Books: Pee Wee Harris
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Percy Keese Fitzhugh >> Pee Wee Harris
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But as she rose in panic terror from her stooping posture, the
lantern pulled upward against the faucet, toppling the big can off
its skids. There was no plug in the can and the kerosene flowed out
upon the terror-stricken child, wetting her shoes and stockings, and
made a great puddle on the stone floor. She stood in the darkness,
seeing none of this, which made the catastrophe the more terrible.
And then, as she stood in terror, wet and bewildered, waiting for
whatever terrible sequel might come, she felt again that something
soft and wet and silent on her hand. She moved her hand a little and
felt of something soft. Soft in a different way. Soft but not wet.
"Wiggle," she sobbed in a whisper; "why--why--didn't you--you--tell me
it was you--Wiggle?"
But he only licked her hand again as if to say, "If there is anything
on for to-night, I'm with you. Cheer up. Adventures are my middle
name". ...
CHAPTER XXVI
PEPSY'S INVESTMENT
For a few seconds Pepsy stood in suspense amid the spreading,
dripping havoc she had caused, listening for some sound above. But
the seconds piled up into a full minute and no approaching step was
heard. The danger seemed over.
But the very air was redolent of kerosene; she stood in a puddle
of it, and one of her stockings and both of her plain little buttoned
shoes were thoroughly wet. When she moved her toes she could feel the
soppy liquid. Oh, for a light! It would lessen her terror if she could
just see what had happened and how she looked.
She groped her way to the small oblong of lesser darkness which
indicated the open bulk-head doors, and felt better when she was in
the free open darkness of outdoors. Wiggle, seeming to know that
something unusual was happening, kept close to her heels.
She reentered the kitchen, where those accusing, ghostly, red
slits of eyes in the stove seemed to watch her. She fumbled
nervously on the shelf above the stove and got some matches,
spilling a number of them on the floor. She could not pause to
gather them up while those red eyes stared. She had planned her poor
little enterprise with a view to secrecy, but in the emergency and with
the minutes passing, she did not now pause to think or consider. Near
the flour barrel hung several goodly pudding bags, luscious reminders
of Thanksgiving. Aunt Jamsiah had promised to make a plum-pudding for
Pee-Wee in the largest one of these and he had spent some time in
measuring them and computing their capacity, with the purpose of
selecting the most capacious. Pepsy now hurriedly took all of these
and a kitchen apron along with them, and descended again into the cellar.
By the dim lantern light she lifted the fallen tank and replaced
it on its skids. Then she wiped up the floor as best she could with
the makeshift mop which had been intended to serve a better
purpose. She wiped off her soggy shoes and tried to clean that
clinging oiliness from her hands. It seemed to her as if the
whole world were nothing but kerosene.
She did not know what to do with the drenched rags, so she took them
with her when she started again for the dark road, this time with her
two cheery companions, the lantern and Wiggle. She soon found the
dripping rags a burden and cast them from her as she passed the well.
Wiggle turned back and inspected the smelly, soggy mass, found that he
did not like it, took a hasty drink from the puddle under the well
spout, and rejoined his companion.
It must have been close to ten o'clock when Mr. Ira Jensen, enjoying
a last smoke on his porch before retiring, saw the lantern light swinging
up his roadway. The next thing that he was aware of was the pungent odor
of kerosene borne upon the freshening night breeze. And then the little
delegation stood revealed before him, Wiggle, wagging his tail, the
lantern sputtering, and Pepsy's head jerking nervously as if she were
trying to shake out what she had to say.
It took Pepsy a few moments to key herself up to the speaking point.
Then she spoke tremulously but with a kind of jerky readiness suggesting
many lonely rehearsals.
"Mr. Jensen," she said, "I have to do a good turn and so I came
to ask you if you'll help me and the reason I smell like kerosene is
because I tipped over the kerosene can." This last was not in her
studied part, but she threw it in answer to an audible sniff from
Mr. Jensen.
"You said when I came here and stayed nights when Mrs. Jensen
was sick with the flu and everybody else was sick and you couldn't
get anybody to do--to nurse her--you remember?" She did not give him
time to answer for she knew that if she paused she could not go on.
Her momentum kept her going. "You said then--just before I went
home--you'd--you said I was--you said you'd do me a good turn some
day, because I helped you. So now a boy that's staying with us--we
have a refreshment parlor and nobody comes to buy anything--and he
wants to buy some tents and we have to make a lot of money so will
you please have them have the County Fair in Berryville this year so
lots of people will go past our summerhouse?
