Pee-Wee Harris on the Trail | Page 2

the
hurrying pedestrians on their cheerful way to the movies were spared

that pathetic sight.
All they saw was a shabby cap and an ill-fitting sweater which bulged
in back as if something were being carried in the rear pocket. And there
he stood, a poor little figure, heedless of the merry throngs that passed,
his wistful gaze fixed upon a four-story chocolate cake, a sort of edible
skyscraper, with a tiny dome of a glazed cherry upon the top of it. And
of all the surging throng on Main Street that bleak, autumnal night,
none noticed this poor fellow.
Yes, one. A lady sitting in a big blue automobile saw him. And her
heart, tenderer than the jelly rolls in Pfiffel's window, went out to him.
Perhaps she had a little boy of her own....
CHAPTER II
A PATHETIC SIGHT
We shall pay particular attention to this sumptuous automobile which
was such as to attract attention in modest Bridgeboro. For one thing it
was of a rich shade of blue, whereas, the inhabitants of Bridgeboro
being for the most part dead, their favorite color in autos was black.
The car, indeed, was the latest super six Hunkajunk touring model, a
vision of grace and colorful beauty, set of with trimmings of shiny
nickel. The Hunkajunk people had outdone themselves in this latest
model and had produced "the car of a thousand delights." That seemed
a good many, but that is the number they announced, and surely they
must have known.
When one sat in the soft, spacious rear seat of the Hunkajunk touring
model, one felt the sensation of sinking into a--what shall I say? One
had a sort of sinking spell. You will pay particular attention to the
luxurious rear seat of this car because it was destined to be the couch of
a world hero, rivalling Cleopatra's famous barge which you will find
drifting around in the upper grade history books.
This was the only super six Hunkajunk touring car in Bridgeboro and it

belonged to the Bartletts who on this momentous night occupied its
front seat.
"Do look at that poor little fellow," said Mrs. Bartlett to her husband.
"Stop for just a second; never saw such a pathetic picture in my life!"
"Oh, what's the use stopping?" said Mr. Bartlett good-humoredly.
"Because I'm not going to the Lyric Theatre and have that poor little
hungry urchin haunting me all through the show. I don't believe he's
had anything to eat all day. Just see how he looks in that window, it's
pathetic. Poor little fellow, he may be starving for all we know. I'm
going to give him twenty-five cents; have you got the change?"
"You mean I'm going to give it to him?" laughed Mr. Bartlett, stopping
the car.
"He's just eating the things with his eyes." said Mrs. Bartlett with
womanly tenderness. "Look at that shabby sweater. Probably his father
is a drunken wretch."
"We'll be late for the show," said Mr. Bartlett.
"I don't care anything about the show," his wife retorted. "Do you
suppose I want to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway or whatever it
is? If we get there in time for the educational films, that's all I care
about. You gave money for the starving children of France. Do you
suppose I'm going to sit face to face with a little boy--starving?"
"I can't see his face," said Mr. Bartlett, "but he looks as if he had the
Woolworth Building in his back pocket."
"Little boy," Mrs. Bartlett called in her sweetest tone, "here is some
money for you. You go into that store and--gracious me, it's Walter
Harris! What on earth are you doing here, Walter? I thought you were a
poor little--I thought you were hungry."
The sturdy but diminutive form and the curly head and frowning

countenance which stood confronting her were none other than those of
Pee-wee Harris, B.S.A. (Boy of Special Appetite or Boy Scouts of
America, whichever you please), and he stared her full in the face
without shame.
"That's the time you guessed right," he said.
"I am."
CHAPTER III
THREE GOOD TURNS
"Give him the money," laughed Mr. Bartlett.
"I will do no such thing," said his wife. "I thought you were a poor little
starving urchin, Walter. Wherever did you get that sweater?"
"I don't believe he's had anything to eat for half an hour," said Mr.
Bartlett. "Well, how is my old college chum, Pee-wee? You make her
give you the twenty-five cents, Pee-wee."
"A scout can't accept money like that," said Mrs. Bartlett reprovingly,
"it's against their rules. Don't you know that?"
Pee-wee cast a longing glance back at the window of Pfiffel's Bakery
and then proceeded to set Mrs. Bartlett right on the subject of the scout
law.
"It--it