END OF THE RELAY RACE

As the sun slowly sank behind the hills Pee-wee finished his tomato and even as the deeper twilight erased the crimson glow from the wooded hilltops, he wiped the vivid red from his round face and smacked his lips and sent his tongue on a sort of clean-up tour about the exterior of his mouth.

Then he crept out under a neighboring pine tree, and gathering a few stray twigs, proceeded to amplify the little pyramid of kindling which he had built under a tempting looking black pot which stood on two miniature walls of brick.

He lifted the tin cover from this pot and gazed fondly, proudly, within at his handiwork, a hunters’ stew, ready for boiling. With a rough wooden spoon he stirred it revealing tempting bits of carrot, pearly shavings of onion, and substantial pieces of meat. There was stew enough there for two, on a two helping basis, and it would keep till the morrow in case his elaborate calculations of the movements of the relay racers proved inaccurate. He replaced the cover on the pot, gave a look of defiance down at camp, and resumed his seat upon the doorstep.

There is something very captivating in making calculations and then waiting for their nice fulfillment. In starting his famous relay race from Westwood, New Jersey, Pee-wee had included Spring Valley, Haverstraw, Fort Montgomery, Newburgh, Plattekill, New Paltz, Kingston, Saugerties, and Catskill, as the relay points. All of these places were large enough to have scouts and he had Alton Beech’s assurance that there would be no difficulty in passing the letter to some willing messenger in each of the towns named. Each messenger would be able to do his allotted errand and return to his home without a long absence.

Allowing for lunches, sodas, ice creams, parental objections with attendant pleas, etc., Pee-wee had determined that some time between seven o’clock and midnight on that very night the final messenger should arrive. He was waiting for him with a welcome—the best kind of a welcome, a hunters’ stew.

And having thus regaled him he intended to instruct him in the stern requirements of pioneer life. He intended to inform him of his romantic vow to shun the tame conveniences and facilities of camp and to depend on their own resources. He would show him how these things were done. He would surprise him with that interesting item of scoutcraft that they could live without current and continuous aid from the civilized world. During the last day or two Temple Camp had degenerated into something hardly better than a crowded city, and Pee-wee scorned it.

The most authentic account of this singular climax to Pee-wee’s adventures that summer is that he was dozing on the doorstep of the cabin at about eleven P. M. having heroically refrained from eating up to that hour. At least that was the testimony of Alton Beech his Westwood acquaintance.

Upon being awakened by the sound of merry voices our hero, rubbing his eyes, was aware of two distinct groups of scouts standing in the moonlight. It is said that the moon was laughing, but perhaps that is an exaggeration. In the foreground stood Alton Beech, and there is no doubt at all that he was laughing. To Pee-wee’s drowsy eyes this joyous apparition seemed to be surrounded by a throng of strange scouts, containing not one familiar face. In the background the whole of Temple Camp seemed to be crowding in mirthful expectation.

“Wh—what—are—who—you—what are you doing here?” Pee-wee stammered, addressing the first messenger of the now momentous enterprise. “W—a—a—you doing here—Beech—are you Beech?”

“Here we are,” said Alton Beech cheerily, as Pee-wee, approaching a state of full wakefulness sat and stared. “You see the trouble was that your letter—well it was too good. The relay race instead of going in relays, it just piled up, no one would turn back, so here we all are—except two. Fort Montgomery and Haverstraw are missing. It was the cabin and the two helpings of dessert that did it. Don’t blame us, you wrote the letter. I flunked in Spring Valley and ’phoned home that I was going the limit. Spring Valley went as far as Newburgh with me and refused to go home. New Paltz said he was going straight through. Don’t blame me, it was your letter. You started a pile-up race, not a relay race, Scout Harris. So here we are and gee-williger but we’re hungry. Have you got supper ready?”

“Oh absolutely, positively,” said Roy Blakeley stepping forward, “just let’s see that letter a minute will you?”

Roy took the famous document from Alton Beech and in the light of his flashlight read aloud the words which had brought this catastrophe down upon our hero’s head:

To Walter Harris if they don’t know who you mean ask for Pee-wee Temple Camp Leeds Ulster County N. Y. This letter is brought by relays and each scout that gets it takes it to another scout only he has to be sure to go north toward Temple Camp everybody up that way knows where that is and knows me two. Whoever brings it to me and delivers it into my hand stays at Temple Camp for the rest of the summer and his meals free absolootly positivly and they always give to helpings sometimes and bunks in Mamoriel Cabin with me posativiy sure.

P.S.—This is true. and I mean it.

“That’s absolutely good,” Roy said. “It says whoever brings it. It doesn’t say one must bring it, it doesn’t say how many. You’re all welcome to Memorial Cabin. Greetings and salutations. A scout never turns back. Have you got supper ready, kid?”

