Chapter VIII: A Predicament

“Humanity and kindness,” she said in finishing, “are as broad as the skies. So we planned not to confine our award to our local circle or even to Girl Scouts everywhere. There are Boy Scouts as well and we must not forget _them_.”

“There are more of them than there are Girl Scouts,” Pee-wee spoke up, “because I can prove it--”

“And their activities are reported in newspapers throughout our country--”

“They’re in _Boys’ Life_ too,” Pee-wee announced vociferously, to the great amusement of the audience.

“The Boy Scouts,” continued Sympathea, “have an award called the First Aid to Animals Badge. It is the intention of our little troop to tender the Black Beauty Cross to every scout winning that award. The first one that we are going to honor is the cousin of one of our members, Prudence Primshock; a scout from Bridgeboro, New Jersey, a star scout who has won the badge that stands for humaneness in his troop--Walter Mincepie Harris--”

“Good night, he’s disguised as a mince pie,” Grove whispered to Artie; “the plot grows thicker, as Roy would say.”

“Excuse me,” said Sympathea blushing, “I mean Walter _Woods_ Harris. I’m just a little nervous and (great and reassuring applause) I hardly know _what_ I’m saying. We all know that Boy Scouts are heroes, that their hearts are always on the left, I mean on the right, I mean they’re in the right place. Walter--Scout Harris, will you please stand up and--”

“_Hold while there is yet time!_” came a voice from the rear of the little lecture room. “Water Mincepie Harris is not what he seems! He has disgraced the beloved mince pie and he is trying to deceive you all!”

“It’s Grove Bronson!” shouted Pee-wee, jumping from his seat.

“Yes, and your patrol leader, Artie Van Arlen!” said Artie, “come to _foil_ your attempt to disguise yourself as an animal cracker, I mean an animal lover. _You_ the tyrant of the hop-toads! Don’t speak! It is too late. These people shall know the truth! They shall know what scouts, including sprouts, really are!”

By that time the people were turning around, some curious, some laughing. The meeting was small enough to be quite informal and no suggestion of rudeness seemed to attach to the sensational interruption of the ceremonies. What the people saw were two khaki-clad forms and bronzed faces, with merry mischief shining through their looks of dignity and mock anger. Sensations were not common in North Deadham. The little audience hardly knew how to take this sudden turn of affairs, when suddenly Pee-wee called in a voice of thunder.

“Did you bring my aluminum cooking set and my stalking shirt?”

That settled it for the audience. The girl scouts began to laugh, the rest followed suit; only Grove and Artie remained grimly silent and sober. They were very funny. The people, including the girls were indeed beginning to see what scouts really are; that with all their wholesome goodness they never take themselves too seriously.

“No!” said Artie, as the two made their way to the little platform. “But we brought the picture taken of you, Scout Harris, while you were branding a horse with a red hot iron, taken by Roy Blakeley as a proof--”

“He’s crazy!” yelled Pee-wee. “Did you bring my shirt? Are you hiking up to camp?”

“Oh, let us see it! Let us see it!” said Prudence excitedly.

“They didn’t bring it,” Pee-wee said, “but it’s just like the one I’ve got on only lighter color.”

“Oh, we mean the picture,” the girls all chimed in at once.

“It’s a joke!”

“Oh, isn’t it terrible!”

“He didn’t _really_ do it?”

“Let me see it.”

“Let me see it first.”

“Oh, it’s too _shocking_!”

“What does it all mean?”

By this time the Girls’ Humane Committee, as well as several other girl scouts and a fair sprinkling of the audience were crowding about Grove and Artie, looking at the large photo which they held. It was an exceptionally good photo taken with Roy’s fine camera; it was a masterpiece of his skill in photography. It showed Pee-wee in the very act of branding the horse. The girls gazed at it dumbfounded, then burst into a medley of denunciation.

“Oh, it’s perfectly terrible!”

“How could he do it?”

“When did he do it?”

“Where did he do it?”

“Why did he do it?”

“For money,” said Grove; “for a paltry ten dollars.”

Pee-wee was about to scream his denunciation of this horrible attack when he recalled his promise to his mother _never_ to tell Aunt Sophia (and that would include her household) about his disgraceful appearance on the stage with “play actors.”

“There it is,” said Artie; “look at it yourselves. It is a picture of Walter Mincepie Harris of Bridgeboro, New Jersey, branding a horse with an iron.”

There was no doubt about it. There was only one Pee-wee Harris in the world. And there he was in that picture. The girls contemplated it, amazed, speechless. Yet, of course, it must be a joke. They did not really believe.... Oh no, he would explain. Of course, he would explain, Such a silly....

“Oh, I think it’s just a perfectly _horrid_ picture,” said Miss Dorothy Docile. “How did you ever happen to have it taken? Tell us about it.”

“I--I--eh--I can’t tell you,” said Pee-wee.

“_What?_”

“I can’t tell you,” he repeated.

“You mean you _really did it_?” Miss Kindheart inquired, in frantic anxiety.

“I can’t tell you anything about it,” Pee-wee said; “so that’s all I’m going to say.”

Silence is confession. Sympathea Softe held up her arms in horrified despair. Katherine Kindheart stared at Pee-wee with surprised and stony eyes. Dorothy Docile shuddered, looking at him as if he were a curiosity. And still he was silent. He could not speak. A scout’s honor is to be trusted.

“_I can keep a secret if girls can’t!_” he suddenly shouted in mingled defense and recrimination.

“A secret,” moaned Cousin Prudence. “Oh, he did it in secret. Thank goodness, poor, dear Mother isn’t here.”

As for Grove and Artie, they had not expected this. They had promised themselves the delight of witnessing Pee-wee’s confusion and then of listening to his thundering explanation. That would have been entertainment for everybody. But there stood Pee-wee, seeming by his silence to confess his guilt; there he stood refusing to explain.

On the whole, it _was_ a blessing that Aunt Sophia was not there.