CHAPTER XXV
PEE-WEE’S LUCK
“Oh, just look, there’s a team of oxen!” said Miss Pocahontas Gamer; “isn’t it nice and primitive? And look at the boy! He’s got streamers all over his head! Oh, he looks like a circus clown.”
“I’m a boy scout,” said Pee-wee with withering scorn.
A closer approach to the dismantled and hapless float revealed the awful truth to the bewildered little party. There, upon the primitive fender above one of the wheels, sat Scout Harris dangling his legs, the picture of rakish abandonment. His festal array looked like some tattered emblem of warfare. His gala turban had utterly collapsed like some unsubstantial house, and his small shoulders supported the patriotic and romantic ruin. All about him hung limp and faded bunting. Poor Simon seemed to confess his utter inability to cope with the occasion and sat contemplating the party with a kind of bashful, amused and slightly frightened smile.
“Leave them to me, I’ll handle them,” Pee-wee whispered.
“Good evening, Scout,” said Fuller; “or perhaps I should say to-morrow morning. Whence comest thou? You look like the end of a perfect day.”
“I comest whither,” shouted Pee-wee, “or something kind of like that; anyway I bet I don’t care about where I go as much as you do, because scouts are supposed to be—kind of wild and reckless. We’re on our way home from the parade.”
“Are we to understand that this is not Snailsdale Manor?” asked Mr. Pylor Koyn.
“It’s better than Snailsdale Manor,” said Pee-wee; “and we’ll take you to a better place than any of the houses up there. This sign up on top tells you about the place; it’s named Goodale Manor Farm and there are rattlesnakes there and everything.”