“You’re crazy!” Pee-wee shouted. “Do you think I can cook for eight scouts? Do you—”

“Resources, resources,” said Warde Hollister.

“A scout can do anything,” said Westy Martin.

“He never breaks his vow,” said Doc Carson.

“He doesn’t depend on civilization,” said Dorry Benton.

“Oh positively not,” said Roy; “he depends on his own initials. Just make yourselves at home and he’ll have supper ready in a couple of jiffies. You fellows came to the right place, you can all have forty-eleven helpings of resources. He knows that a scout never turns back. Some night after supper drop down to camp and see us.”

“Come down and watch us eat,” said another Temple Camper.

“I’m afraid they can’t do that,” laughed another; “they’re supposed to be leading the primitive life up here.”

“Do you think we’re going to starve?” Pee-wee thundered. “Do you think because a scout that plans a thing and then says what he’d do if that thing happens like he planned only it doesn’t—do you suppose they have to starve on account of a lot of lunatics like you, especially Roy Blakeley? That shows how much you know about logic! Do you say that eight is the same as two?”

It shall never be written that Temple Camp was lacking in hospitality, and there was no intention of allowing Pee-wee to attempt the entertainment of this human avalanche. Nor, indeed, had the avalanche any intention of imposing on our hero, for each member of the invading host had come supplied with funds. For a pick-up troop they were a pretty fine lot of fellows. It was Tom Slade, the young assistant, who stepped into the breach in this most critical and apparently portentous moment in the life of P. Harris.

“Look here, kid,” he said. “You’ve got to take this whole crowd or none at all. This is the net results of your relay race. Take it or leave it. You forgot that a scout never turns back; in scouting relay races are a myth. They just ain’t. A scout that starts always wants to see the finish. All that stuff in the scout handbook is nonsense. No scout ever handed a letter about eats and things to another scout and then went home—never. You’re all off on scouting, kid.

“Now look here, kid, this is Alton Beech’s crowd and you’re not going to break up the party. We’ve got a vacant cabin for these fellows and they’re going to bunk in it and eat down in camp. See? So you just start your little fire and forget about this bunch and your unknown chum will come along pretty soon, I’ll take care of that.”

“What do you mean?” Pee-wee demanded.

“You’ll see,” said Tom. “Start your fire and get ready. I’ve got the right idea on this unknown pal business better than you have. You’re way off the track, kid. You start your little fire and leave the rest to me. Come on, Beech, come on the rest of you fellows, you must be hungry.”

It was not long after this that our lonely hero, somewhat squelched by recent happenings, heard an outlandish but strangely familiar noise and soon was aware of two lights poking their way up through the woods. Ah, that beloved, familiar, medley! That fond chorus of squeaks and rattles and unmuffled chugging. Those beams of light bisecting each other from Lizzie’s cross-eyed headlights. Up the hill she came, in and out among the trees, and over obstacles of fallen trunks, puffing, clanking, rattling, buzzing, pausing, swerving, but triumphing over every challenging obstruction. Lizzie!

“That you, kid?” called Townsend cheerily.

“Look out for the woodpile,” Pee-wee said, his heart dancing with surprise and joy.

“Let the woodpile worry,” said Townsend. “Got supper ready?”

“It’s—it’s just beginning to steam,” said Pee-wee; “look out you don’t run over it. It’s going to be dandy, Townsend, it’s all nice and thick, with lots of carrots; I made it, Townsend.”

“Whooaa, Liz,” said Townsend as the beloved companion of their long journey came to a full stop and appeared to shake itself like a dog emerging from the water. “Say ‘I’m hungry,’ Liz.” The Ford emitted three uncanny syllables which sounded not unlike those plaintive words. “That Slade fellow seems to be the big boss around here, doesn’t he?” said Townsend stepping down. “Well, here I am, or here we are, I should say. It seems you can’t lose me, kid. First I was going to walk up and then I said, no, Liz belongs in this outfit. Can you accommodate the two of us, kid? Slade bet me I couldn’t make it. Why it’s like the Lincoln Highway, kid. Did you hear Liz laughing?”

For almost the first time in the history of his loquacious career Pee-wee Harris could not speak. Liz was looking at him with one bent up cross eye and in its light Townsend Ripley, his unknown guest indeed, saw that the eyes of his travelling companion were glistening.

“Can’t lose us, kid,” said Townsend.

But Pee-wee said nothing, and in the glare of that funny headlight all askew Townsend could see that the eyes of his young friend glistened more and more.

That is the funny part of it, that Pee-wee Harris did not speak.