THE ENDLESS CHAIN

They found a good camping spot about a hundred yards in from the road, a little knoll on which they pitched a tent, although the foliage was so thick overhead that they hardly needed it. Outside the shelter they kindled a fire and fried some bacon, and sat by the companionable blaze eating their supper.

To avoid the grease from the bacon they put the slices between crackers, making sandwiches of them, and they were not half bad. This novel dainty, however, suggested to Pee-wee’s inventive mind another which proved (to Townsend at least) not so delectable. It consisted of a banana with slices of bacon plastered against it.

“I know what we’ll call it,” said Pee-wee, munching one with unconcealed relish, “a banakon, because that kind of suggests bananas and bacon both. Or maybe a bacanna—that’s a better name, bacanna; hey? I invented lots of things to eat. The man that invented Eskimo pies took the idea from me, because I put shrimps between chocolate bars, and I invented radish shortcake, too. Do you know how to make that?”

“Break it to me gently,” said Townsend.

“You take a piece of sponge cake,” said Pee-wee, “and you lay some radishes nice and even on the top of it, then you take another—Oh, I know what let’s do, let’s make ice cream cones out of birch bark, we can roll it up just like cones, I know how to do it, and—”

“How about the ice cream?” laughed Townsend.

“We’ll use pot cheese,” Pee-wee said; “it looks just like ice cream. Pot cheese cones, isn’t that a good idea? We’ll call them scout cones,” he vociferated. “I’ve got a jar full of pot cheese and it won’t keep.”

He was right, it didn’t keep. In fifteen minutes it was all gone. They made out a pretty good supper (except for the banana experiment) with omelet and boiled rice and crackers.

“Most of the things our cook gives me don’t keep,” said Pee-wee.

“Yes, I noticed that,” said Townsend.

“Let’s open some salmon, hey?” Pee-wee suggested; “so as to finish the rice, hey?”

“All right,” Townsend assented.

But things didn’t come out even; the salmon used up the rice and there was some salmon left over.

“I tell you what let’s do,” said Pee-wee. “Let’s open a box of sugar wafers so as to use up the salmon, hey?”

“All right,” assented Townsend.

But still things didn’t come out right. The sugar wafers put an end to the salmon but there were still quite a few sugar wafers, and it was necessary to open a jar of peanut butter to put the sugar wafers out of business, which left them with a jar half full of peanut butter. A detachment of Holland rusks was therefore called up to eliminate the peanut butter. The Holland rusks tasted pretty good with peanut butter on them, but without peanut butter they were dry.

“I don’t like them without anything on them, do you?” Pee-wee asked, feeling his way to the next step.

“No, I don’t,” said Townsend; “they have about as much flavor as a whisk-broom, but did you ever hear the story about the man with one leg shorter than the other one? They sawed his right leg off to make it even with his left one and they sawed it too short. So then they had to saw his left one off to make it even with his right one. And they sawed off a little too much so—”

“That’s a dandy argument,” shouted Pee-wee; “I tell you what let’s do. We’ll throw the rusks away so the birds can get them and then start even with two things.”

“If we throw the rusks away we will be even,” said Townsend. “Otherwise we’ll be like the man who ended by not having any legs.”

“That didn’t stop him from eating though,” said Pee-wee.

“Well, I’m going to stop you from eating,” Townsend observed. “What do you suppose would happen to you if they sawed off your appetite?”

“It would grow again,” said Pee-wee.

“Well,” laughed Townsend, “I’m going to saw off some sleep.”

“That’s another thing I like to do,” said Pee-wee.

“Sleep?”

“Yop.”

“How do you know you like to? How do you like to do a thing when you don’t know you’re doing it? You can’t enjoy being asleep because you’re asleep when you’re asleep. In order to enjoy being asleep you have to be awake, and then you’re not asleep.” He tousled Pee-wee’s curly hair by way of capping the argument. “So there you are, it can’t be did.”

“Do you call that logic?” Pee-wee roared. “Don’t you suppose I enjoy doing lots of things when I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Townsend laughed.

“Su—u—ure I do,” Pee-wee said, conclusively. “You can’t prove anything by my not knowing what I’m doing because, gee whiz, then you’d have to say I never have any fun, and nobody can say that. I didn’t know what I was doing when I started the relay race, did I? Let’s hear you answer that.”

“I can’t answer that,” said Townsend; “the relay race is your business. But I’m mighty sorry you’re not going to be in the patrol cabin with us, Kid; you see, the fellows in our patrol are new at Temple Camp.”

“Don’t you care,” said Pee-wee. “I’ll see you a lot. Gee whiz, when I’m at Temple Camp I’m all over. That’s why they call me a scout at large, only that doesn’t mean that I’m large.”

“No, I understand,” said Townsend; “but you’re a pretty big scout at that.”

The intention of turning in for the night seemed to have passed for the time being and Townsend idly threw some more sticks on the fire and sat gazing into it, his hands clasped about his knees. He looked ruminatively across the mounting blaze at the small scout who sat opposite him, and as he looked, he smiled amusedly, yet kindly.

“I—I bet you like your flivver better than any other friend you’ve got,” said Pee-wee.

“I bet I don’t,” said Townsend, with a kind of enigmatic smile. “So you lose.”

“Anyway, I bet you like it ’cause it’s kind of old and sort of ramshackle, I bet you do.”

“Maybe,” said Townsend.

“Gee whiz, anyway I like you better than any friend I’ve got except Roy Blakeley, and he’s kind of more like an enemy only we’re good friends.”

Townsend laughed outright. “We’re going to have a great patrol, Kiddo,” was all he said.

“Sure, we are, and I’m glad you’re the leader of it. I bet if you met a big feller your own size you’d like him better than me, wouldn’t you? Because I knew lots of fellers that were friends with me till they got to know fellers their own size.”

“Yes?”

“Sure, I did. But anyway I have lots of fun. Gee whiz, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“No? Well, how about the little Ford? You say you think I like that.”

“Better than a—a—an eight-cylinder Packard?”

“You said it.”

“Does that mean maybe you might like me better than a big feller?”

“Didn’t I just tell you you’re one of the biggest fellows I ever met?”

“I can’t be big if I’m small; do you call that logic?”

Townsend didn’t answer, but just sat there with his hands clasped about his drawn-up knees, smiling, oh such an amused and friendly smile across the fire.

“Hear that cricket?” said Pee-wee.

“Huh-huh,” said Townsend.

“Gee, you’re funny; I don’t understand you at all,” said Pee-wee. “I never know what you really mean.”

“No?”

Then, perhaps by way of conveying what he meant, Townsend arose, stretched himself, and as he lowered one of his upraised arms, gave Pee-wee’s hair a good tousling and pushed him right over backwards.

“Time to turn in, Kid,” said he.