"Yes, you'll go scout pacing away--"
"Will you let me speak?" Pee-wee fairly screeched.
"No, I won't. You're a robber and now you're caught and it serves you right because you didn't find out about the scouts and join them and have fun that way and then you wouldn't have to go to jail for stealing."
W. Harris, mascot of the Raven Patrol, First Bridgeboro Troop, looked down with withering scorn upon this shabby advocate of scouting. And Peter Piper returned the look fearfully, yet bravely. After the tremendous thing he had done he was not going to be fooled by this hoodlum crook who seemed to have haphazard knowledge of those wonderful, far-off beings in natty khaki and shining things hanging from their belts. He would not even discuss those misty, unknown comrades with this lawbreaker. Anybody might learn a little about the scouts, even a thief.
"You don't know anything about them," he said, holding up his head as if proudly claiming brotherhood with those distant heroes in their rich, wonderful attire; "I won't talk about them. Because I know about them even--even if they don't know me. They sent me a message; they didn't know, but they did it just the same. So I belong too. You can make believe you have a uniform--you can. You can be miles and miles and miles and miles--"
He paused and listened. Down the road, in the still night, sounded the gentle melody of clanking milk cans mingled with the pensive strains of loose and squeaking wheels. It was the melodious orchestra which always heralded the approach of Ham Sanders who was so strong that he could handle a bull.
"Do you think I'm scared?" said Pee-wee.
Evidently he was not.