“Sure,” Pee-wee said; “that’s one of our rules. If anybody’s in trouble we’ve got to help them out—no matter how much trouble it is. You see a scout can always help you out, because he’s resourceful.”
One of those men said, “Oh, that’s it, is it?”
“Sure,” the kid shouted; “all you have to do is come to us. Even Uncle Sam came to us when he wanted to sell Liberty Bonds; we helped him out.”
The man said, “I bet he was tickled to death.”
I said to Pee-wee, “Shut up; don’t be shouting so much about good turns. Actions speak louder than words.”
“Words speak loud enough,” the kid yelled.
“Good night, you said it,” I told him.
“Even now we’re doing a good turn,” the kid shouted; “we’ve got three more autos over on the other road and we’re taking some Uncle Tom’s Cabin actors to the Veteran’s Reunion. We should worry if the railroad trains don’t run.”
Jimmies, I don’t know how much more he might have told them, he’s a human billboard for the Boy Scouts of America, that kid is; but all of a sudden, zip goes the fillum, that black tarry stuff came shooting out from all the holes in the sprinkler and Brent came crawling out from underneath it with his trousers and his shirt all black and sticky and his hair all mucked up with the stuff and with a big streaky smudge all over his face.
“Good night!” I shouted. “What happened?”