Then Warde said, “Scout Harris is to blame for this horrible murder. Did you ever hear of mental suggestion?” Gee, that fellow’s smart.
“Is that what you killed him with?” I said.
He said, “If you’re hunting for a thing, everything looks like that thing. Harris had bandits on his brain, so one look at this thing was enough for you fellows.”
“If you’re looking for—for—a piece of pie,” Pee-wee piped up, “will everything be pie?”
“Posilutely,” I said. “Just the same as when you’re in Hamburg everything looks like ham. It’s the same only different. Just the same as all the buildings in Paris are made of plaster of paris. Just the same as the raving Ravens are afraid of wooden dummies. What’s the answer?”
“Answer to what?” he shouted.
“Anything,” I said. “It depends on what the question is. Warde Hollister is a better scout than any of us. Deny it if you dare, quoth I. He has performed the most heroic act since Artie Van Arlen, patrol leader of the Ravens, killed a couple of hours waiting for a train for Temple Camp. They don’t care what they kill, those scouts.”
We put the baseball target back where he belonged and I guess he’s dead yet for all I know. He faced a good many bee-lines, that’s one sure thing. Anyway, we should bother about him because we had our own bee-line hike to finish, only the worst was yet to come.