"We have lemonade and he calls to the people and tells them, only
there ain't any people. But lots and lots and lots of people come to
the County Fair from all over, don't they? So now I'd like it for you
to do me that good turn if you want to pay me back."
Thus Pepsy, standing tremulously but still boldly, her thin little
hand clutching the lantern, played her one card for the sake of Pee-Wee
Harris, Scout. Standing there in her oil soaked gingham dress, she made
demand upon this staunch bank of known probity, for principal and
interest in the matter of the one great good turn she had one before
she had ever known of Scout Harris. It never occurred to her as she
looked with frank expectancy at Mr. Jensen that her naive request was
quite preposterous.
To his credit be it said, Mr. Jensen did not deny her too abruptly.
Instead he spread his knees and arms and, smiling genially, beckoned her
to him.
"I can't, I'm all kerosene," she said.
"Never you mind," he said. "You come and stand right here while I
tell you how it is." So she set down the lantern and stepped forward and
stood between his knees and then he lifted her into his lap. "Well,
well, well, you're quite a girl; you're quite a little girl, ain't you,
huh? So you came all the way in the dark to ask me that! Here, you sit
right where you are and never you mind about kerosene; if you ain't
scared of the dark I reckon I ain't scared of kerosene. Now, I want
you should listen 'cause I'm going to tell you jes' how it is n' then
you'll understand. Because I call you a little kind of a--a herro--ine,
that's what I call you."
He wasn't half wrong about that, either. ...
CHAPTER XXVII
SEEN IN THE DARK
So then he told her how it was about the County Fair, which shortly
would open. He told her very gently and kindly how Northvale had been
chosen, because it was the county seat and how he was powerless to change
the plans.
He looked around into her sober face, and sometimes lifted it to his,
and at almost every hope-blighting sentence, asked her if she did not
understand. He told her all about how county fairs are big things,
planned by many men, months and months in advance. And at each pause
and each gently asked question she nodded silently, as if it was all
quite clear and plausible, but her heart was breaking.
"But I'm not going to forget that good turn I owe you, no, siree,"
he added finally as he set her down on the porch, much to Wiggle's
relief. "And I'm coming down the road to pay you a visit n' look over
that refreshment store of yours n' see if I can't make some suggestions
maybe. Now, what do you say to that?"
Pepsy nodded soberly, her thoughts far away.
"You'll see me along there," Mr. Jensen added cheerily, as he patted
her little shoulder, "n' I give you fair warning I'm the champion
doughnut eater of Borden County."
She smiled, still wistfully, and gulped, oh ever so little.
"That's what I am," he added with another genial pat. "So now you
cheer up and run back home and go to bed n' don't you lie awake crying.
You tell that little scout feller I'm coming to make you a visit n'
that, I usually drink nine glasses of lemonade. Now you run along and
get to bed quick."
"Thanks," she said, her voice trembling.
So Pepsy took her way silently along the dark road. Her bank had
failed, she could do nothing more. This was a strange sequel to
follow Pee-Wee's glowing representations about good turns. She did
not understand it. And now that she had failed, the catastrophe in
the cellar loomed larger, and she saw her nocturnal truancy as a
serious thing. What would Aunt Jamsiah think of this? Pepsy had been
forbidden to go away from the farm at night, except to weekly prayer
meeting.
The crickets sang cheerily as she returned along the dark road, a
disconsolate little figure, swinging her lantern. She was weary--weary
from exertion and disappointment and foreboding. Her good scout
enterprise was suddenly changed into an act of sneaking disobedience.
The physical exhaustion which follows nervous strain was upon her now
and her little feet lagged in their soaking shoes and once or twice she
stumbled with fatigue.
For what burden is heavier than a heavy heart? The soothing voices
of insect life which soften the darkness and cheer the wayfarer in the
countryside seemed only to mock her with their myriad care-free songs.
And to make matters worse there suddenly rang in her ears from far over
to the west the loud clatter of those loose planks on the old bridge
along the highway, as a car sped over it:
"You have to go back,
You have to go back."
Then the noise ceased suddenly, and there was no sound but the calling
of a screech-owl somewhere in the intervening woods.
Pepsy sat down on a rock by the roadside partly to rest and partly
because she did not want to go home. She knew, or she ought to have
known, that Aunt Jamsiah was pretty sure to be lenient about a harmless
transgression with so generous a motive. But the warning voice from that
unseen bridge disconcerted her. It was not long after she was seated
that her head hung down and soon the gentle comforter of sleep came to
her and she lay there, pillowing her head on her little thin arm.
