The camp assistant, young Mr. Slade, spoke to him one day. “You know, Van, this is an impossible situation,” said he; “Pee-wee’s a Raven. You’re taking liberties with nature, you fellows are.”
“It can’t be helped now,” said Artie; “besides I’m not worrying and I’ll tell you why. Do you want to know?”
“Go ahead, shoot.”
“Pee-wee doesn’t belong to the Boy Scouts of America. The Boy Scouts of America belong to Pee-wee. Just wait till he gets back home. You’re not afraid he’s going to drift away, are you?”
“Well, it knocks me clean to see him,” said Slade.
“You and old Doc. Gaylong ought to camp under a weeping willow, you’re so tender-hearted. How about the race?”
“Nothing about it,” said Slade; “except everything’s ready, and Connie Bennett is going to win it.”
“Sure thing?”
“That’s what Pee-wee says,” said Tom. “He says we’ve won it already.”
“Well, to-morrow’s the day,” said Artie cheerily. “Pee-wee says if the cup gets away from us, he’ll never look Mary Temple in the face again. But he’ll accept an ice cream soda from her.”