“How many fish-balls?” Pee-wee shouted.
“Can we eat them with our left hands?” Brent wanted to know.
“They’re all crazy,” Pee-wee said, all excited.
“Not the fish-balls we make,” the girl said.
“He means us,” Brent said. “We are on a left-handed hike, and we can’t turn to the right. If the fish-balls are cooked right we can’t eat them.”
“Don’t you pay any attention to them,” Pee-wee said, “because over in camp everybody says they’re crazy, and they even admit it themselves.”
“Suppose some of the fish-balls are left,” one of the girls laughed.
“None of them will be,” I told her. “A scout’s word is to be trusted. Dinner is over at Temple Camp by now so we might accept an invitation if we were properly approached—in a left-handed manner.”
“It’ll be accepted anyway by me,” Pee-wee said; “and I’d like to know what to call you by.”
“My name is Marjorie Eaton,” one of the girls said.