“What are you talking about?” Pee-wee retorted contemptuously.
“I’d get rid of all the stars, stationary stars, movie stars and all,” Roy said.
“Scouts are supposed to like the stars,” Pee-wee informed Blythe.
“Sure, if he had his own way he’d eat hunter’s stew out of the Big Dipper,” said Roy. “A lot he knows about the stars; he doesn’t even know that Mercury is named after a thermometer.”
“This bunch is crazy,” Pee-wee informed Blythe.
“That’s because we sleep under crazy quilts,” Roy said.
Blythe just sat there laughing, the silent, diffident pleasure in his countenance shown by the crackling, cheery blaze.
“What would you do if you didn’t have the North Star, I’d like to know?” Pee-wee demanded. “We’d be all roaming around lost in the woods, dead maybe.”
“I should worry about roaming around dead,” said Roy. “Do you think I’ve got the North Star?”
With a look of pitying contempt, Pee-wee turned from Roy to the more congenial bowl, now sizzling and bubbling on the fire. “It’s ready,” he said.