“You’re crazy,” said Pee-wee.
“When suddenly,” said Townsend, “a terrific report rent the air and there at the brave lad’s feet—”
“What?”
“Was a blown-out tire.”
“That shows how much sense you have,” said Pee-wee, with a kind of mingled pride and amusement in his friend; “you’re crazy.”
They rattled merrily down hill for half a mile or so, then around a bend and a couple of miles along a straight, level road. Then they made another curve and stopped, plunk in front of the little supply shack where the man with the suspenders and the straw hat had given them the direction. He was sitting on a bench in front of his place with a straw in his mouth and his eyes squinted as if he had not moved hand or muscle since the previous night.
Townsend did not appear to be at all surprised; he maintained a dignified calm, but Pee-wee was plainly dumbfounded.
“How do you do?” said Townsend.
“What does it mean?” Pee-wee gasped.
“It means we forgot to thank this gentleman for directing us,” said Townsend, “and we have come back to do it. Friend, we thank you.”