The man continued to glare at him and Pee-wee thought he had never in his life seen such a villainous face.
"I'll—I'll go away," he said, "I was only going to sleep here."
The convict, still guarding the door, leered brutally at him, his head hanging low, his lips apart, more like a beast than a man.
"No, yer won't go 'way, nuther," he finally said; "yer ain't goin' ter double-cross me, pal. Wot d'yer say yer wuz?"
"A scout," said Pee-wee. "I don't need to stay here, you were here first. I can camp outdoors."
"No, yer don't," said the man. "You stay whar yer are. Yer ain't goin' ter double-cross me."
"I don't know what you mean by that," said Pee-wee.
The convict did not offer him any explanation, only stood guarding the door with a threatening aspect, which very much disconcerted Pee-wee. He was a scout and he was brave, and not panicky in peril or emergency, but the striped clothing and cropped head and stupid leer of the man before him made him seem something less than human. His terror was more that of an animal than of a man and his apparent inability to express himself save by the repetition of that one sentence frightened the boy. Apparently the creature was all instinct and no brains.
"Yer gotta stay here," he repeated. "Yer ain't goin' ter double-cross me, pal."
Then it began to dawn on Pee-wee what he meant.