"What have we done? What have we done?" sighed still another.

As for Scoutmaster Ned, he gave one terrific groan (or perhaps it was a roar of abandoned mirth) and fell backward off the grocery box.

Only the fixer remained silent. His eyes stared, his mouth gaped. But not a word said he. It was Napoleon at Waterloo. Scout Harris had no words. Or else he had so many that they got jumbled up in his throat and would not come out. And as he stood there, bearing up under that mortal blow, the conquering legion, consisting of the two members of the East Ketchem school board, withdrew with an air of great collusiveness and dignified solemnity to the sh.o.r.e.

Then, and only then, did Scoutmaster Ned sit up and rub his eyes, holding his splitting sides, the while he gazed after that official delegation const.i.tuting the entire school board. He gave one look at the fixer (and the fixer's face was worth looking at) and at the gaping countenances all about him. Then he fell back again and shook as if he had a fit and rolled over and buried his face in his folded arm and roared and roared and roared.

"Retreat! Retreat across the line! A disorderly retreat! That is our only hope! Who will lead a disorderly retreat?"

The desperate cry was not unanswered. "_I will!_" said Fido Norton. "Get the stuff together! Every scout for himself! Our freedom hangs on a disorderly retreat! Vaccination--I mean evacuation--is our only hope!

Our freedom is more dear than our lives! Give me vacation or give me death! We've been foiled by a school princ.i.p.al disguised as a boy scout!

Remember his pal, the manual training teacher? Spies! Traitors! We fell into their clutches. Follow me, we will foil the schools yet! Every scout grab his own stuff, or anybody else's, and retreat as disorderly as possible. Our liberty is at stake! I love the west sh.o.r.e so muchly now that I wouldn't even knock the West Sh.o.r.e Railroad."

CHAPTER XL

GUESS AGAIN

Alas, such is fame! The thunderous voice of P. Harris was mute, his blankly staring eyes spoke volumes, libraries in fact, but they did not make a noise. The voice which had aroused the echoes at Temple Camp, which had filled the crystal back room at Bennett's Candy Store in Bridgeboro, was still. And it did not speak again for--nearly twenty minutes. Even then it did not speak in its former tone of thunder. It could not have been heard for more than--oh, half a mile.

The first occasion on which the voice of Scout Harris arose to its former height was on the last day before West Ketchem summoned its bronzed scouts over to the makeshift school which had been prepared in a vacant, old-fashioned mansion. They had had plenty of fun in the meantime and they went with a good will. Far be it from me to publish any unworthy hopes, but if your school should ever burn down in the summer, try camping in the autumn. You will find the woods more friendly then. Even the birds and chipmunks and squirrels seem to say, "Come on, let us get together and be friends, for it's getting cool."

But to return to Pee-wee's-voice. On the last day of the autumn camping, the silver stunt cup was to be awarded. It was an open secret that this was to go to Nick Vernon, and the scouts of both troops were agreeable enough to this disposition of it.

Many of them had performed conspicuous stunts, but they were all agreed that Nick's feat in flashing the message by searchlight was the stunt of the season. Perhaps Nick's personality, and consequent popularity, had something to do with this. At all events when the two troops were ordered to congregate under the old half-naked elm, to which they had returned after their inglorious invasion of the east, it was generally understood that the ceremony of presentation was to be purely perfunctory having no surprises for anybody.

Safety First had been asked to do the honors but he had insisted on Scoutmaster Ned making the address. That address has even been memorable in West Ketchem history. It was (as Scoutmaster Ned himself said) the best address ever made on Frying-pan Island, because it was the only one.

"Bunch," he said "this is the happiest day of the year, for school opens to-morrow (groans). Hereafter, whenever I see a frying-pan I'll think of you and wish you were in it, being fried to a turn. (Laughter.) Don't laugh, it's no laughing matter. I'm on the verge of nervous presumption or whatever you call it, and I'll be glad to get rid of you--every one of you!

"I've been asked to hand out this cup and it goes to St. Nicholas Vernon because he sprawled the nice clean sky all up with scribbling and all that kind of stuff. n.o.body read the message but that makes no difference, because the proof of the message is in the sending just the same as the proof of the pudding is in the eating. How about that, Scout Harris?

"I guess you fellows are all satisfied and I should fret my heart out whether you are or not. Nick showed resource, and alertness, and a lot of other stuff that's in the handbook, page something or other. If it isn't there it's somewhere else. Shut up and give me a chance to speak.

Here you go, Nick, catch this. Your silver cup of joy is full and we shall all live happily ever afterwards. Anything more, Safety First?"

Nick Vernon never seemed more at ease, and less interested, than when he ambled toward the stump from which Scoutmaster Ned was descending, and said in a quiet, drawling voice, "Yes, something more. May I have that stump a minute?"

He stood there, holding the silver cup in one hand, his other hand against his hip, in an att.i.tude familiar to them all.

"A little speech of thanks," someone shouted; "make it short."

There was one who stood in that group, unnoticed. His eyes were fixed upon the winner, and he was actually trembling with delight.

"Good idea, I'll make it short and snappy," said Nick. "Actions speak louder than words."

"No, they don't," shouted Pee-wee.

"The signal I sent," said Nick, "was read and the one who read it was a scout. He's the one that stopped the car. The cup was in the car and so he saved the cup. It's his. He tried to keep his scouting a secret and he didn't get away with it. He beat Scoutmaster Ned hands down. He left him guessing. Scoutmaster Ned is easy. But this kid can't put anything over on _me_; I've got him red-handed; he's a scout and he's got us all looking like thirty cents. He's a scout and he'll tell the truth, if you corner him. He won't lie. Here you go, catch this, Pete, hold your hands steady; if you don't hold them up I'll chuck it plunk in your face. As sure as I'm standing here I will! _I'm_ making this speech of presentation, not Scoutmaster Ned. You know so much about the handbook, remember law one, about telling the truth. Here you go, Peter Piper, you're the only scout that ever dropped into this Frying-pan. Catch it or by gosh--"

But he didn't catch it, because his eyes were glistening, and his hands were trembling, and you can't catch things in such a state.

He stood there like one transfixed, hearing the uproar all about him.

Nervously he stooped and picked up the glittering cup and held it as if he were afraid of it. Peter Piper, pioneer scout, of Piper's Crossroads. He would go home famous and rich, a hero, just as his mother had dreamed that some day he would do....

It was just at that moment that Scout Harris really recovered his voice.

He recovered it in the moment of having an "inspiration." He jumped upon a barrel, released his teeth from the apple into which he had plunged them, and dancing like a maniac, sang at the top of his voice:

"Peter Piper picked A peck of pickled peppers; A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.

If Peter Piper picked A peck of pickled peppers; Where's the peck of pickled peppers, Peter Piper picked?"

Then, finding the place in the apple where his mammoth bite had been interrupted by his inspiration, he completed the bite, eating and singing at the same time.

It was one of the great scout stunts of the season.

_This Isn't All!_

Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book?

Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author?

On the _reverse side_ of the wrapper which comes with this books you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book.

_Don't throw away the Wrapper_

_Use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. But in case you do mislay it, write to the Publishers for a complete catalog._

THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS

By PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of "Tom Slade," "Roy Blakeley," "Westy Martin," Etc.

_Ill.u.s.trated. Individual Picture Wrappers in Color. Every Volume Complete in Itself._

All readers of the Tom Slade and the Roy Blakeley books are acquainted with Pee-wee Harris. These stories record the true facts concerning his size (what there is of-it) and his heroism (such as it is), his voice, his clothes, his appet.i.te, his friends, his enemies, his victims.