Pee-wee Harris in camp

by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

That Simpson should hold Connie Bennett to a casual promise in a matter so trifling caused the camp to look on him with a kind of tolerant contempt. He had never been popular but now he became unpopular. To Brent it seemed that the scout who had wanted to do something big had done something unspeakably small. But he did not say this. The view that most scouts took of it was that it was too small to talk about.

Nor was there time to talk or think about it, for the big event was now close at hand, and the three patrols of the Bridgeboro troop united in the troop cause of keeping the Mary Temple Cup in their own scout circle. “United we stand, divided we sprawl,” said Roy Blakeley; “when we race and when we eat we’re all one—we’re a league of rations.”

About the most pathetic sight at Temple Camp was Pee-wee, aroused by this troop spirit, united with his old colleagues in the common cause; shouting, boasting, denouncing, arguing, belittling, extolling, predicting, like the loyal little rooter that he was.

He won the big race twenty times a day, and several times in his dreams each night. He championed even the Silver Foxes, and the Elks, of which Connie Bennett was leader, were the subjects of his unstinted eulogy. There were no patrols now, just the troop, and he was for it if not of it. He had his camera ready for a close snapshot of Connie if chance should still smile on him and let him sit in that canoe. He made a new pole for the troop pennant which the canoe would carry. He dangled his legs from the springboard and said the red-headed fellow from Ohio didn’t stand a chance. His imagination overcame the obstacle of non-membership and he became the voice and spirit of the troop—his troop.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that they—we—I mean they—can’t beat everybody because don’t we live in Bridgeboro where there’s a river and we all have canoes—except a few that haven’t?”

“They’re born with paddles in their mouths,” said a Virginia scout.

“And oars!” Pee-wee shouted.

It went to Brent Gaylong’s heart to see Pee-wee trudging down from the Ravens’ cabin night to go to bed in the pavilion dormitory. He might have stayed on cabin hill but only one full patrol could bunk in a cabin. Pee-wee never questioned the camp rules or the rules of the scout organization. “Gee whiz, they’re good rules all right,” he said. And he never overstepped the privilege of a non-member. That was the pathetic part of it. He watched them wistfully when they voted, contented, happy, just to be among them.

Just in proportion as he made a pathetic picture, just in that same proportion did Billy Simpson become more and more an object of tolerant contempt. If he had made the little sacrifice in the matter of the canoe it would not have been so bad, but now they were ready enough to think ill of him, reasonably or not. And often their dislike was without reason, for indeed he was as much a member of the Raven Patrol as any other Raven was.

If there was any criticism in that matter Artie Van Arlen should have borne it. It is only fair to Artie to say that from the day he summoned Billy Simpson from Bridgeboro, he was friendly to him, and fair to him, and seemed to believe in him. He did not study him, as Brent might have done, because it was not given to him to do that. But he treated him with a wholesome cheerfulness and with the same fraternal air which characterized his demeanor toward all. If he was disappointed he did not say so. If he had expected Billy to bring honors, merit badges, to the patrol he renounced that hope amiably. He was a pretty good all-around sort of a fellow, was Artie.