Pee Wee Harris on the Trail by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

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[Illustration: "WHO--WHO ARE--YOU?" PEE-WEE STAMMERED.]

PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL

BY
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

_Author of_

THE TOM SLADE BOOKS, THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS

ILLUSTRATED BY
H. S BARBOUR

Published with the approval of THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I THE LONE FIGURE 1
II A PATHETIC SIGHT 5
III THREE GOOD TURNS 9
IV THE FIVE REELER 15
V R-R-R-ROBBERS! 20
VI A MESSAGE IN THE DARK 24
VII LOCKED DOORS 28
VIII A DISCOVERY 32
IX THE TENTH CASE 36
X A RACE WITH DEATH 41
XI A RURAL PARADISE 45
XII ENTER THE GENUINE ARTICLE 48
XIII A FRIEND IN NEED 56
XIV SAVED! 61
XV IN CAMP 65
XVI FOOTPRINTS 74
XVII ACTION 80
XVIII THE MESSAGE 84
XIX PAGE TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-FOUR 88
XX STOP! 92
XXI SEEIN' THINGS 97
XXII HARK! THE CONQUERING HERO COMES 104
XXIII PETER FINDS A WAY 109
XXIV DESERTED 114
XXV BEDLAM 122
XXVI THE CULPRIT AT THE BAR 128
XXVII SOME NOISE 134
XXVIII ON THE TRAIL 138
XXIX VOICES 142
XXX FACE TO FACE 146
XXXI ALONE 154
XXXII ON TO BRIDGEBORO 159
XXXIII HARK! THE CONQUERING HERO COMES BACK 165
XXXIV PEE-WEE HOLDS FORTH 169
XXXV SCOUTMASTER NED DOESN'T SEE 174
XXXVI MORE HARDLING 180
XXXVII HINTS 185
XXXVIII THE FIXER 192
XXXIX BETRAYED! 197
XL GUESS AGAIN 206

ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE

"WHO--WHO ARE--YOU?" PEE-WEE STAMMERED Frontispiece
HANDWRITTEN NOTE 27
"The road is closed," said Peter. 109
PEE-WEE BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE. 130
"WE'RE NOT MINERS, WE'RE SCOUTS!" PEE-WEE SHOUTED. 202

PEE-WEE HARRIS ON THE TRAIL

CHAPTER I

THE LONE FIGURE

The night was bleak and cold. All through the melancholy, cheerless day,
the first chill of autumn had been in the air. Toward evening the clouds
had parted, showing a steel-colored sky in which the sun went down a
great red ball, tinting the foliage across the river with a glow of
crimson. A sun full of rich light but no heat.

The air was heavy with the pungent fragrance of burning leaves. The
gutters along Main Street were full of these fluttering, red memorials
of the good old summer-time.

But there were other signs that the melancholy days had come. Down at
the Bridgeboro station was a congestion of trunks and other luggage
bespeaking the end of the merry play season. And saddest of all, the
windows of the stationery stores were filled with pencil-boxes and blank
books and other horrible reminders of the opening of school.

Look where one would, these signs confronted the boys of Bridgeboro, and
there was no escaping them. Even the hardware store had straps and tin
lunch boxes now filling its windows, the same window where fishing rods
and canoe paddles had lately been displayed.

Even the man who kept the shoe store had turned traitor and gathered up
his display of sneaks and scout moccasins, and exhibited in their places
a lot of school shoes. "Sensible footwear for the student" he called
them. Even the drug store where mosquito dope and ice cream sodas had
been sold now displayed a basket full of small sponges for the sanitary
cleansing of slates. The faithless wretch who kept this store had put a
small sign on the basket reading, "For the classroom." One and all, the
merchants of Main Street had gone over to the Board of Education and all
signs pointed to school.

But the most pathetic sight to be witnessed on that sad, chill, autumn
night, was the small boy in a threadbare gray sweater and shabby cap who
stood gazing wistfully into the seductive windows of Pfiffel's Home
Bakery. The sight of him standing there with his small nose plastered
against the glass, looking with silent yearning upon the jelly rolls and
icing cakes, was enough to arouse pity in the coldest heart.

Only the rear of this poor, hungry little fellow could be seen from the
street, and if his face was pale and gaunt from privation and want, the
hurrying pedestrians on their cheerful way to the movies were spared
that pathetic sight.

