was finished the Pepsy Roadside Rest was flourishing as the only real "monolopy" in Everdoze. <h2> CHAPTER XXXV </h2> 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 Doughnuts (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—Licorice Stick and Wiggle. Licorice Stick 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 PEPSY REST. <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG alt="frontispiece-188 (97K)" src="images/frontispiece-188.jpg" width-obs="100%" /> </div> One evening, oh, it must have been about six o'clock, the weary partners were closing up their little shack for the night. Pepsy 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 Pepsy; "hurry up and finish the cookies or he'll want them; he always does that." Mr. Jensen came up mopping his forehead. "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 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. "Makin' money fast, huh? You takin' good care of this little gal of mine?" Pepsy 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 that 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 tilted it 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 flavory 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. ... THE END <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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