“Can’t you stay for the dance?” another called.
“Oh, do stay for the dance,” several girls chimed in unison.
“Oh isn’t he just too cute!” another sang.
“Can’t you stay?” another young fellow called, good-humoredly. “We’re going to have some other celebrities here to-night.”
Hope, from her throne in the flivver, waved her hand to him, trying as hard as she could to hide her laughter with her handkerchief. Just then Everett Braggen grabbed an end of bunting from the dismantled float, and with a miracle of dexterity Pee-wee grabbed the other end, pulling it from him. Using it as a kind of patriotic lasso he hurled it down upon the young despoiler of his hopes. It chanced that a pin which had been used by Hope in the work of draping, still lurked in the end of this gay streamer, and this caught in the straw-hat of the young adventurer who had ventured too near the fortress. With a nicety which aroused uncontrollable laughter Pee-wee lifted that precious hat to his strategic post and drove his fist through it with heroic defiance.
“Last laugh is the best laugh!” he shouted.
Ah, those were prophetic words. Hope Stillmore heard them, and only laughed the more.
These were the last recorded words of Pee-wee Harris in his brave defeat before the Snailsdalions.
“Didn’t I tell you I was lucky?” Pee-wee vociferated as they drove away from the village. “I can handle more people than that. I can handle all the fellers at Temple Camp and there are as many as three hundred sometimes. I can handle scoutmasters, too.”
He seemed prouder than if he had won the prize. Poor Simon was awed by the freedom with which his small companion “handled” these sophisticated, dressed up city folks. He felt that Pee-wee was equal to any occasion.