“You’d better ask your friends about it first,” said Emerson.
“Gee whiz, you promised, didn’t you? You’re not going to break your word?”
“I think no one could accuse me of that,” said Emerson.
“Well then,” said Pee-wee.
From North Bridgeboro to Bridgeboro the trail through the woods was more traveled and easily distinguishable. Here was a true wood interior, filled with stately trees and free of underbrush. Here and there a soggy pasteboard box or rusted can or dirty, empty bottle bespoke the visits of the only species of animal that defiles nature. But for these discordant mementos the woods were beautiful, solemn. There was no moon, but the sky was crowded with stars and the night was not too dark.
“Gee, don’t you say it’s nice in here?” Pee-wee encouraged.
“Indeed it is,” said Emerson. “It’s certainly a contrast to the city—to Broadway.”
“Will your mother and father be mad?” Pee-wee asked.
“Oh, no, they’ll think we’re coming on the late train. They wouldn’t worry till after that.”
“Do you know where this path brings us out?” Pee-wee asked.