“Gee whiz,” said Pee-wee, as he tramped doggedly along, “they’d never call you Arabella any more when you join the scouts, that’s one thing sure.”
Emerson had been hailed by this name, but he had never thought that he was known by it among the boys of Bridgeboro. He had not known (for such a boy never knows) that his nice phraseology was material for mirth. He had not known that his mincing walk and adult manner were ironically characterized as “rough.” The Bridgeboro boys had not often made fun of him to his face; particularly the scouts had not. But just the same, they had left him out of their lives and plans, and among themselves (as he now saw) his name had been a byword for effeminacy.
It is fatal for a boy to talk too well and use an approved phraseology. It was this misfortune which had won for Emerson his various posts of monitorship in school. And by a universal law no monitor can be popular. That was the pathos of it, that he was ostracized without really knowing the reason. But now he was beginning to see a little of the light in which the boys regarded him.
He had walked as far this night in the city as anybody could be expected to walk, and there was nothing against him on that score. He had also shown that he was human by partaking liberally of soda and candy, and there was nothing against him on that score. He had shown himself manly and self-reliant in the city, quite the leader. But he had “treated” Pee-wee instead of “blowing” him. He had talked of “seeing the sights” instead of “piking around.” Pee-wee’s enthusiasm ignored these defects, but would the boys see Emerson for the really generous, first-rate fellow that he was?
He did not ask himself this question, for he did not know that he was a generous, first-rate fellow. He only knew that he didn’t fit in, and he wondered why. That was why he felt shaky about joining the scouts and going to camp with them. When he had spoken of the “great outdoors” to several of them, they had laughed at the phrase. When he had once asked Connie Bennett where he was going in his “natty regalia,” Connie had answered, “To a pink tea, Arabella.” It was the “natty regalia” business which had done the mischief. But why? And how was Emerson to know?
There is only one way for a boy like Emerson to deal with a group of boys and that is with some sort of a knock-out blow.
CHAPTER XVII
ALONE
They picked their way along the trail which was as “easy as pie” to Pee-wee, as he remarked to his companion. It must have been easy indeed, for it was well known that pie was like child’s play to him. They emerged from the woods at North Bridgeboro, a couple of miles above the larger town and separated from it by Van Akren’s woods, a familiar resort in the summer time.
A lonely lunch wagon stood near the little railroad station, a cheerful light showing through its incongruous stained-glass windows. Above it was a sign which read HAMBURGER MIKE’S EATS. Pee-wee knew Hamburger Mike and sang his praise.
“Did you ever eat hamburger steak in there?” he said innocently.