“Well, I know you’re not going to Westwood for any purpose whatever until you’ve picked up all the things you scattered about and repacked them. Suppose Townsend should come for you this afternoon. Isn’t a scout supposed to be prepared? He’ll find you off on some wild-goose chase—”
“All I have to do is to start the ball rolling,” Pee-wee said, struggling to his feet after triumphantly recovering the can of spaghetti. “Then it will take care of itself.”
“I think you’ve started enough things rolling this morning, Walter. Is that a bottle of olives under the leather chair? I never told Martha she could give you that.”
“Will you listen?” Pee-wee pleaded in dramatic despair. “Is a relay race anything like cans of stuff? Do you think I’m going to roll cans of spaghetti and things all the way to Temple Camp? A relay race is where one scout—suppose I should send a letter to—will you please listen?”
“I’m listening, Walter.”
“I’m going to choose a fellow to visit me and stay with me at Memorial Cabin, ain’t I?”
“Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Walter. Yes, you are.”
“Well, you want to see me do it the scout way, don’t you?”
“I thought you might ask Mrs. Gardner’s son; they’re very poor—”
“I’m going to start a relay race to Temple Camp, that’s better. And the last feller, the one that brings me the letter, he’ll be the one to stay with me and have my hospital—tal—”