We stuck our torches into the earth and sat down on one of those big rocks and had a good laugh.
“You thought it was me,” our young hero shouted; “you thought it was me——”
“You mean I, not me,” Harry told him; “we realize now our mistake—that we should ever have mistaken one with a tongue like yours for a dummy. The plot certainly grows thicker; I never expected to find a rag soldier.”
“Anyway, we’ve had a good time,” Pee-wee said.
“Rag-time, I should say,” Harry said; “but what is the meaning of this dark and dismal mystery? Why this rag-time dough-boy?”
“Search me,” I said, “it has me guessing.”
“That shows how much you all know,” Pee-wee yelled; “that shows how much what-d’ye-call-it you have—deduction. This is where those movie men were making their play and that rag dummy got hurled off the cliff in a jealous rage, just the same the school teacher in The Cowboy’s Revenge!”
“A jealous rage, hey?” Harry said.
“Sure,” the kid said; “wasn’t one of those movie men in Utica dressed like a soldier? That was the one that was supposed to be thrown off the cliff; that one is this one—see?”
Harry just sat there, whistling. Then he said, “I guess you’re right, kid. They chucked him out too far. It was easy, because he didn’t weigh anything. This is the climax of a terrible tragedy.”