Here was a
miracle indeed, compared with which the prophecies and spooky
adventures of Licorice Stick were as nothing. And to win two hundred
and fifty dollars by such a supernatural feat was staggering to her
simple mind.
Licorice Stick's encounters with "sperrits" had never brought him a
cent. But deliberately to sacrifice this fabulous sum in the interest
of a poor little invalid that he had never seen, made Pee-Wee not
only a prophet but a saint to poor Pepsy. If scouts did things like
this they were certainly extraordinary creatures. To give two hundred
and fifty dollars to a person who has boxed your ears and then to go
merrily upon your way in quest of new triumphs, that Pepsy could not
understand.
The whole business had transpired so quickly that Pepsy had only seen
the two hundred and fifty dollars flying in the air, as it were, and
now they were poor again, even before they had realized their riches.
And there was Pee-Wee sitting on the counter of their unprofitable
little roadside rest, with his knees drawn up, sucking a lemon stick
(which apparently no one else wanted) and discoursing on the subject
of good turns generally. There seemed to be nothing in his life now
but the lemon stick.
"You think girls can't do good turns, don't you?" Pepsy queried
wistfully.
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