“The men–Mr. Ferrett–they know better than we do, Kid. Blythe is the one whose picture–”
“You say yes or no,” Pee-wee demanded in a voice of thunder. “They lifted him off where you were caught and so now you’re alive and you can speak. Is he a murderer or isn’t he?”
Roy was going to pieces. The little scout whom he had always found it so easy to jolly, towered over him. The tiny Raven was become a giant. “I–no he–no he isn’t–he isn’t, Kid,” Roy stammered.
Without another word Pee-wee hooked his duffel bag to the end of his scout staff, after the fashion of a Swiss peasant, and carrying the staff over his shoulder, marched on ahead like a conquering hero, as if he preferred not to be seen hiking with such people....
CHAPTER XXVIII
HOME SWEET HOME
The sturdy little scout did not long walk alone. Roy, visibly affected, limped ahead, rapped him on the shoulder without saying a word, and hobbled along at his side. And presently Warde Hollister, quiet, thoughtful, and always somewhat a puzzle to the other scouts, joined them. “I’m with you, Kiddo,” he said. Pee-wee did not appear to care who was with him and who was not. His own stout little scout heart was with him, and that was enough.
And so these three who had taken the hike to Woodcliff, and discovered the tell-tale notice, and mailed the formidable envelope to somebody or other, they knew not whom, trudged along together now, and the resolute, loyal, unreasoning spirit of Pee-wee Harris was like a contagion, giving the others hope where indeed there seemed no hope, and diffusing something like cheer.
And noticing them, Westy said to Vic Norris of the Elks, “He’s a funny fellow, Warde; it always seems as if he thinks more than he speaks.”
“He never speaks till he’s sure,” Vic said.