The world seemed to be making a pathway, of rather a highway,
to Pee-Wee's door. The sequestered, overgrown road, with its
intertwined and overarching boughs, was become a surging thoroughfare.
The birds, formally unmolested in their wonted haunts, complained to
one another of this sudden intrusion into their domains. Away back
where this obscure road branched off the highway to furnish the
unfrequented access to Everdoze and Berryville, a sign had been placed
that morning with an arrow pointing toward the depths of the Everdoze
jungle.
DETOUR -->
HIGHWAY CLOSED. FOLLOW
YELLOW ARROWS.
These yellow arrows appeared at intervals along the Everdoze road,
thus guiding the motorist back to the highway at a point a mile or two
below the gap where the bridge had been. Everdoze was on the map now
in dead earnest. The little hamlet nestling in its wooded valley was
destined to review such a procession of Pierce-Arrows, and Packards,
and Cadillacs, aye and Fords and jitney busses, as it had never
dreamed of in all its humble career.
Who was responsible for this? Or was accident responsible? Who,
if anyone, by the mere touching of a match had started a blaze which,
would illuminate poor little Everdoze? Everdoze had gone to bed
(at eight P.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129