All they saw was a shabby cap and an ill-fitting sweater which bulged in
back as if something were being carried in the rear pocket. And there he
stood, a poor little figure, heedless of the merry throngs that passed,
his wistful gaze fixed upon a four-story chocolate cake, a sort of
edible skyscraper, with a tiny dome of a glazed cherry upon the top of
it. And of all the surging throng on Main Street that bleak, autumnal
night, none noticed this poor fellow.

Yes, one. A lady sitting in a big blue automobile saw him. And her
heart, tenderer than the jelly rolls in Pfiffel's window, went out to
him. Perhaps she had a little _boy_ of her own....

CHAPTER II

A PATHETIC SIGHT

We shall pay particular attention to this sumptuous automobile which was
such as to attract attention in modest Bridgeboro. For one thing it was
of a rich shade of blue, whereas, the inhabitants of Bridgeboro being for
the most part dead, their favorite color in autos was black.

The car, indeed, was the latest super six Hunkajunk touring model, a
vision of grace and colorful beauty, set of with trimmings of shiny
nickel. The Hunkajunk people had outdone themselves in this latest model
and had produced "the car of a thousand delights." That seemed a good
many, but that is the number they announced, and surely they must have
known.

When one sat in the soft, spacious rear seat of the Hunkajunk touring
model, one felt the sensation of sinking into a--what shall I say? One
had a sort of sinking spell. You will pay particular attention to the
luxurious rear seat of this car because it was destined to be the couch
of a world hero, rivalling Cleopatra's famous barge which you will find
drifting around in the upper grade history books.

This was the only super six Hunkajunk touring car in Bridgeboro and it
belonged to the Bartletts who on this momentous night occupied its front
seat.

"Do look at that poor little fellow," said Mrs. Bartlett to her husband.
"Stop for just a second; _never_ saw such a pathetic picture in my
_life_!"

"Oh, what's the use stopping?" said Mr. Bartlett good-humoredly.

"Because I'm not going to the Lyric Theatre and have that poor little
hungry urchin haunting me all through the show. I don't believe he's had
_anything_ to eat all day. Just see how he looks in that window, it's
_pathetic_. Poor little fellow, he may be _starving_ for all we know.
I'm going to give him twenty-five cents; have you got the change?"

"You mean _I'm_ going to give it to him?" laughed Mr. Bartlett, stopping
the car.

"He's just _eating_ the things with his _eyes_." said Mrs. Bartlett
with womanly tenderness. "Look at that shabby sweater. Probably his
father is a drunken wretch."

"We'll be late for the show," said Mr. Bartlett.

"I don't care anything about the show," his wife retorted. "Do you
suppose I want to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway or whatever it is?
If we get there in time for the educational films, that's all I care
about. You gave money for the starving children of France. Do you
suppose I'm going to sit face to face with a little boy--_starving?_"

"I can't see his face," said Mr. Bartlett, "but he looks as if he had
the Woolworth Building in his back pocket."

"Little boy," Mrs. Bartlett called in her sweetest tone, "here is some
money for you. You go into that store and--_gracious me_, it's Walter
Harris! What on earth are you doing here, Walter? I thought you were a
poor little--I thought you were hungry."

The sturdy but diminutive form and the curly head and frowning
countenance which stood confronting her were none other than those of
Pee-wee Harris, B.S.A. (Boy of Special Appetite or Boy Scouts of
America, whichever you please), and he stared her full in the face
without shame.

"That's the time you guessed right," he said.

"I am."

CHAPTER III

THREE GOOD TURNS

"Give him the money," laughed Mr. Bartlett.

"I will do no such thing," said his wife. "I thought you were a poor
little starving urchin, Walter. Wherever did you get that sweater?"

"I don't believe he's had anything to eat for half an hour," said Mr.
Bartlett. "Well, how is my old college chum, Pee-wee? You make her give
you the twenty-five cents, Pee-wee."

"A scout can't accept money like that," said Mrs. Bartlett reprovingly,
"it's against their rules. Don't you know that?"

Pee-wee cast a longing glance back at the window of Pfiffel's Bakery and
then proceeded to set Mrs. Bartlett right on the subject of the scout
law.

"It--it depends on what you call rides; see?'" he said.

"And on what you call hungry," added Mr. Bartlett.

"If--if you--kind of--want to do a good turn, I haven't got any right
to stop you, have I?" Pee-wee said. "Because good turns are the main
things. Gee whiz, I haven't got any right to interfere with those. I
haven't got any right to accept money for a service, but
suppose--suppose there's a jelly roll--"

"There is," said Mr. Bartlett, "but in two minutes there isn't going to
be. You go in and get that jelly roll as a favor to Mrs. Bartlett And
hurry up back and we'll take you to the Lyric."