But the comforter did not stay long, for Pepsy dreamed a dream.
She dreamed that all the people of the village, Simeon Drowser,
Nathaniel Knapp, Darius Dragg, the sneering Deadwood Gamely, and even
the faithless Arabella Bellison, the school teacher, were pointing
fingers a yard long, at her and saying, "You have to go back to the
big brick building. You have to go back, you have to go back." On the
big doughnut jar in the "refreshment parlor" sat Licorice Stick saying,
"You have to go back the next time it thunders." She shook her fist at
Licorice Stick and called him a Smarty and said she would not go back,
but they all laughed and sang:
"You have to go back,
You have to go back."
Miss Bellison was the worst of all. ...
"You have to go back,
You have to------"
With a sudden start Pepsy sat up on the rock, wide awake,
"-----go back,
You have to go back.",
She still heard.
Her forehead throbbed and her face felt very hot. There was a
ringing in her ears. She was feverish, but she did not know that.
All she knew was that everybody was against her and that the bridge
had put them up to it. She was dizzy and had to put her hand on the
rock to steady herself. The lantern light was extinguished but she
did not remember the lantern, or Wiggle. She felt very strange and
wanted a drink of water. Her hand trembled and her little arm with
which she braced herself against the rock, felt weak. And her head
throbbed, throbbed. ...
Where were all those people? She felt around for them. Then she
heard the voice again, far off through the woods, up along that highway.
It was just an innocent automobile,
"You have to go back."
Pepsy rose to her feet with a start, reeled, reached for a tree,
and clutched it. "I'll stop it, I'll--I'll make it--it stop--I'll tear
it--I'll pull them off," she said. "I--I won't--go back--I won't, I won't,
I won't!"
Staggering across the road she entered the woods. Each tree there
seemed like two trees. She groped her way among them, dizzy, almost
falling. Sometimes the woods seemed to be moving. Perhaps it was by
the merest chance that she stumbled into the trail which led through
the woods to the highway, ending close to the old bridge.
But once in the familiar path she ran in a kind of frenzy. No doubt
the fever gave her a kind of temporary, artificial strength, as indeed
it gave her the crazy resolve somehow to still that haunting voice
forever. Crazed and reeling she stumbled and ran along, pausing now and
again to press her throbbing head, then running on again like one
possessed.
At last she came out of the woods suddenly on to the broad, smooth
highway. There was the bridge, silent and--no, not dark. For there was
a bright spot somewhere underneath it and gray smoke wriggling up
through those cracks between the planks. And there, yes, there,
crawling away in the darkness was a black figure. A silent, stealthy
figure, stealing away.
To the dazed, feverish girl, the figure seemed to have two pairs of
arms. She tried to call but could not. Her scream of delirious fright
died away into a murmur as she staggered and fell prone upon the ground
and knew no more.
But never again--never, never would those cruel planks taunt her with
their heartless prediction. Never would they frighten the poor,
sensitive, fearful little red-headed orphan girl any more.
CHAPTER XXVIII
STOCK ON HAND
It was Joey Burnside, the burliest and heartiest of the volunteer
firemen, who carried Pepsy back through the woods to the farm while
still the conflagration was at its height.
There was not timber enough left from the old bridge to kindle a
scout camp-fire. A few charred remnants had gone floating down the
stream and these fugitive remnants drifting into tiny coves and lodging
in the river's bends were shown by the riverside dwellers as memorials
of the event which had stirred the countryside more than any other item,
of neighborhood history. Under the gaping space of disconnected road
the stream flowed placidly, uninterrupted by all the recent hubbub
above it. The straight highway looked strange without the bridge.
Pepsy had a fever all that night, but toward morning she fell asleep,
and Aunt Jamsiah, who had watched her through the night, tiptoed into
the little room under the eaves and out again to tell Pee-Wee that he
had better wait, that all Pepsy needed now was rest.
"Can't I just look at her?" Pee-Wee asked. So he was allowed to
stand in the doorway and see his partner as she lay there sleeping
the good sleep of utter exhaustion.
"When she wakes up," Aunt Jamsiah said pleasantly.
Pee-Wee knew the circumstances of her being found at the burning
bridge and brought home, but he asked no questions and Aunt Jamsiah
said nothing of the events of that momentous night. It seemed to be
generally understood that this matter was in Aunt Jamsiah's hands
for thorough consideration later.
