Читать книгу Pee-wee Harris on the Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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We shall pay particular attention to this sumptuous automobile which was such as to attract attention in modest Bridgeboro. For one thing it was of a rich shade of blue, whereas, the inhabitants of Bridgeboro being for the most part dead, their favorite color in autos was black.

The car, indeed, was the latest super six Hunkajunk touring model, a vision of grace and colorful beauty, set off with trimmings of shiny nickel. The Hunkajunk people had outdone themselves in this latest model and had produced “the car of a thousand delights.” That seemed a good many, but that is the number they announced, and surely they must have known.

When one sat in the soft, spacious rear seat of the Hunkajunk touring model, one felt the sensation of sinking into a—what shall I say? One had a sort of sinking spell. You will pay particular attention to the luxurious rear seat of this car because it was destined to be the couch of a world hero, rivalling Cleopatra’s famous barge which you will find drifting around in the upper grade history books.

This was the only super six Hunkajunk touring car in Bridgeboro and it belonged to the Bartletts who on this momentous night occupied its front seat.

“Do look at that poor little fellow,” said Mrs. Bartlett to her husband. “Stop for just a second; I never saw such a pathetic picture in my life!”

“Oh, what’s the use stopping?” said Mr. Bartlett good-humoredly.

“Because I’m not going to the Lyric Theatre and have that poor little hungry urchin haunting me all through the show. I don’t believe he’s had anything to eat all day. Just see how he looks in that window, it’s pathetic. Poor little fellow, he may be starving for all we know. I’m going to give him twenty-five cents; have you got the change?”

“You mean I’m going to give it to him?” laughed Mr. Bartlett, stopping the car.

“He’s just eating the things with his eyes,” said Mrs. Bartlett with womanly tenderness. “Look at that shabby sweater. Probably his father is a drunken wretch.”

“We’ll be late for the show,” said Mr. Bartlett.

“I don’t care anything about the show,” his wife retorted. “Do you suppose I want to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway or whatever it is? If we get there in time for the educational films, that’s all I care about. You gave money for the starving children of France. Do you suppose I’m going to sit face to face with a little boy—starving?”

“I can’t see his face,” said Mr. Bartlett, “but he looks as if he had the Woolworth Building in his back pocket.”

“Little boy,” Mrs. Bartlett called in her sweetest tone, “here is some money for you. You go into that store and—gracious me, it’s Walter Harris! What on earth are you doing here, Walter? I thought you were a poor little—I thought you were hungry.”

The sturdy but diminutive form and the curly head and frowning countenance which stood confronting her were none other than those of Pee-wee Harris, B.S.A. (Boy of Special Appetite or Boy Scouts of America, whichever you please), and he stared her full in the face without shame.

“That’s the time you guessed right,” he said. “I am.”