“You mean you’re doing it just for the taste of it,” I told him.
“I’m prvntngscoutfrombrules,” he said.
“Your carburetor’s flooded,” I told him.
“I’m preventing a scout from breaking the rules,” he said.
“That’s better,” Westy told him.
I knew Hervey wouldn’t slide off the shutter while it was up, and I knew that Chocolate Drop wouldn’t let it down as long as we were eating, and I knew Pee-wee wouldn’t stop eating as long as there was anything left to eat. I knew Pee-wee would win if his ammunition held out.
After a while he began eating apple sauce, and then I knew there was no hope for Hervey. Because Pee-wee eats apple sauce better than anything else; you’d think he was a presti—a presti—diget—I should worry, you know what I mean, the way he makes it disappear—I mean a man that does tricks, a magician, or whatever you call him.
We were all sitting around watching him eat apple sauce, Chocolate Drop and all. I mean Chocolate Drop was sitting around watching with the rest of us. He wasn’t eating Chocolate Drop, far be it from it absolutely nevertheless. We were all laughing, thinking about Hervey sitting out there on that window shutter waiting for a chance to break the rule by an unavoidable cat—you know what I mean—a catas—something like an accident. Hervey was waiting for the apple sauce to stop going down so he could go down.
All of a sudden who should come strolling into the room but Brent Gaylong. He’s kind of long and lanky, and he wears spectacles, and he’s awful funny on account of being so sober. He takes everything as it comes, the same as Pee-wee does when he’s eating. He just kind of strolled over to the table and lifted the hanging lamp off its rack and marched out with it.
He said, “You fellows don’t need this.”