Be Prepared. Pee-Wee glanced at the bare counter and the empty jars
and the shiny dishpan which held nothing but Pepsy's ball of worsted and
the terrible ornamental thing that she was knitting. There they were,
just as she had laid them the day before. Poor little Pepsy. ...
Then they descended upon him as only hungry scouts can descend.
Pee-Wee's glowing promises which decorated the woods (and which he
could not fulfill) had brought the party to a state of distraction.
It was a big Crackerjack touring car overflowing with scouts and
driven by a smiling scoutmaster. It seemed as if they ought to have
been pressed in and down with a shovel like ice cream in a quart box.
"For the love of--" one of them began.
"Look what's here, it's a scout."
"That?" shouted another, "Let's have the magnifying glass, will you?"
Pee-Wee straightened himself up to his full
height. The big Crackerjack touring car stopped.
"Some detour," the scoutmaster said with an air of infinite relief.
"Do they have scouts down here?" a member of the party asked.
"I'm only staying here, I belong in Bridgeboro, New Jersey,"
Pee-Wee said.
"Don't talk about bridges," another scout said.
"Talk about something pleasant. A scout is supposed to save life,
scout law number six; let's have a couple of thousand hot dogs, will
you? We're dying.
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