“How could he do it?”
“When did he do it?”
“Where did he do it?”
“Why did he do it?”
“For money,” said Grove; “for a paltry ten dollars.”
Pee-wee was about to scream his denunciation of this horrible attack when he recalled his promise to his mother never to tell Aunt Sophia (and that would include her household) about his disgraceful appearance on the stage with “play actors.”
“There it is,” said Artie; “look at it yourselves. It is a picture of Walter Mincepie Harris of Bridgeboro, New Jersey, branding a horse with an iron.”
There was no doubt about it. There was only one Pee-wee Harris in the world. And there he was in that picture. The girls contemplated it, amazed, speechless. Yet, of course, it must be a joke. They did not really believe.... Oh no, he would explain. Of course, he would explain, Such a silly....
“Oh, I think it’s just a perfectly horrid picture,” said Miss Dorothy Docile. “How did you ever happen to have it taken? Tell us about it.”
“I—I—eh—I can’t tell you,” said Pee-wee.