“Hey there, you, whoever you are, Mr. Refreshment Man? Be Prepared! We’re s-c-o-u-t-s, we are, and we’re h-u-n-g-r-e-e! We haven’t had anything since breakfast at four-thirty. We had to come around through this rocky tour or detour or whatever you call it. Somebody ate the bridge last night. Are there any scouts down in this South African backyard?”
If Pee-wee had not heard that familiar motto “Be Prepared,” he would have known the approaching caravan to be scouts by their talk and banter.
Be Prepared. Pee-wee glanced at the bare counter and the empty jars and the shiny dishpan which held nothing but Pepsy’s ball of worsted and the terrible ornamental thing that she was knitting. There they were, just as she had laid them the day before. Poor little Pepsy....
Then they descended upon him as only hungry scouts can descend. Pee-wee’s glowing promises which decorated the woods (and which he could not fulfill) had brought the party to a state of distraction. It was a big Crackerjack touring car overflowing with scouts and driven by a smiling scoutmaster. It seemed as if they ought to have been pressed in and down with a shovel, like ice cream in a quart box.
“For the love of—” one of them began.
“Look what’s here, it’s a scout.”
“That?” shouted another. “Let’s have the magnifying glass, will you?”
Pee-wee straightened himself up to his full height. The big Crackerjack touring car stopped.
“Some detour,” the scoutmaster said with an air of infinite relief.
“Do they have scouts down here?” a member of the party asked.