He started across the way with his arms over our shoulders, and, gee whiz, we had to go.
“Where are we going?” Westy wanted to know.
“We’re going to get those sodas,” Charlie said. “How about it?”
“Nobody can stand up and say he ever saw me refuse a soda,” I said.
CHAPTER XXIX—THE STANDING ARMY SITTING DOWN
So that’s the story of how the inventor came into our young lives, matches, Submarine Sam and all. He gave up smoking the day after he started it; I guess it interfered with his inventions. Anyway, it was only an experiment, that’s what my father says, and he says all great inventors have to make experiments. His right name that we got from the Home was Alexis Alexander Sparks. It was so long that we decided to cut it up and use it in pieces. My mother called him Alexis, my sister called him Al, Harry Domicile called him Madam X, and most of the troop called him Sparksey. Mr. Ellsworth called him A.A.S.—always after submarines. My mother is a matron of that Home and she fixed it so we could send him back when we wanted to. But we never wanted to. The only person in Bridgeboro who calls him by his full name is Minerva Skybrow, because it reminds her of the history of Greece. Gee whiz, I don’t want to be reminded about that. History and practical bookkeeping—good night. I like unpractical bookkeeping better. Anyway, Alexander the Great conquered Bridgeboro, and as long as we’re talking about wars and things, I’ll tell you about the Siege of Cat-tail Marsh. That’s what comes next, and you don’t get it in school. Don’t you care.
Now before I tell you about the horrible things that happened in our innocent young lives I’ll get rid of the two other patrols in our troop so we won’t have to be bothered with them. One patrol is enough, that’s what I say. Especially the Silver Fox Patrol—that’s mine. But one scout from the raving Ravens we got wished on us and that was Pee-wee Harris. I guess you know him. If you don’t you’re lucky.
But first I have to get you across Willow Place over to the Sneezenbunker land. The next Saturday Mr. Jenson’s locomotive gave our car another shove right across where the repair shop had stood, and it went across Willow Place fine and dandy, because we had dug the old tracks out and sort of cleared the way. Mr. Jenson said he wouldn’t push the car any further because he thought the trestle over the marsh wasn’t safe. He said he wasn’t going to take any chances. We said, “All right, every little bit counts.” So there was our home sweet home on the Sneezenbunker land, and the Sneezenbunkers didn’t care, because there weren’t any of them any more anyway. They were all dead. The Trust Company owns that land, and I said I guessed they’d trust us there because that was their business. They told my father it would be all right. But, gee whiz, we wanted to get down by the river. I said, “Foiled again, but what care we? We’ll stay here till something happens.”
The next thing that happened the Ravens and the Elks (they’ve got forty-two merit badges, the Elks), they started up to Temple Camp; that’s where we always go in the summer. My patrol decided to stay home until August, anyway, and camp in the old car and try to get it moved down to the river. Pee-wee is in the Ravens, but he’s got about as much patrol spirit as a stray cat. He belongs everywhere, especially where there are eats. No one patrol can hold that kid. He said he was going to stay with us.
