Hell's Kitchen and Park Avenue pushed on together.
And at daybreak the forest ranger opened the door of his cabin to them. He and his wife had been up two nights with a sick child, and he was half-asleep and not at all sure that he wasn't seeing things.
"We're Happy Warriors," Pip-Emma said, "and we're all lost."
It wasn't anyone's fault that the forest ranger's child had the measles and that the Penguins who had never had the chance to catch anything went down with it like ninepins. The Penguin Circle was quarantined, and at night Pip-Emma sat alone by the campfire. The doctor had said: "She'll be all right. She's been exposed probably to every germ known to man. She's a survival of the fittest." So Pip-Emma was allowed to help nurse the Penguins and sit on their beds when they were convalescing and tell them hair-raising stories of Hell's Kitchen. She made up some of them. And the adventures of the mounted-cop uncle grew gorier and gorier. The Penguins seemed to like them gory.
Little Janet was sicker than any of them. But when Pip-Emma held her small feverish hand, she'd fall contentedly asleep.
Except for Janet's feeling so bad it was kind of fun. At night Pip-Emma and one of the Pelicans lighted the Penguin campfire so that the Penguins in their open tents could see the flames dance. And as they got better, Pip-Emma would start them singing—"We are the happy Penguins."
Pip-Emma had a song of her own which she'd learned from Pop, who had sung it on Salisbury Plain:
"I'm 'Enry the Eighth, I am.
I've 'ad seven wives before,
And I don't mind if I 'ave one more—"
It was a ribald, not very intelligible song. But it had a rousing chorus. Miss Thornton, in her tent writing reassuring letters to anxious parents, looked up at Prissy, who was helping in her wheelchair.
"Is that a Camp song?" she asked.