Meanwhile Pee-Wee went across the lawn and down the road to the
scene of their hapless enterprise. The roadside rest could boast now
of but two jars, one of peppermint sticks and one of gumdrops (both
in rapid process of consumption) and a number of spools of tire tape.
But the absence of doughnuts and sausages and lemonade, this was
nothing. It was the absence of Pepsy that counted.
Pee-Wee took his customary eye-opener, consisting of a gumdrop. He had
to shake the jar to get a red one, that being the kind he preferred.
Then he drew his legs up on the counter and proceeded to work upon
the willow whistle he was making.
His handiwork soon reached that stage of manufacture where it was
necessary to soak the willow bark in water, so as to cause it to swell.
He thereupon distributed the remaining gumdrops impartially between his
mouth and his trousers pocket and filled the empty jar with water,
dropping his handiwork into it. Thus by gradual stages and without any
sensational "closing out sales" the refreshment business was steadily
going into a state of liquidation, even the lemon sticks being reduced
to a liquid. There was no stock on hand now but two peppermint sticks
and some tire tape.
Suddenly a most astonishing thing happened. The sound of an
automobile horn was heard in the distance. A deep, melodious, dignified
horn. Not since the passing of the six merry maidens had such welcome
music sounded in Pee-Wee's enraptured ears.
The signs had all been made fight, the ice cream had been made cold,
the sausages hot, and the ground glass had been put where it belonged.
No longer did "our taffy stick like glue." Indeed, there was no taffy
of any kind on hand, notwithstanding these blatant announcements.
Along came the automobile, an eight-cylinder Super Junkster. And,
yes, it was followed by another, and still another. Pee-Wee could see
the imposing procession as far down as the bend.
"Some detour," a good-natured voice said.
"Detour? Detour?" Pee-Wee whispered in sudden and terrible
excitement. Then, as the full purport of the staggering truth burst
upon him he issued forth from the roadside rest and contemplated the
approaching pageant with joy bubbling up like soda water in his heart.
"Never mind," said another voice, "we can get some eats in this
jungle, thank goodness. What I won't do to a couple of hot
frankfurters."
A sudden chill cooled the fresh enthusiasm of Scout Harris.
"I'll buy every blamed doughnut they've got in the place,"
somebody shouted. "We won't leave a thing for the rest of the
cars that have to plow through this jungle. I suppose this is
what motorists will be up against for six months. What do you know
about that? This eats merchant ought to clear a couple of million.
I'll dicker with him for everything hot that he's got, I'm starving."
"Same here!" another shouted.
Frantically, like a soldier waving his country's emblem in the
last desperate moment of forlorn hope Scout Harris clambered over
the counter and grasped the jar containing two peppermint sticks.
"Peppermint sticks! Peppermint sticks!" he shouted at the
advancing column. "Get your peppermint sticks! They quench thirst
and--and--and satisfy your hunger! They're filling! They warm you up!
Peppermint is hot! Oh, get your peppermint sticks here!"
CHAPTER XXIX
INDUSTRIAL CONDITIONS
Pee-Wee emerged safely, if not triumphantly, from this ordeal amid
much laughter, and was just congratulating himself upon his skillful
handling of "the trade" in a period of acute shortage when he received
a knockout blow. In depositing the trifling price of the peppermint
sticks in his trousers pocket, he discovered there four gumdrops glued
together and clinging so affectionately that nothing could part them.
At the moment of this discovery, Scout Harris, thus driven into a
corner and standing at bay with nothing but one huge, consolidated
gumdrop for defense, heard the unmistakable sound of another car
crawling over the rocks and hubbles of that outlandish road in second
gear. On, on, on, it came like some horrible British tank.
And now again he heard voices, "We can eat about twenty of them in
my patrol y--mm. Are we hungry? Oh, no! Hot frankfurters! Oh, boy, lead
me to them. I could even eat the sign, I'm so hungry. Put her in high.
What do we care about the road?"
Pee-Wee listened and waited in terrible suspense. Scouts! He knew
something about the scout capacity. Then, upon the fresh morning air
there floated another voice calling a sentence which he knew too well
it was the good scout motto. "Hey there, you, whoever you are, Mr.
Refreshment Man? Be Prepared! We're s--c--o--u--t--s we are and we're
h--u--n--g--r--e--e! We haven't had anything since breakfast at
four-thirty. We had to come around through this rocky tour or detour or
whatever you call it. Somebody ate the bridge last night. Are there any
scouts down in this South African backyard?"
