WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY

To translate some little red flashes of light and read a secret in them was utterly beyond the comprehension of poor Pepsy. Here was a miracle indeed, compared with which the prophecies and spooky adventures of Licorice Stick were as nothing. And to win two hundred and fifty dollars by such a supernatural feat was staggering to her simple mind.

Licorice Stick’s encounters with “sperrits” had never brought him a cent. But deliberately to sacrifice this fabulous sum in the interest of a poor little invalid that he had never seen, made Pee-wee not only a prophet but a saint to poor Pepsy. If scouts did things like this they were certainly extraordinary creatures. To give two hundred and fifty dollars to a person who has boxed your ears and then to go merrily upon your way in quest of new triumphs, that Pepsy could not understand.

The whole business had transpired so quickly that Pepsy had only seen the two hundred and fifty dollars flying in the air, as it were, and now they were poor again, even before they had realized their riches. And there was Pee-wee sitting on the counter of their unprofitable little roadside rest, with his knees drawn up, sucking a lemon stick (which apparently no one else wanted) and discoursing on the subject of good turns generally. There seemed to be nothing in his life now but the lemon stick.

“You think girls can’t do good turns, don’t you?” Pepsy queried wistfully.

Pee-wee removed the lemon stick from his mouth, critically inspecting the sharp point which he had sucked it to. By a sort of vacuum process he could sharpen a stick of candy till it rivaled a stenographer’s pencil.

“Do you know what reciprical means?” he asked with an air of concealing some staggering bit of wisdom.

“It’s a kind of a church,” Pepsy ventured.

“That’s Episcopal,” Pee-wee said with withering superiority, placing the lemon stick carefully in his mouth again. This action was followed by a sudden depression of both cheeks, like rubber balls from which the air has escaped. He then removed the dagger-like lemon stick again to observe it.

“If you have an apple and I have an apple and you give me yours, that’s a good turn, isn’t it? And if I give you mine that’s another good turn, isn’t it? And we’re both just as well off as we were before. That’s recip—” He had to pause to lick some trickling lemon juice from his chubby chin, “rical.”

Pepsy seemed greatly impressed, and Pee-wee continued his edifying lecture. “I should worry about two hundred and fifty dollars because you saw how people always get paid back only sometimes it isn’t so soon like with the apples. Everything always comes out all right,” continued the little optimist between tremendous sucks, “and if you’re going to get a punch in the nose you get it, and you can see how Mr. Bungel got paid back auto—what d’you call it?”

“Automobile?” Pepsy ventured.

“Automatically,” Pee-wee blurted out, catching a fugitive drop of lemon juice as it was about to leave his chin. “Good turns are the same as bad turns, only different. Do you see? I bet you can’t say automatically while you’re sucking a lemon stick.”

“Is it a—a scout stunt?” Pepsy asked.

Pee-wee performed this astounding feat for her edification, catching the liquid by-product with true scout agility. Whether from scout gallantry or scout appetite, he did not put Pepsy to the test.

“I’m glad of it, anyway,” she said, “because now we can stay here and have our store and there isn’t anybody like that pros—like that Mr. Sawyer to be afraid of.”

“Do you think I’m afraid of prosecutors?” Pee-wee demanded to know. “I’m not afraid of them any more than I’m afraid of June-bugs; I bet you’re afraid of June-bugs.”

“I’m not,” she vociferated, tossing her red braids and looking very brave.

“Then why should you be afraid of prosecutors? I wouldn’t be afraid of anything that doesn’t sting.”

Pepsy said nothing, only thought. And Pee-wee said nothing, only sucked the lemon stick, observing it from time to time, as its point became more deadly.

“Maybe I’m not as brave as you are and can’t do things and I’m scared of Baxter City, but I bet you I can think up as good turns as you can, so there! And if you promise to stay here I’ll make it so lots of people will come and you can buy the tents and that will be a good turn, won’t it? You said if you make up your mind to do a thing you can do it.”

“I wouldn’t take back what I said,” said Pee-wee, finishing the lemon stick by a terrible sudden assault with his teeth.

“Well, then, so there, Mr. Smarty,” she said with an air of triumph, “I’m going to do a good turn, you see, because I made up my mind to it good and hard, and we’ll make lots and lots of money. So do you promise to stay here and keep on being partners? Do you cross your heart you will?”

If Pee-wee had been as observant of Pepsy as he was used to being of signs along a trail he might have noticed that her eyes were all ablaze and that her little, thin, freckly wrist trembled. But how should he know that his own carelessly uttered words had burned themselves into her very soul? “If you make up your mind to do a thing you can do it.”