They went through the Hudson Tunnel and hit the endless trail which runs through a concrete passageway to the old Erie station.

“You can’t get lost on that trail,” commented Emerson.

Indeed the neighborhood seemed to offer little prospect of adventure. Yet, as the sequel proved, it was not without possibilities. Emerson led the way to the ten twenty-two train and graciously invited Pee-wee to sit by the window. Not only that, but he purchased a slab of milk chocolate from a man who came through the train.

In a few moments they were rattling through the country and a brakeman whom they had not heard before was saying, “Westfield and Springvale Express. The first stop is Westfield.”

“Gooood niiiight! It doesn’t stop at Bridgeboro,” Pee-wee said. “Now see what you—what we did. We’re on the wrong train.”

“Apparently,” said Emerson, consulting his time-table. “We should have taken the ten forty-two. I didn’t notice that this train doesn’t stop at Bridgeboro. It’s provoking, it’s my fault; I should have had my——”

“I know what you’re going to say! I know what you’re going to say!” Pee-wee shouted at the top of his voice. Every one in the car turned to stare. “You’re going to say you should have had your wits about you and I’m glad you didn’t, because now you’ve got to join the scouts, and that’s one good thing about the Erie Railroad anyway, oh, gee whiz, we’re going to go right past Bridgeboro, and I’m glad, and I’ll show you the way home through the woods from Westfield because I got a compass, so now you got to be a scout, so will you? Because on account of your honor you’re to be trusted, so will you? Oh, boy, I bet you’ll like hiking home through the woods!”

“I don’t see how I made such a mistake,” said Emerson, frowningly inspecting his time-table, for all the world like an experienced traveling man.

“Don’t you care, don’t you care!” cried Pee-wee. “It’s a dandy mistake; I’ve made lots of dandy ones but, oh, boy, that’s even better than any of mine because now you’ve got to keep your word just like I did, but anyway I want you to join because now I like you, so you’ve got to join, so will you?”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” said Emerson ruefully.

“Sure you have to,” said Pee-wee, his lips painted with soft chocolate. “You took me to the city so now I’m going to take you through the woods in the dark, but don’t you be scared, because anyway if you try to go in a straight line in the woods you can’t do it on account of your heart beating on your left side, so you go round in a circle like a merry-go-round, but don’t you care because we have to go south from Westfield and I can tell the south by the way moss grows on the trees—you’ll see. And I bet you’ll say you’re glad you got to be a scout; gee whiz, I hope the engineer doesn’t stop at Bridgeboro by mistake or maybe on account of a freight or something. Anyway, as long as it’s not supposed to stop, we wouldn’t have any right to get out anyway, would we? Because that would be kind of sneaking.”

“I guess I’m in for it,” said Emerson.

“Sure you’re in for it—don’t you be scared. We could go home by the road from Westfield, but that’s longer, so we’ll take a short-cut through Van Akren’s woods, hey?”

Pee-wee had a terrible fright when the train slowed down as it approached Bridgeboro. He was prepared to restrain the gentle Emerson by main force from violating the time-table. But the train gathered speed again and went gliding past the familiar station on which the baffled Emerson bestowed a lingering and wistful gaze. He was indeed, as he had said, in for it.

And being in for it, he resigned himself to the inevitable like a good sport. At Westfield he agreed to the hike back through the woods, and though his attitude was one of good-humored reluctance, there seemed no doubt that he meant to keep his word with Pee-wee.

“Gee whiz, I didn’t make you lose your wits,” the little missionary said. “You can’t say I’m to blame, but anyway I’m glad of it.”

“As long as it had to happen, I’m glad it happened with you along instead of some one else,” said Emerson. “You deserve to win because you kept your word and went to the city with me when you didn’t want to. You’ll see I can make good too.”

They hiked into the woods south of Westfield and were soon enclosed by the dark, stately trees and the silent night. In a marshy area near the indistinct trail which wound away among the trees could be heard the steady, monotonous croaking of frogs, those nocturnal heralds of the spring. Somewhere in the distance an owl was hooting. Yet these sounds seemed only to emphasize the stillness. They were startled by every twig that crackled under their feet.

“When scouts don’t want to make any noise, they wear moccasins,” said Pee-wee; “I’ll show you when we go to camp. Oh, boy, you’ll see scouts from all over the country up there. Maybe you kind of won’t like it at first but after a while you will. I bet you’ll be crazy about stalking; I bet you’ll be dandy at it. Signaling too. Anyway, I admit I had fun to-night in the city, and, gee whiz, I like you too, that’s one sure thing. It seems kind of as if I know you now; you treated me dandy, I’ll say that. Good night, I knew all about circuses anyway, so what’s the difference, but anyway I didn’t know you; but now I do.”

But he did not quite know Emerson. For it was not just that Emerson did not understand tracking and stalking and signaling. He did not understand how to get acquainted and to make himself liked. He did not know how to speak the language of boys—that language which is the admission card to their vast fraternity.

That was the tragedy of Emerson Skybrow. He said policeman and cinema and exhibition and talked about going for constitutionals, and those things stood in his way. It was necessary for some boy to look behind these things and to discover the real boy who knew how to be generous and kind and friendly. And that boy had never come along and Emerson was lonely and isolated.

That was the tragedy of Emerson Skybrow.