“I don’t like fresh kids,” said Mr. Deadwood Gamely, advancing with an air of veiled menace. “Sometimes they get so fresh they have to be salted a little. Don’t you think you’d better take that back?”
Pepsy waited, fearful, breathless.
“Sure I will,” said Pee-wee; “the next scarecrow I meet I’ll apologize to him.”
Deadwood Gamely paused. His usual procedure in an affair of this kind would have been to advance quickly, ruffle his victim’s hair in a goading kind of swaggerish good humor and send him sprawling. He would not really have hurt a youngster like Pee-wee but he would have made him look and feel ridiculous.
But a glance at Pee-wee’s gummy stencil brush reminded Mr. Gamely that discretion was the better part of valor. A dexterous dab or two of that would have put an end to all his glory. Pee-wee left no doubt about this.
“This summer-house is on private land,” he said, “and I’m the boss of it. If you try to get fresh with me I’ll paint you blacker—blacker than a—than a tomato could—I will. You come ten steps nearer, I dare you to.”
Gamely paused irresolute, at which Pepsy, under protection of her partner’s terrible threat, set up a provoking laugh. Wiggle, appearing to sense the situation, began to bark uproariously. There was nothing for the baffled village sport to do but retreat as gracefully as he could.
“Can’t you take a joke?” he said weakly. “Do you think I’d hurt you?”
“I know you wouldn’t,” said Pee-wee; “you wouldn’t get the chance. You think you’re smart, don’t you, talking about the wagon coming to get her and getting her all scared.”
