“Don’t let’s give up,” Pee-wee shouted, just as he finished his last mouthful of pie.
Minerva Skybrow said, “Isn’t it nice how much you know about history?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s just too cute. But my favorite studies are the multiplication table and the dining table. You’re so smart, maybe you can suggest something. You don’t expect to go on eating for three hours, do you? Even—even—General—even Foch couldn’t do that. And he’s greater than I am, I guess.”
She just said, “Oh, is he, really?”
“And so is Washington,” I said. Because I was good and mad.
“You mean he was,” she said. “He’s dead, you know.”
“If you can get us out of this scrape,” I said, “let’s see you do it.”
She just said, “Well, of course, if you admit that your appetites have failed you, and if you really want the Girl Scouts to tell you what is in your own handbooks, I’ll remind you of the value of mushrooms.”
“Oh, is that so?” I said. “I know all about mushrooms and I can tell a mushroom from a toadstool or a footstool or a piano-stool or any other kind of a stool. But that’s not going to keep this blamed wagon here, is it?”
She said, “Oh, isn’t it?”