The sound of an
automobile horn was heard in the distance. A deep, melodious, dignified
horn. Not since the passing of the six merry maidens had such welcome
music sounded in Pee-Wee's enraptured ears.
The signs had all been made fight, the ice cream had been made cold,
the sausages hot, and the ground glass had been put where it belonged.
No longer did "our taffy stick like glue." Indeed, there was no taffy
of any kind on hand, notwithstanding these blatant announcements.
Along came the automobile, an eight-cylinder Super Junkster. And,
yes, it was followed by another, and still another. Pee-Wee could see
the imposing procession as far down as the bend.
"Some detour," a good-natured voice said.
"Detour? Detour?" Pee-Wee whispered in sudden and terrible
excitement. Then, as the full purport of the staggering truth burst
upon him he issued forth from the roadside rest and contemplated the
approaching pageant with joy bubbling up like soda water in his heart.
"Never mind," said another voice, "we can get some eats in this
jungle, thank goodness. What I won't do to a couple of hot
frankfurters."
A sudden chill cooled the fresh enthusiasm of Scout Harris.
"I'll buy every blamed doughnut they've got in the place,"
somebody shouted.
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