Читать книгу Pee-wee Harris on the Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

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“Give him the money,” laughed Mr. Bartlett.

“I will do no such thing,” said his wife. “I thought you were a poor little starving urchin, Walter. Wherever did you get that sweater?”

“I don’t believe he’s had anything to eat for half an hour,” said Mr. Bartlett. “Well, how is my old college chum, Pee-wee? You make her give you the twenty-five cents, Pee-wee.”

“A scout can’t accept money like that,” said Mrs. Bartlett reprovingly, “it’s against their rules. Don’t you know that?”

Pee-wee cast a longing glance back at the window of Pfiffel’s Bakery and then proceeded to set Mrs. Bartlett right on the subject of the scout law.

“It—it depends on what you call rules; see?” he said.

“And on what you call hungry,” added Mr. Bartlett.

“If—if you—kind of—want to do a good turn, I haven’t got any right to stop you, have I?” Pee-wee said. “Because good turns are the main things. Gee whiz, I haven’t got any right to interfere with those. I haven’t got any right to accept money for a service, but suppose—suppose there’s a jelly roll—”

“There is,” said Mr. Bartlett, “but in two minutes there isn’t going to be. You go in and get that jelly roll as a favor to Mrs. Bartlett. And hurry up back and we’ll take you to the Lyric.”

“I was going there anyway,” Pee-wee said, “I want to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway, it’s in five reels.”

“Well, you come along with us,” said Mr. Bartlett, “and then you’ll be doing two good turns. You’ll be doing a favor to Mrs. Bartlett by buying a jelly roll and you’ll be doing a favor to me by making a party of three to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway. What do you say?”

“Three’s my lucky number,” said Pee-wee. Then suddenly bethinking himself he added, “but I don’t mean I want to get three jelly rolls—you understand.”

“Yes, we understand,” said Mrs. Bartlett.

So it befell that Pee-wee, alias Walter Harris, scout of the first class (in quality if not in quantity) found himself riding luxuriously down Main Street in the rear seat of Mr. Bartlett’s big Hunkajunk touring car, eating a jelly roll with true scout relish, for it was now close to eight o’clock and Pee-wee had not eaten anything since supper-time. Having completed this good turn to Mrs. Bartlett he proceeded to do a good turn to himself by bringing forth two sandwiches out of the pocket usually associated with a far more dangerous weapon. This was his emergency kit which he always carried. Morning, noon, or night, he always carried a couple of sandwiches the same as motorists carry extra tires.

And while he ate he talked. “Gee whiz, I’m crazy to see that picture,” he said.

“We usually go for the educational films,” said Mrs. Bartlett.

“I don’t like anything that’s got education in it,” Pee-wee said. “Even when I go to vaudeville I don’t like educated monkeys and cats and things. I like bandits and things like that. What’s your favorite thing?”

“Well, I like scouts,” said Mr. Bartlett.

“Mine’s ice cream cones,” said Pee-wee. “Is this a new car? I bet I know what kind it is, it’s a Hunkajunk. I like hot frankfurters too. I can tell all the different kinds of cars because a scout is supposed to be observant. Do you like gumdrops? I’m crazy about those.”

“But where did you get that sweater?” Mrs. Bartlett asked.

“Do you want me to tell you about it? It belongs to the man that takes care of our furnace; he’s got a peach of a tattoo mark on his arm. My mother told me I had to wear a sweater so I grabbed that as I went through the back hall. I always go out through the kitchen, do you know why?”

“I think I can guess,” said Mr. Bartlett.

“And the cap?” Mrs. Bartlett asked.

“You know the burglar that came to our house?”

“No, I never met him,” said Mrs. Bartlett.

“I bet you don’t like burglars, hey? He left this cap. He didn’t get anything and I got the cap so that shows I’m always lucky. My mother doesn’t want me to wear it. Gee whiz, she hates burglars. Anyway, it’s good and comfortable. My father says if he comes back for it I have to give it to him.”

“Well, you certainly don’t look like Walter Harris, the boy scout I have always known,” said Mrs. Bartlett.

“Don’t you care,” said Pee-wee. “If you’re a scout you’re a scout, no matter if you don’t wear anything.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” said Mrs. Bartlett.

“I know worse things than that,” said Pee-wee.

“Well, tell us about the scouts,” Mr. Bartlett encouraged him.

“Shall I tell you all about them?”

“Surely, begin at the beginning.”

“That’s law one, it’s about honor; do you know what that is?”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Mr. Bartlett.

“A scout has to be honorable, see? That comes first of all.”

“Before eating?”

“Eating is all the way through it.”

“Oh, I see.”

“A scout has to be so—kind of—you know, so honorable that nobody could suspect him, see? If you’re a scout that means that everybody knows you’re all right. There are a lot of other laws too.”

“Well, here we are at the Lyric,” said Mr. Bartlett, “so let’s go in and see what The Bandit of Harrowing Highway thinks about honor.”

Leaving the car in front of the theatre the three elbowed their way through the long, crowded lobby and soon Pee-wee Harris, scout, was no longer in Bridgeboro but among rugged mountains where a man with a couple of pistols in his belt and a hat as big as an umbrella reined up a spirited horse and waited for a caravan and all that sort of stuff....