“No, indeed; you’re welcome,” said a bronzed rookie.
Pee-wee was not to be repressed by any formal greeting, however hospitable. He stood upon the Honor Scout’s cabin, waving the naval flag in one hand and his scout hat in the other, like some frantic, idiotic form of semaphoring.
“Hurrah for Uncle Sam!” he shrieked, hilariously. “Hurrah for Preparedness! Hurrah for Platts——”
He stopped short, gaping like an idiot. The flag fell from his hand unheeded.
“Look—look!,” he gasped.
“What is it, the Germans?” asked a rookie, looking around.
“Look—look!” he gasped.
They looked, and there, sitting astride a piece of artillery not far from shore, his legs dangling and a merry smile upon his face, was the freckled scout!
No sign of scratch or bruise was there about him, and if he had been shot out of the mouth of the cannon he was straddling he could hardly have caused greater consternation. Plattsburg, preparedness, Uncle Sam, must be content with back seats, as this freckled youngster descended nimbly from the cannon and came smiling toward his brother scouts.
“Aren’t—you—dead?” ejaculated Pee-wee.