Be that as it might, there was nothing, excepting a fire, which Pee-wee so adored as a parade. And he contemplated this announcement with thrilling anticipations.
“I’m going to be there,” he said to his mother; “I’m going to be in it. I’m going to be in the fireworks, too.”
Exactly how he meant to be “in” the fireworks he did not explain, but perhaps he expected his propensity for going up in the air to help him in that particular. He was presently to give a demonstration of his proficiency in aerial flight, for he heard a voice close behind him say:
“You can’t be in it because you don’t belong here. You’re waiting for Farmer Goodale, and his place is seven miles from here, and there aren’t any people there anyway, and he only has one horse. They’re asleep down there, only they haven’t got sense enough to lie down.”
Pee-wee turned and beheld a boy of about fifteen, wearing a regulation suit and regulation straw hat and a regulation scarf and white collar, and a regulation handkerchief nattily folded in the regulation way and projecting out of his breast pocket. He presented a singular contrast to Pee-wee, who was in scout negligee, his broad-brimmed hat far enough back on his head to expose his curly hair, the Raven patrol scarf tied loosely about his neck, with a compass as big as a watch dangling from the knotted ends of it.
“Do you think I can’t find my way from Mr. Goodale’s?” he demanded, as if that were the only condition of participating officially in the festivities. “Lots of times I’ve been as far as fifty miles from civilization and I can always find my way. I bet you’re not a scout.”
“I wouldn’t be one,” said the youth.
“Maybe you couldn’t,” Pee-wee retorted, “because you’re kind of civilized. Gee whiz, I used to be that way, but you don’t have any fun. I bet you hang around the post office waiting for mail. I can tell by looking at you, but we don’t bother with mail, because we write on birch bark.”
“I wouldn’t spoil my fountain pen writing on birch bark,” said the civilized youth.
“That shows how much you know about scouts!” Pee-wee said with withering scorn. “Fountain pens are no good; you’re supposed to write with charred wood. If you’re mad you can use beet juice for ink, because that’s red and it means anger; only scouts don’t get mad,” he added cautiously.