"I was going there anyway," Pee-wee said, "I want to see The Bandit of
Harrowing Highway, it's in five reels."

"Well, you come along with us," said Mr. Bartlett, "and then you'll be
doing two good turns. You'll be doing a favor to Mrs. Bartlett by buying
a jelly roll and you'll be doing a favor to me by making a party of
three to see The Bandit of Harrowing Highway. What do you say?"

"Three's my lucky number," said Pee-wee. Then, suddenly bethinking
himself he added, "but I don't mean I want to get three jelly
rolls--you understand."

"Yes, we understand," said Mrs. Bartlett.

So it befell that Pee-wee, alias Walter Harris, scout of the first class
(in quality if not in quantity) found himself riding luxuriously down
Main Street in the rear seat of Mr. Bartlett's big Hunkajunk touring
car, eating a jelly roll with true scout relish, for it was now close to
eight o'clock and Pee-wee had not eaten anything since supper-time.
Having completed this good turn to Mrs. Bartlett he proceeded to do a
good turn to himself by bringing forth two sandwiches out of the pocket
usually associated with a far more dangerous weapon. This was his
emergency kit which he always carried. Morning, noon, or night, he
always carried a couple of sandwiches the same as motorists carry extra
tires.

And while he ate he talked. "Gee whiz, I'm crazy to see that picture,"
he said.

"We usually go for the educational films," said Mrs. Bartlett.

"I don't like anything that's got education in it," Pee-wee said. "Even
when I go to vaudeville I don't like educated monkeys and cats and
things. I like bandits and things like that. What's your favorite
thing?"

"Well, I like scouts," said Mr. Bartlett.

"Mine's ice cream cones," said Pee-wee. "Is this a new car? I bet I know
what kind it is, it's a Hunkajunk. I like hot frankfurters too. I can
tell all the different kinds of cars because a scout is supposed to be
observant. Do you like gumdrops? I'm crazy about those."

"But where did you get that sweater?" Mrs. Bartlett asked.

"Do you want me to tell you about it? It belongs to the man that takes
care of our furnace; he's got a peach of a tattoo mark on his arm. My
mother told me I had to wear a sweater so I grabbed that as I went
through the back hall. I always go out through the kitchen, do you know
why?"

"I think I can guess," said Mr. Bartlett.

"And the cap?" Mrs. Bartlett asked.

"You know the burglar that came to our house?"

"No, I never met him," said Mrs. Bartlett.

"I bet you don't like burglars, hey? He left this cap. He didn't get
anything and I got the cap so that shows I'm always lucky. My mother
doesn't want me to wear it. Gee whiz, she hates burglars. Anyway, it's
good and comfortable. My father says if he comes back for it I have to
give it to him."

"Well, you certainly don't look like Walter Harris, the boy scout I have
always known," said Mrs. Bartlett.

"Don't you care," said Pee-wee. "If you're a scout you're a scout, no
matter if you don't wear anything."

"Oh, how dreadful," said Mrs. Bartlett.

"I know worse things than that," said Pee-wee.

"Well, tell us about the scouts," Mr. Bartlett encouraged him.

"Shall I tell you all about them?"

"Surely, begin at the beginning."

"That's law one, it's about honor; do you know what that is?"

"I've heard of it," said Mr. Bartlett.

"A scout has to be honorable, see? That comes first of all."

"Before eating?"

"Eating is all the way through it."

"Oh, I see."

"A scout has to be so--kind of--you know, so honorable that nobody could
suspect him, see? If you're a scout that means that everybody knows
you're all right. There are a lot of other laws too."

"Well, here we are at the Lyric," said Mr. Bartlett, "so let's go in and
see what The Bandit of Harrowing Highway thinks about honor."

Leaving the car in front of the theatre the three elbowed their way
through the long, crowded lobby and soon Pee-wee Harris, scout, was no
longer in Bridgeboro but among rugged mountains where a man with a
couple of pistols in his belt and a hat as big as an umbrella reined up
a spirited horse and waited for a caravan and all that sort of stuff....

CHAPTER IV

THE FIVE REELER

And meanwhile something very real happened. Two men in khaki, but
without any pistols in their belts, rode slowly up to the front of the
Lyric Theatre in a big blue touring car and stopped.

