THE THIRD HOUSE

Pee-wee collapsed like a balloon. “Snailsdale Manor?” he gasped. “Are you sure he counted right?”

“Absolutely,” said Fuller, cheerily. “We’re in luck; we’re going to have our fun at rock bottom rates. That’s better than last summer, Ray. Fifteen dollars each was it? So far all is well, if not better. Cut rate adventure is my middle name.”

“It’s better than I expected,” said Ray, apparently not the least surprised or disappointed.

“We should not be carried away by our good fortune,” said Fuller; “things may go wrong yet.”

“What do you mean, go wrong yet?” Pee-wee thundered. “They did already, didn’t they? Gee whiz, I’ve been to Snailsdale Manor. What are we going to do when we get there? It’s a town! I’d like to know what we’re going to do there.”

“Shoot wildcats and send post cards down to the farm,” said Ray. “You might take a snapshot of the post office.”

“We can never get lost,” Pee-wee enunciated despairingly.

“We can have a lot of fun not getting lost,” said Ray.

“Absolutely,” said Fuller.

“That place is no good!” Pee-wee shouted. “I’d rather go back to the farm.”

“Scout,” said Fuller, “that is a historic spot; I’m glad we’re going there. Next to the Fiji Islands there’s no place I’d rather go to except Bronx Park. It’s the scene of Scout Harris’ famous battle with the Snailsdalians. It’s where Braggen’s straw-hat was utterly destroyed—reduced to straws—like Reims Cathedral. We can visit the battle-ground. Do you know, Ray, the more I think of it the gladder I am that we’re going up to Snailsdale. I know I always said that one place is as good as another if not better, but Snailsdale is better still. Not getting lost, for instance; there’s an adventure for you, already.”

“Positively,” said Ray.

“Maybe in the very next pigeon-hole were tickets to Seiminole Glen,” said Pee-wee gloomily. “I heard Mr. Goodale say there is a cave there that nobody has ever penetrated.”

“We had a narrow escape,” said Fuller.

“Do you mean to tell me you’re glad we’re going to Snailsdale Manor?” Pee-wee demanded, in utter exasperation. “You said you were so crazy about adventures! Gee whiz!”

“Scout,” said Fuller, “I said we didn’t care where we went. You know our motto. The fun is in your head—or else it isn’t. That ticket agent wouldn’t have any fun at a circus. Look at that girl pal of yours; she went after something and see what she got. We take what comes; we’re true to our colors. We’ve got that word disappointment bound hand and foot. We chased it back to the dictionary where it belongs. What do you know about adventures? Do you think they grow in the woods—on trees? Where I live a man was murdered in the back yard of a kindergarten.”

“It was a good murder, too,” said Ray.

“One of the best,” said Fuller. “Don’t talk to me about desert islands. You’ve got the wrong idea, Scout. Wherever you go is the best place. Now are you with us or not?”

Pee-wee was no quitter, but he was keenly disappointed and he showed it. He felt that he was deceived. The thing had not worked out at all. He would get a compass. He would not be caught in a trap like this again. He would know where he was going, always.

He could not understand how these two friends of his could be such good losers. But indeed they did not consider themselves losers. He did not see how they could be as cheerful and hopeful as if they were going into the Canadian Woods. They did not seem the least disappointed; they just did not care two cents. Pee-wee could never make out how much of their talk was serious, but their theory about travel and adventure was certainly standing the test.

“We are more important than adventures are, so we don’t go after them,” said Ray; “we make them come after us.”

They always agreed with each other, these two, and seemed to be perfectly at peace with chance and fate.

“Exactly so, Ray,” said Fuller; “and luck is always with us.”

“Never fails,” said Ray.

Pee-wee did not see how it could be otherwise since whatever happened was the thing they wanted. That was how they found out what they wanted. It was a game that could not be beaten. But poor Pee-wee felt beaten because he had hoped where they had not. He would not desert them, not he, but his spirits fell and he was glum and unresponsive.

“Scout,” said Fuller, “nobody knows where he is at or what he’s up against in this world. A friend of mine was wounded seven times in the World War, he escaped capture nine times, a bullet hit his suspender buckle instead of his heart, and he came home and got a splinter in his foot and died from blood-poisoning.”

“Do you call that an argument?” Pee-wee said contemptuously.

They sat on a baggage truck on the platform waiting for the train, Pee-wee frowning and silent, the others talking gayly as if they were going hunting for big game in Africa.

“What can I tell Pocahontas Gamer I did at Snailsdale?” he demanded sullenly. “She’ll only laugh at me.”

“You haven’t come away from there yet,” said Ray; “we may be all killed in a railroad accident yet.”

“But we can’t count on it,” said Fuller; “the Snailsdale branch is so uncertain. Let’s see, we go back north, don’t we? All around the mulberry bush, hey?”

After a tiresome ride of about five minutes the main line train switched their car over to a siding at Woodsend Junction where the Snailsdale branch train picked it up some time later. In the fulness of time they made Hickson Crossing, then Hawley’s, then passed the road where the phantom station had hidden coyly in the fog, and were then on the home stretch for Snailsdale Manor. They were, in point of fact, nearer to the farm than they had been at Westover, but Ray and Fuller arose, stretched themselves, brushed off their clothing and glanced out of the car window as if they were beholding a strange and foreign scene. This greatly exasperated Pee-wee.

“This is a pleasant looking place,” said Fuller; “I hope the natives will prove friendly.”

“They’re nothing but a lot of porch lizards,” Pee-wee said.

“Good,” said Ray, “I was afraid there wouldn’t be any animals here at all.”

“I dare say we can find a seal if we go to the notary public’s office,” said Fuller.

“How about that, Scout?” queried Ray.

But Scout did not answer. He seemed to be thinking. Suddenly his voice arose like tropical thunder, “Now you see!” he said. “It serves you right! It serves you right! The third house up the road is the Snailsdale House! So there! You see those two houses? There isn’t another one till you get to the Snailsdale House and we’ve got to stay a whole week where there are a lot of old ladies! Now you see what you get for not knowing where we’re at. And that girl is there, too, and now she’ll meet you. Now you see! Now you see what you get for not having respect for destinations!”