“Lots of people like black coffee,” Pee-wee shouted, hurling things right and left and suddenly pouncing on the elusive map.
“Have you got it?” called his despairing mother.
“Yop.”
“Where was it?”
“I never thought I’d need it, that’s why,” said Pee-wee abstractedly, as he unfolded the map in high excitement. “I forgot I put it there.”
“Where did you put it?”
“It was rolled up in the sweater.”
“The sweater I told you to wear every night at camp? And you expected never to unfold—”
“Oh, look; oh, look; oh, look! Westwood’s the first place north!” Pee-wee shouted. “It’s about ten miles, and that’s just right—”
“Walter, you’re not going to walk to Westwood,” said Mrs. Harris, descending bravely into the arena. “I don’t know what your plans are but you’re not going to walk to Westwood. And you’re going to pack these things all up again before you leave the house. Do you think I want the hall stand looking like a grocery store?”