"Here, take it," the postman said in a tone of ruthless finality.
Chewing frantically and waving the remainder of banana menacingly
like a club, the baffled hero uttered some incomprehensible, imploring
jumble of suffocated words while the postman moved away a step or two,
repressing a fiendish smile.
"Throwaway the banana," he said.
By this time Pee-Wee was able to speak and while his chewing
apparatus was momentarily disengaged he demanded to know if the
postman thought he was crazy. The postman, resolved not to miss the
fun of the situation, was not going to let Pee-Wee take another bite;
time was precious, and two more bites of the sort that Pee-Wee took
might leave his hand free.
"Take the letter," he said with an air of cold determination,
"or I'll leave it at the house. Here, take it quick; I've no time to
waste."
"Do you want me to waste a banana," Pee-Wee yelled imploringly;
"a scout is supposed--"
"Here, take it", the postman said.
There followed the most terrible moment in the life of Pee-Wee Harris,
Scout. He knew that one more bite would be fatal, that the postman would
not wait. In two bites, or in three at most, he could finish the banana
and his hand would be free.
How could a postman, who brings joy to the lonely, words of love from
far away, cheer to those who wait, comfort from across the seas, Boys'
Life Magazine--how could such a being be so relentless and cruel? If that
letter were left at the house, Pee-Wee would have to go to the house and
get it, and there his mother was lying in ambush waiting to pounce upon
him and make him mow the lawn, Why would not the postman wait for just
two bites? Maybe he could do it in one, he had consumed a peach in one
bite and a ham sandwich in four--his star record.
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