"It's got around my leg," he shouted.
"That's what you get for trying to show off," Westy told him. "Talk about your soup-stirring scene! It can't be mentioned alongside of this."
By now, Pee-wee had managed to scramble to his feet, and he stood there staring around as if he didn't know what had struck him. One of the placards was all torn and muddy and hanging by one rope and the other piece of rope was wound around his leg. Honest, I never knew that one little dog could make such a wreck.
"You look as if you'd been torpedoed," Wig said; "stand still till we brush you off. Turn around and smile and look pretty."
By that time all the girls had gotten out of the auto and were crowding around Pee-wee, brushing him off and asking him if he was hurt.
"Oh, it's just too bad," one of them said; "his nice khaki jacket is torn. I'm going to fix it. We've got needles and thread and everything right in the machine, because we're on our way to camp."
"I don't need to have it fixed," Pee-wee said; "I can fix it myself. Scouts can do everything like that."
"Yes, but they can't sew," the girl said.
"Sure, they can do everything," Pee-wee told her. "Maybe you think," he said, all the while pounding the dust out of his clothes, "maybe you think that just because I fell down—gee, that could happen to the smartest man—even—even—Edison——"
"Sure," I said, "lots of times Edison fell down."