With the pensive tear-drops standing on his round cheeks and with eyes glistening from the sadness of parting, or from some other equally logical cause, he penned the following missive, stabbing the onion afresh for every tender word he wrote, and weeping so copiously that he could not have deciphered the writing even if it had been visible. These were the words, all unseen, which he penned with the magic onion juice:
The offer of three helpings all through the season is still open and the cove is bridged and any feller can hike around scout pace in less than an hour so now’s your chance.
Harris—hop-toad,
Ex-raven
He strained his eyes to read those memorable words which were to mean so much to him, and to all the scouts at camp. To say nothing of the camp commissary. But the spirit of the onion spoke not to those who did not know its secret. Not a sign of writing was there upon that virgin page.
Pee-wee rolled the missive, injected it into the bottle, and corked the bottle tight. He then produced a small limp article connected with a short stick. On blowing through the stick the limp attachment swelled to astounding dimensions as Pee-wee’s cheeks puffed more and more till they seemed like to burst. Now upon the inflated balloon appeared the words Catskill Garage in conspicuous white letters.
The limit of Pee-wee’s blowing capacity having been reached, he jabbed the blow-stick into the onion to check the egress of air, when suddenly that humble vegetable, so modest that its very blood shunned the gaze of prying eyes, threw out a veritable spray in every direction like an electric sparkler, as the balloon grew smaller till it staggered, then collapsed, leaving the Hop-toad Patrol weeping and sneezing and groping frantically for their handkerchiefs, no doubt as flags of truce.
“I—eh—eh—chhh—ew—chh—I—llchew—try it—again.”
CHAPTER XVIII—THE BATTLE OF THE BURS
The gallant bottle with its aerial companion attached was not yet set free upon the angry waves of Black Lake. For the epoch-making announcement must not be premature and the good bark Hop-toad had still some yards to travel before bunking against the farther shore.
Indeed, it did not bunk against the farther shore at all. Like the ships of another famous adventurer (Christopher Columbus) it reached a destination, but not the destination intended. It flopped against the shore at the northern extremity of the lake, where the natives (consisting of three turtles) fled precipitately upon the approach of the explorers.
“We’ll have to pull it around,” said the leader of the Hop-toads; “we’ll have to coast along shore. Our port is due west of the camp. Maybe it’s kind of south by due west. Come on, let’s pull.”