“I’m afraid they can’t do that,” laughed another; “they’re supposed to be leading the primitive life up here.”
“Do you think we’re going to starve?” Pee-wee thundered. “Do you think because a scout that plans a thing and then says what he’d do if that thing happens like he planned only it doesn’t—do you suppose they have to starve on account of a lot of lunatics like you, especially Roy Blakeley? That shows how much you know about logic! Do you say that eight is the same as two?”
It shall never be written that Temple Camp was lacking in hospitality, and there was no intention of allowing Pee-wee to attempt the entertainment of this human avalanche. Nor, indeed, had the avalanche any intention of imposing on our hero, for each member of the invading host had come supplied with funds. For a pick-up troop they were a pretty fine lot of fellows. It was Tom Slade, the young assistant, who stepped into the breach in this most critical and apparently portentous moment in the life of P. Harris.
“Look here, kid,” he said. “You’ve got to take this whole crowd or none at all. This is the net results of your relay race. Take it or leave it. You forgot that a scout never turns back; in scouting relay races are a myth. They just ain’t. A scout that starts always wants to see the finish. All that stuff in the scout handbook is nonsense. No scout ever handed a letter about eats and things to another scout and then went home—never. You’re all off on scouting, kid.
“Now look here, kid, this is Alton Beech’s crowd and you’re not going to break up the party. We’ve got a vacant cabin for these fellows and they’re going to bunk in it and eat down in camp. See? So you just start your little fire and forget about this bunch and your unknown chum will come along pretty soon, I’ll take care of that.”
“What do you mean?” Pee-wee demanded.
“You’ll see,” said Tom. “Start your fire and get ready. I’ve got the right idea on this unknown pal business better than you have. You’re way off the track, kid. You start your little fire and leave the rest to me. Come on, Beech, come on the rest of you fellows, you must be hungry.”
It was not long after this that our lonely hero, somewhat squelched by recent happenings, heard an outlandish but strangely familiar noise and soon was aware of two lights poking their way up through the woods. Ah, that beloved, familiar, medley! That fond chorus of squeaks and rattles and unmuffled chugging. Those beams of light bisecting each other from Lizzie’s cross-eyed headlights. Up the hill she came, in and out among the trees, and over obstacles of fallen trunks, puffing, clanking, rattling, buzzing, pausing, swerving, but triumphing over every challenging obstruction. Lizzie!
“That you, kid?” called Townsend cheerily.
“Look out for the woodpile,” Pee-wee said, his heart dancing with surprise and joy.