“If—if you really want to join,” said Pee-wee, his conscience still causing him to speak in a halting way, “gee whiz, I’ll only be too glad, and I guess Artie will too; won’t you, Artie?”
“You bet,” said Artie Van Arlen, titular head of the Ravens. Like many titular heads, he was subject to a boss. And it was the boss who was speaking.
“If I go with you to-night and let Bob help, it means I’m in on it?” said Toby conditionally.
“You said it,” encouraged Roy. “Same as Pee-wee; member in good standing, only he doesn’t stand very high.”
“Will you? Say the word,” Connie encouraged.
“And you can go to camp and everything,” Pee-wee shouted, his conscience reconciled or drugged at last. “To-night—right now—we’ll—I tell you what we’ll do—we’ll take Bob—we’ll—listen—we’ll take Bobbin Hood—I mean Robin Hood—and we’ll go to Garrisons, hey, and start from there. We’ll give him the scent, and, oh, boy, we’ll rescue her, I bet, before morning and it’ll be in the New York papers and everything—and I tell you what we’ll do—we’ll change the name of our patrol from the Ravens to the Police Dogs—hey? Won’t we, Artie? So will you join? Will you come ahead?”
“I don’t mind,” said Toby.
“Good night, we found a scout, now we ought to find Margie Garrison,” said Connie. “Some big night, hey?”
“Oh, boy, you said it!” vociferated Pee-wee.