It was never clearly determined what was the nature of the part Emerson played in this matter. Pee-wee’s scout comrades believed that he used the “fine Italian hand” and effected a masterstroke of quiet diplomacy. His parents and his teacher, however, protested that he was simply preoccupied and absent-minded and that his grand coup was attributable to these poetical and intellectual qualities.

He sat upon the step of the closed-up store watching Pee-wee’s frantic and resourceful activities with a certain detachment. He did not join the little scout nor render him any assistance either of a practical or advisory character. He seemed altogether too well bred to sit upon a door-step. Nor did he seem particularly edified by Pee-wee’s running comment as he made ready to give a demonstration of his scout resourcefulness.

“Gee whiz, you needn’t be afraid I won’t go,” Pee-wee reassured the complacent watcher. “Because scouts they always keep their words; no matter what they say they’ll do, they’ve got to do it. That’s where you make a mistake not being a scout. Because if you were a scout, you’d know just how to get those tickets.”

He had unwound a sufficient length of twine from a ball he had carried in his pocket since his encounter with his aerial, and now he made a mysterious, hurried tour of all the neighboring trees, feeling them and inspecting them critically.

“I bet you wonder what I’m doing,” he said. Emerson did wonder, but he said nothing.

Visions of the “Great Exhibeeeshun” acted like a stimulant on Pee-wee, impelling him to frantic haste in all his movements.

“You’ll get all over-heated,” Emerson observed.

“What do I care!” said Pee-wee.

Having found a tree to his liking, he brought forth his formidable scout jack-knife and scraped some gum from a crevice in the bark and proceeded to smear this upon a small stone which he had fastened to the end of the twine.

“Now do you see what I’m going to do?” he asked proudly. “Maybe you didn’t know that that’s scout glue and it’s better than the kind they have in school.”

It seemed to suit his purpose very well, for he lowered the stone down into the shaft directly above the precious little envelope. But he had aimed amiss and it settled on a faded scrap of brown paper which he hoisted up. On one side of it was written, “Leave two quarts to-day.” Aged, faded missive of some neighboring housewife to an early milkman.

He tried again, lowering the sticky little stone slowly down, straddling the grating directly above the envelope. And this time the gummy weight settled nicely upon the prize.

“I’ll go home and get washed up and have supper,” cried Pee-wee excitedly; “and I’ll be at your house at seven o’clock, hey?”

Detaching the little envelope from the clinging stone, he took the liberty, in his excitement, of opening it for a reassuring glimpse of the precious tickets. Scarcely had he glanced at them when a look of bewilderment appeared upon his face. He scowled, puzzled, and inspected them still more closely. New York academy of design, they read. In a kind of trance, he read what followed: Tuesday evening, April 16th. Admit one. Exhibition of medieval painting and tapestries.

He looked down into the depths of the shaft which had yielded up these admission cards. “I fished up the wrong envelope,” he said.

“No, you didn’t,” said Emerson.

“What d’you mean,” Pee-wee demanded. “Do you know what they’re for?”

“Of course I do,” said Emerson. “They’re for the art exhibition in New York—medieval art.”

“What d’you mean, medieval art?”

“You’ll see when you go.”

“I’ll what?”

“Didn’t you say you’d go? Didn’t you say on your honor? Didn’t you cross your heart?” Emerson asked. “You even said absolutely, positively.”

Pee-wee stood gaping at him. “Didn’t you say they were for the circus? I’ll—I’ll leave it to——” He looked about but there was no one to leave it to.

“I certainly did not,” said Emerson calmly. “I said the exhibition.”

For a moment the entrapped hero paused aghast. “Now I know why you couldn’t get anybody to go with you,” he thundered. “Now I know!”

“You’re not going to back out, are you?” Emerson asked. “You promised to go. Are you going to keep your word?”

“What do I care about medium paintings or whatever you call them?” Pee-wee thundered. “Anyway, besides I have no use for academies or designs or mediums——”

“Medieval,” said Emerson.

“Or that either,” shouted Pee-wee. “Anyway, besides if I made a mistake—you can’t deny you were looking at the posters—let’s hear you deny it because you can’t! I got no use for medium pictures or any other kind. No wonder you couldn’t find a feller. Geeee whiz!”

“Are you going to break your promise?” Emerson inquired with unruffled calm. “You said scouts always do what they promise.”

“If they promise a thing that turns out to be different from the regular thing,” Pee-wee fairly roared, “if they promise—do you mean to tell me medium pictures in an academy are the same as a circus—if they promise do they have to live up to something different just because they weren’t thinking about it when the other feller said—kept back something—can you promise to do a thing that’s kept back when you—geeeeeee whiz!”

“I never said anything about the circus,” said Emerson. “I saw it in Little Valley. I’d like to know whether you’re going to be a—a quitter or not. That’s all.”

“You call me a quitter?” thundered Pee-wee.

“I don’t know what to call you yet, not till I know if you’re going to back down.”

“Well, I’m not going to back down,” said Pee-wee, sullenly.

“Thank you,” said Emerson.

Pee-wee took his way homeward in a mood there is no word terrible enough to describe. His face bore a lowering expression which can only be likened to the awful minutes preceding a thunderstorm. The scowl with which he usually accompanied his famous sallies to his jollying comrades was intensified a hundredfold. He kicked sticks and stones sullenly as he went along. He was in for it and he knew it.

He was to meet the terrible Emerson at the Bridgeboro station for the seven-twenty train into the metropolis unless some just fate dealt a vengeful blow to Emerson in the meanwhile. Emerson had explained that he was to defray all expenses. The only thing which would save Pee-wee now seemed an earthquake or some such kindly interference.

Entering the house, he slammed the front door, stamped upstairs and entered his own room for a few moments’ inspection of his radio before he put on his gray Sunday suit and white collar. He was engaged in this hateful task when the maid called up that Roy Blakeley wanted to see him. And her announcement was promptly followed by the exuberant voice of the leader of the Silver Foxes.

“Hey, kid, come on around to my house to supper. I’m going to blow you to the circus for a birthday present. I’ve got two dandy reserved seats right in front. Come on, Westy’s going, and Warde and Artie and Connie. We’re going to give you a regular birthday party!”