“I’m only staying here, I belong in Bridgeboro, New Jersey,” Pee-wee said.
“Don’t talk about bridges,” another scout said.
“Talk about something pleasant. A scout is supposed to save life, scout law number six; let’s have a couple of thousand hot dogs, will you? We’re dying. And forty-eleven dozen doughnuts with the holes removed.”
“Do you—I—eh—do you—need any tire tape?” Pee-wee stammered, playing for time.
“Tire tape! What do you take us for? A lot of blow-outs? Let’s have some eats and we’ll take care of the blow-out.”
“Come on, hurry up, a scout is supposed to be prepared,” piped up a natty scout wearing the bronze cross.
“Where’s all the food?” the scoutmaster asked, glancing at the empty counter. “We were led to suppose—”
“Don’t you know what a shortage is?” Pee-wee piped up in sheer desperation.
“We know what a shorty is,” one of the party shot back.
“You don’t expect us to eat a shortage, do you?” another said. “Come ahead, hurry up, a scout isn’t supposed to be cruel. You can always depend on scout signs that you find in the woods. A scout that puts scout signs—”