PEE-WEE’S LUCK

“Oh, just look, there’s a team of oxen!” said Miss Pocahontas Gamer; “isn’t it nice and primitive? And look at the boy! He’s got streamers all over his head! Oh, he looks like a circus clown.”

“I’m a boy scout,” said Pee-wee with withering scorn.

A closer approach to the dismantled and hapless float revealed the awful truth to the bewildered little party. There, upon the primitive fender above one of the wheels, sat Scout Harris dangling his legs, the picture of rakish abandonment. His festal array looked like some tattered emblem of warfare. His gala turban had utterly collapsed like some unsubstantial house, and his small shoulders supported the patriotic and romantic ruin. All about him hung limp and faded bunting. Poor Simon seemed to confess his utter inability to cope with the occasion and sat contemplating the party with a kind of bashful, amused and slightly frightened smile.

“Leave them to me, I’ll handle them,” Pee-wee whispered.

“Good evening, Scout,” said Fuller; “or perhaps I should say to-morrow morning. Whence comest thou? You look like the end of a perfect day.”

“I comest whither,” shouted Pee-wee, “or something kind of like that; anyway I bet I don’t care about where I go as much as you do, because scouts are supposed to be—kind of wild and reckless. We’re on our way home from the parade.”

“Are we to understand that this is not Snailsdale Manor?” asked Mr. Pylor Koyn.

“It’s better than Snailsdale Manor,” said Pee-wee; “and we’ll take you to a better place than any of the houses up there. This sign up on top tells you about the place; it’s named Goodale Manor Farm and there are rattlesnakes there and everything.”

“Oh mercy!” said Mrs. Gamer.

“But I killed him,” Pee-wee reassured her.

“This is beginning to look good,” said Fuller Bullson; “this is more than I expected. How slow do those oxen go? We’re accustomed to three miles an hour.”

“They can go even slower than that,” Pee-wee boasted.

“Say no more, we’re with you,” said Raysor Rackette, jumping onto the fender beside Pee-wee. “How about you, Cap?” he added, rather ruffling the dignity of A. Pylor Koyn. “Will you take a chance with Good-for-nothing Manor Farm? Come ahead, be a sport. How about you ladies? How about you, Trotsky?”

“I go to diss blase anyvares to lay my head,” said Vociferinski.

“That’s the way to shout,” said Fuller; “hop up; you can’t go wrong. Help the ladies up, Ray. We can eat the shingles if there isn’t anything else there. And if you forget to stop at the house when you come to it, Scout, it won’t make any difference. We’ll just go on till we come to the next one. Step inside, Cap, yours is the seat of honor. That empty grocery box was just made for you.”

“I want to sit outside on the fender,” said Miss Pocahontas Gamer.

“You’ll fall off,” Pee-wee warned her.

“I won’t do anything of the kind,” she said; “how about yourself?”

“I’m a boy,” Pee-wee said.

“Well, you’re not a very big one,” said she.

With much amusement (amid which even Mr. A. Pylor Koyn’s dignity weakened) the party climbed aboard Pee-wee’s vanquished chariot. Mr. Koyn, Mrs. Gamer and the young Russian sat on the camp stools and grocery boxes inside, and the three young fellows with Miss Pocahontas dangled their legs from two of the old curved wooden fenders of the hay-rig.

Thus it befell that while Miss Hope Stillmore was getting ready for her surprise attack on West Point, and preparing an overwhelming assault upon the “two perfectly lovely fellows,” these weary but undaunted vacationists were on their way to the peaceful scenes she had deserted.

While she buckled on her little pumps in anticipation of Russian music and dances, Clamordinevich Vociferinski was seated on an empty soap box (as if soap were a kind of emblem of his native land) with his little black coffin across his knees, en route for Goodale Manor Farm. While she was still dreaming of a proud acquaintance with the wealthy and fashionable Koyns, A. Pylor himself was being shaken up in the very float to which she had proven faithless! While the bus waited patiently at Snailsdale Manor, Scout Harris had emptied the train at Mr. Goodale’s lonely cross-roads.