“If they’ll let me,” said Emerson. “I don’t know how they’ll feel about it.”
“There’s a place in my patrol, too,” said Pee-wee, ignoring these misgivings. “My patrol’s the Ravens; you have to learn to make a noise like a raven. Do you know ravens can talk? Just like parrots, they can. They talk all the time.”
“Is that why you’re a Raven?” Emerson asked.
“The Silver Foxes in my troop, they’re all crazy,” said Pee-wee. “Gee whiz, those fellers tried to tell me that your favorite book is Webster’s dictionary. They’re a bunch of jolliers in that patrol.
“Roy Blakeley—he’s their patrol leader—he says that a civil engineer means an engineer that’s polite; that shows how crazy he is, and they have him for leader. He says that goldfish are sun-fish that got sunburned. He tried to make me think they didn’t choose you for the traffic patrol, because you’re too rough. No wonder he can’t get a new member for his patrol because, gee, there are no more fellers in Bridgeboro crazy enough. They ought to be the loons instead of the Silver Foxes, that’s what I told him.
“Warde Hollister, he’s in that patrol, he says you ought to start the Rabbit Patrol but, oh, boy, I’m glad there’s a place in my patrol and I bet you’ll like us too. You know Artie Van Arlen? He’s leader in my patrol. And you know Bert Carson? The feller whose sister has a birthmark on her neck? It’s the shape of Cuba, but anyway we call him ‘Doc’ because he studied first aid—he’s in my patrol.”
Pee-wee paused, breathless, and for a few minutes as they followed the narrow trail no word was spoken.
“Do you like being in the woods?” Pee-wee asked.
“Yes, I do,” said Emerson.
Missionary and propagandist though he was. Pee-wee was not strong on tact. His unguarded talk, intended only to encourage, had chilled the budding interest of his friend. So that was the way they talked! His favorite book, the dictionary.... Too rough for the traffic patrol.... He should start the Rabbit Patrol....