Pee-Wee Harris Adrift | Page 4

wistful and rather pathetic little figure that Mrs. Bennett
discovered upon the porch.

"Connie? Oh gracious, he's been gone an hour, dear," she said. "They
all went away with Mr. Collins in his auto. I told him he must be back
for supper. How is it you're not with them, Walter?"
"I--I ain't in that patrol," said Pee-wee; "it goes by patrols. Anyway I'm
sorry I troubled you."
He turned and went down the steps and picking up a stick drew it
across the slats of a fence as he went up the street. The outlandish noise
seemed to act as a balm to his disappointment and to keep him
company.
CHAPTER III
CASTLES IN THE AIR
The lonesomeness of Robinson Crusoe on his desert island was nothing
compared to the lonesomeness of Pee-wee on that Saturday morning.
He might have attached himself to any of the three patrols and had a
day's pleasure, but his pride had stood in the way.
He had always been something of a free lance in the troop and been
regarded as a troop institution. But there had always been his official
place among the Ravens waiting for him whenever it suited his wanton
fancy to return like a prodigal to the fold. Now, in the pleasant
springtime with the troop divided for the summer rivalries, he found
himself quite isolated.
No one was to blame for this; a scout must be in one patrol or another,
and if all patrols are full then he must make himself the nucleus of a
new one. That is what Mr. Ellsworth had told Pee-wee.
"Gee whiz, nucleuses aren't so easy to be, that's one thing," Pee-wee
muttered to himself as he bent his aimless way in the direction of
Barrel Alley. "Maybe he thinks it's easy to be a nucleus. Nucleuses are
hard to be, I'll tell the world. Anyway I can be a pioneer scout, that's
one thing. You don't have to be a nucleus or anything to be one of those.
They don't have to bother with patrols, they don't, they're lucky."

He ambled along kicking a stone before him in a disconsolate,
disgruntled way. He followed it wherever it went, ever and again
kicking it back onto the sidewalk; the simple pastime seemed to afford
him infinite relief. And meanwhile, glowing visions arose in his mind,
such visions as no one but a poet or a lonely boy on a Saturday
morning in the springtime could possibly have.
No one had injured him in the least, he was liked by all, he was simply
the unhappy victim of circumstances. But in a mood of heroic
retaliation against the troop he pictured himself as a pioneer scout
residing aloof in a grim tower, surrounded by wireless apparatus and
covered with merit badges. Scouts from all over the world would make
pilgrimages to his obscure retreat for a timid glimpse of the mysterious
hero.
The glowing vision was somewhat marred by his conception of himself
eating a huge sandwich as he looked down from his parapet upon the
worshipping throng below. Roy Blakeley would be down there among
the others, his jollying propensity subdued by a feeling of awe as he
gazed at the great scout hermit, the famous pioneer scout who sent
messages to lesser scouts the world over. They would whisper, "he
looks just like his pictures in Boys' Life," and he would smile down on
them and . . .
Plunk! The pioneer scout had collided with a man on the sidewalk and
he returned to Bridgeboro with a suddenness that surprised even
himself.
"Excuse me," he said.
"Certainly," said the man.
Pee-wee recovered his rock, and began kicking it along the sidewalk
again. "I'll show them," he said moodily.
He was about to ascend his scout throne again and engage in the
gracious pastime of receiving delegations of common, ordinary scouts
in his dim, wooded domain when he found himself at the edge of a

region which was not in the least like the romantic wilderness of his
vision. This was Barrel Alley, the habitat of Jimmy Mattenburg and
Sweet Caporal and the McNulty twins.
Barrel Alley was the slum neighborhood of Bridgeboro and it was not
very large. But it was large enough. Pee-wee explored the crooked,
muddy, sordid street, gazing wistfully here and there for possible
recruits. But no human material was to be seen. The older boys were
playing craps in Dennahan's lot and the smaller boys were watching
them. One lonely sentinel was perched on the fence scanning the
horizon for cops. For this he received the regular union pay of a stale
apple-core.
He was an unkempt urchin with an aggressive and challenging
countenance, but he had solved several problems in economy. One of
these was the entire elimination