STOCK ON HAND

It was Joey Burnside, the burliest and heartiest of the volunteer firemen, who carried Pepsy back through the woods to the farm while still the conflagration was at its height.

There was not timber enough left from the old bridge to kindle a scout camp-fire. A few charred remnants had gone floating down the stream and these fugitive remnants drifting into tiny coves and lodging in the river’s bends were shown by the riverside dwellers as memorials of the event which had stirred the countryside more than any other item of neighborhood history. Under the gaping space of disconnected road the stream flowed placidly, uninterrupted by all the recent hubbub above it. The straight highway looked strange without the bridge.

Pepsy had a fever all that night, but toward morning she fell asleep, and Aunt Jamsiah, who had watched her through the night, tiptoed into the little room under the eaves and out again to tell Pee-wee that he had better wait, that all Pepsy needed now was rest.

“Can’t I just look at her?” Pee-wee asked.

So he was allowed to stand in the doorway and see his partner as she lay there sleeping the good sleep of utter exhaustion.

“When she wakes up,” Aunt Jamsiah said pleasantly.

Pee-wee knew the circumstances of her being found at the burning bridge and brought home, but he asked no questions and Aunt Jamsiah said nothing of the events of that momentous night. It seemed to be generally understood that this matter was in Aunt Jamsiah’s hands for thorough consideration later.

Meanwhile Pee-wee went across the lawn and down the road to the scene of their hapless enterprise. The roadside rest could boast now of but two jars, one of peppermint sticks and one of gumdrops (both in rapid process of consumption) and a number of spools of tire tape. But the absence of doughnuts and sausages and lemonade, this was nothing. It was the absence of Pepsy that counted.

Pee-wee took his customary eye-opener, consisting of a gumdrop. He had to shake the jar to get a red one, that being the kind he preferred. Then he drew his legs up on the counter and proceeded to work upon the willow whistle he was making.

His handiwork soon reached that stage of manufacture where it was necessary to soak the willow bark in water, so as to cause it to swell. He thereupon distributed the remaining gumdrops impartially between his mouth and his trousers’ pocket and filled the empty jar with water, dropping his handiwork into it. Thus by gradual stages and without any sensational “closing out sales” the refreshment business was steadily going into a state of liquidation, even the lemon sticks being reduced to a liquid. There was no stock on hand now but two peppermint sticks and some tire tape.

Suddenly a most astonishing thing happened. The sound of an automobile horn was heard in the distance. A deep, melodious, dignified horn. Not since the passing of the six merry maidens had such welcome music sounded in Pee-wee’s enraptured ears.

The signs had all been made right, the ice cream had been made cold, the sausages hot, and the ground glass had been put where it belonged. No longer did “our taffy stick like glue.” Indeed, there was no taffy of any kind on hand, notwithstanding these blatant announcements.

Along came the automobile, an eight-cylinder Super Junkster. And, yes, it was followed by another, and still another! Pee-wee could see the imposing procession as far down as the bend.

“Some detour,” a good-natured voice said.

“Detour? Detour?” Pee-wee whispered in sudden and terrible excitement. Then, as the full purport of the staggering truth burst upon him he issued forth from the roadside rest and contemplated the approaching pageant with joy bubbling up like soda water in his heart.

“Never mind,” said another voice, “we can get some eats in this jungle, thank goodness. What I won’t do to a couple of hot frankfurters!”

A sudden chill cooled the fresh enthusiasm of Scout Harris.

“I’ll buy every blamed doughnut they’ve got in the place,” somebody shouted. “We won’t leave a thing for the rest of the cars that have to plow through this jungle. I suppose this is what motorists will be up against for six months. What do you know about that? This eats merchant ought to clear a couple of million. I’ll dicker with him for everything hot that he’s got, I’m starving.”

“Same here!” another shouted.

Frantically, like a soldier waving his country’s emblem in the last desperate moment of forlorn hope, Scout Harris clambered over the counter and grasped the jar containing two peppermint sticks.

“Peppermint sticks! Peppermint sticks!” he shouted at the advancing column. “Get your peppermint sticks! They quench thirst and—and—and satisfy your hunger! They’re filling! They warm you up! Peppermint is hot! Oh, get your peppermint sticks here!”