It was one of those palatial cars "of a thousand delights," a new super
six Hunkajunk touring model. A couple of policemen, safeguarding the
public's convenience, had moved the Bartlett car beyond the main
entrance in the interest of late comers and it was in this vacated space
that the second medley of blue and nickel was now thoughtlessly parked.
No cars came along after it so there it remained with a little group of
admirers about it.

The few loiterers in the lobby glanced curiously at the two young men.
These strangers strode in laughing in a way of mutual banter, as if
their sudden decision to see the show was quite amusing to themselves.

No one recognized them; they must have come from out of town. They wore
khaki suits, with flapping brimmed hats of a color to match and their
faces were brown with the wholesome, permanent tan of outdoor life. They
seemed greatly amused with themselves and their breezy manner and
negligee which smacked of the woods attracted the attention of
Bridgeboro's staff of unpaid censors who hung out in and about the
Lyric's lobby. But little, apparently, did the strangers care what was
said and thought of them.

One of them bought the tickets, to the hearty indignation of the other,
and they disappeared into the terrible fastnesses along Harrowing
Highway where they tumbled boisterously into a couple of seats off the
center aisle, "right within pistol shot of the bandit," as one of them
laughingly remarked to the other.

In the last reel the bandit was captured by a sheriff's posse, the young
school teacher from the east whom he had villainously kidnapped was set
free and went to live on a ranch with the hero who also carried several
pistols, and the detective whom the millionaire had sent from the east
(and who likewise carried several pistols) became a train robber and
nearly killed the millionaire whom he met in the middle of the desert
(carrying pistols) and who killed him instead and was in turn mortally
wounded by the partner he had ruined and who had nothing left but
several pistols.

And then Scout Harris fell asleep, and slept through the first part of
the educational films. In a kind of jumbled dream he saw President
Harding (with pistols) receiving a delegation of ladies (all armed) and
then he felt a tapping on his shoulder.

"Walter," Mrs. Bartlett whispered pleasantly, "if you don't care about
these pictures why don't you just go out and curl up in the back of the
car and have a _real_ good nap. Then when we come out we'll all stop and
have some cream before we go home and we'll leave you at your house."

Pee-wee was too sleepy to answer; his mind Was awake to but two things,
ice cream and pistols. In a kind of stupor he looked to make sure that
Mrs. Bartlett was not armed and then, dragging himself from his seat he
stumbled up the aisle, through the lobby, across the sidewalk, and
tumbled into the rear seat of the big car that seemed waiting to receive
him. He was just awake enough to realize that the night was cold and he
pulled the heavy blanket over him and was dead to the world.

Many adventures awaited this redoubtable young scout but one terrible
ordeal he escaped. In this he was, as he had said, lucky. For the very
next picture on the screen after he had made his half-conscious exit,
showed a lot of children in Europe being fed out of the munificent hand
of Uncle Sam. And Pee-wee could never have stayed in his seat and
quietly watched that tormenting performance.

CHAPTER V

R-R-R-ROBBERS!

Scout Harris never knew exactly when he passed out of the realm of
dreams into the realm of wakefulness, for in both conditions pistols
played a leading part. He was aware of a boy scout holding Secretary
Hoover at bay with two pistols and Mr. Ellsworth, his scoutmaster,
rescuing the statesman with several more pistols. And then he was very
distinctly aware of someone saying,

"How many pistols have you got?"

"Twenty-seven," another voice answered.

"I've got forty-three and two blackjacks," said the first voice.

"You're wrong," said the other.

"I jotted them down," the first voice replied.

"We should worry," the other one laughed.

At this appalling revelation of seventy pistols between them, to say
nothing of two blackjacks, there seemed indeed very little for the
speakers to worry about. But for Scout Harris, whose whole stock of
ammunition consisted of a remnant of sandwich and the almost naked core
of an apple, there seemed much to worry about.

Pee-wee realized now that he was awake and being borne along at an
excessive rate of speed. He knew that he was in Bartlett's big Hunkajunk
car and that the dark figures with all the firearms on the front seat
were not Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett.

Trembling, he spread the robe so as the more completely to cover his
small form including his head. For a moment he had a wild impulse to
cast this covering off and scream, or at least, to jump from the
speeding car. But a peek from underneath the robe convinced him of the
folly of this. To jump would be to lose his life; to scream--well, what
chance would he have with two bloodthirsty robbers armed with seventy
pistols and two blackjacks? There were few boy scouts who could despatch
an apple core with such accuracy of aim as W. Harris, but of what avail
is an apple core against seventy pistols?

