“Sure, pick out the one you want and I’ll drown the rest,” said Roy; “except Pee-wee, we’re going to keep him till he gets his eyes open.”
Pee-wee Harris, Silver Fox and troop mascot, splashed the oar from his seat in an adjoining boat, giving Roy a gratuitous bath.
“Did you have any adventures?” Raymond managed to ask.
“Oceans of them—I mean rivers. We got three points out of our course and went twenty miles up a tributary.”
“That’s some word,” someone called.
“That’s a peach of a word, comes from the Greek word Bute, meaning beautiful, and the Irish word Terry. It was all on account of Pee-wee’s ignorance of geography. He thought the Hudson rose in Roseville, Pennsylvania.”
“What!” shouted Pee-wee.
“I’ll leave it to our beloved scoutmaster.”
“Our beloved scoutmaster,” who was rowing one of the skiffs, only smiled.
“I know more about geography than you do,” shouted the irrepressible Pee-wee; “he thought Newburgh was below Peekskill,” he added, contemptuously.