If Pee-Wee had not heard that familiar motto "Be Prepared," he
would have known the approaching caravan to be scouts by their talk
and banter.
Be Prepared. Pee-Wee glanced at the bare counter and the empty jars
and the shiny dishpan which held nothing but Pepsy's ball of worsted and
the terrible ornamental thing that she was knitting. There they were,
just as she had laid them the day before. Poor little Pepsy. ...
Then they descended upon him as only hungry scouts can descend.
Pee-Wee's glowing promises which decorated the woods (and which he
could not fulfill) had brought the party to a state of distraction.
It was a big Crackerjack touring car overflowing with scouts and
driven by a smiling scoutmaster. It seemed as if they ought to have
been pressed in and down with a shovel like ice cream in a quart box.
"For the love of--" one of them began.
"Look what's here, it's a scout."
"That?" shouted another, "Let's have the magnifying glass, will you?"
Pee-Wee straightened himself up to his full
height. The big Crackerjack touring car stopped.
"Some detour," the scoutmaster said with an air of infinite relief.
"Do they have scouts down here?" a member of the party asked.
"I'm only staying here, I belong in Bridgeboro, New Jersey,"
Pee-Wee said.
"Don't talk about bridges," another scout said.
"Talk about something pleasant. A scout is supposed to save life,
scout law number six; let's have a couple of thousand hot dogs, will
you? We're dying. And forty-eleven dozen doughnuts with the holes
removed."
"Do you--I--eh--do you--need any tire tape?" Pee-Wee stammered,
playing for time. "Tire tape! What do you take us for? A lot of
blow-outs? Let's have some eats and we'll take care of the blow-out."
"Come on, hurry up, a scout is supposed to be prepared," piped
up a natty scout wearing the bronze cross.
"Where's all the food?" the scoutmaster asked, glancing at the
empty counter. "We were led to suppose--"
"Don't you know what a shortage is?" Pee-Wee piped up in sheer
desperation.
"We know what a shorty is," one of the party shot back.
"You don't expect us to eat a shortage, do you?" another said.
"Come ahead, hurry up, a scout isn't supposed to be cruel. You can
always depend on scout signs that you find in the woods. A scout
that puts scout signs--"
"Those are different kinds of signs!" Pee-Wee shouted. "Those
are trail signs. You think you're so smart! That shows how much
you know about--about--"
"Three strikes out," one of the scouts shouted. "About--about
industrial conditions," Pee-Wee concluded. "Don't you know what
a--a--what'd you call it--a--"
"Yes, that's what you call it," a scout laughed.
"Don't you know what a reconstruction period is?" Pee-Wee fairly
yelled, amid uncontrollable laughter. "If something happens like a
war--or a--a bridge burning down--or something--or other--that makes
business conditions--what'd you call it--it makes them all kind
of upside down, doesn't it? Sometimes--kind of--things are hard to
get. Everybody knows that."
"We can see it," a scout said.
By this time the scoutmaster was laughing heartily but with the
greatest good humor. Pee-Wee continued bravely, to the great
amusement of the party.
"Gee whiz, nobody ever came along this road. You admit that scouts
are hungry, don't you?"
"We proclaim it," said the scoutmaster.
"I ate a lot of the stuff and my aunt wouldn't cook any more
stuff for us because nobody ever came and it got stale and I ate
too much of it, that's what she said. So now, anyway, we're going
to start in again because the business world--and we're--we're going
to speed up production."
"All right, speed up the auto and good luck to you," the scout
with the bronze cross said. He seemed to be a patrol leader.
There was a little fraternal chat before this boisterous troop
moved on and all seemed interested in Pee-Wee and his enterprise.
They were on their way to camp somewhere down the line. "You'll
succeed all right," they called back to him, "only be sure to have
plenty of stuff on hand when we come back in a couple of weeks or
we'll kill you."
"Do you like waffles and honey?" the proprietor shouted after them.
"We've got the bees working overtime for us," a scout called back.
"I'll have a lot of those--ten cents each," Pee-Wee announced. "Do
you like clam chowder?" he called, raising his voice to cover the
increasing distance.
"Don't you make us hungry," one called back.
"Good luck to you, you'll make it a go all right."
"I'm lucky, I always have good luck," the small optimist screamed
at the top of his voice. "Do you like peanut taffy? Do you like hot
corn," he added, fairly yelling this sudden inspiration after the
departing sufferers; "with butter and pepper on it; do you like that?
I'll have some!"
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