He could not hear all that was said on the front seat but the fragments
of talk that he did hear were alarming in the last degree.

"--best way to handle them," said one of those dark figures.

"I've got a couple of dead ones to worry about," said the other.

Pee-wee curled up smaller under the robe and hardly breathed. Indeed two
dead ones was something to worry about. Suppose--suppose _he_ should be
the third!

"One for me, but I'm not worrying about him," said the other.

"We'll get away with it," his companion commented.

Then followed some talk which Pee-wee could not hear, but he felt
certain that it was on their favorite topic of murder. Then he overheard
these dreadful, yet comparatively consoling words:

"Trouble with him is he always wants to kill; he's gun crazy. Take them
if you want to, but what's the use killing? That's what I said to him."

"Steal--"

"Oh sure, that's just what I told him," the speaker continued; "steal
up--"

"Step on it," the other interrupted, "we're out in the country now."

The big super six Hunkajunk car darted forward and Scout Harris could
hear the purring of the big engine as the machine sped along through the
solemn darkness. A momentary, cautious glimpse from under the big robe
showed him that they were already far from the familiar environs of
Bridgeboro, speeding along a lonely country road.

Now and then they whizzed past some dark farmhouse, or through some
village in which the law abiding citizens had gone to their beds.
Occasionally Pee-wee, peeking from beneath the robe, saw cheerful lights
shining in houses along the way and in his silent terror and
apprehension he fancied these filled with boy scouts in the full
enjoyment of scout freedom; scouts who were in no danger of being added
to some bloody list of dead ones.

That he, Pee-wee Harris, mascot of the Raven Patrol, First Bridgeboro
Troop, should have come to this! That he should be carried away by a
pair of inhuman wretches, to what dreadful fate he shuddered to
conjecture. That _he_, Scout Harris, whose reputation for being wide
awake had gone far and wide in the world of scouting, should be carried
away unwittingly by a pair of thieves and find himself in imminent peril
of being added to that ghastly galaxy of "dead ones." It was horrible.

Pee-wee curled up under the robe so as to disarm any suspicion of a
human form beneath that thick, enveloping concealment and even breathed
with silent caution. Suppose--_suppose_--oh horrors--suppose he should
have to sneeze!

CHAPTER VI

A MESSAGE IN THE DARK

Pee-wee seldom had any doubts about anything. What he knew he _knew_.
And what is still better, he knew that he knew it. No one ever had to
remind Pee-wee that he knew a thing. He not only knew it and knew that
he knew it, but he knew that everybody that he knew, knew that he knew
it. As he said himself, he was "absolutely positive."

Pee-wee knew all about scouting; oh, everything. He knew how and where
tents should be put up and where spring water was to be found. He did
not know all about the different kinds of birds, but he knew all about
the different kinds of eats, and there are more kinds of eats than there
are kinds of birds. How the Bridgeboro troop would be able to get along
without their little mascot was a question. For he was their "fixer."
That was his middle name--"fixer."

And of all of the things of which Pee-wee was "absolutely positive" the
thing of which he was the _most_ positive was that two thieves connected
with the "crime wave" were riding away in Mr. Bartlett's big Hunkajunk
"touring model" and carrying him (a little scout model) along with them.

What should he do? Being a scout, he took council of his wits and
decided to write on a page of his hikebook a sentence saying that he was
being carried away by thieves, giving his name and address, and cast
this overboard as a shipwrecked sailor puts a message in a bottle. Then
someone would find the message and come to rescue him.

But with what should he weight his fluttering message, so that it would
fall in the road? Pee-wee was a scout of substance and had amassed a
vast fortune in the way of small possessions. He owned the cap of a
fountain pen, a knob from a brass bedstead, two paper clips, a horse's
tooth, a broken magnifying glass, a device for making noises in the
classroom, a clock key, a glass tube, a piece of chalk for making scout
signs, and other treasures. But these were in the pockets of his scout
uniform and could be of no service to him in his predicament.

The only trinket which he had was the fragment of a sandwich. Having
reduced this, by a generous bite, to one-half its size, he wrote his
note as well as he could without moving too much. One deadly weapon he
had with him and that was a safety pin. With this he now pierced the
piece of sandwich to the heart, linking it forever with that note
written tremblingly in a moment of forlorn hope and utter darkness,
under the kindly concealment of the buffalo robe.

On the opposite page is the note and how it looked.

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