Pee-wee Harris F. O. B. Bridgeboro

<h2 id='chXXI' class='c005'>CHAPTER XXI</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c006'> <div>SUSPENSE</div> </div></div> <p class='c007'>No, it wasn’t, he had looked in the wrong place. He was so excited .&#8196;.&#8196;. There it was still, a wee little red speck.</p> <p>Hurry! Like lightning he groped his way to the gate lever, felt for the place where the cord binding ended, and fixed his teeth there. His scout knife had been arrested along with poor, faithful Liz, but he had his teeth. And he knew how to use them—oh, trust him for that.</p> <p>In a few seconds he had loosened a strand and chewed it in half. He stood on tiptoe and pulled the end up, thus unwinding the cord mechanically and saving a few precious seconds. It came away and hung like a spiral spring. He pulled it through one hand straightening it to its full length.</p> <p>Then he groped for the old magazine, here, there&nbsp;.&#8196;.&#8196;. Where in all&nbsp;.&#8196;.&#8196;. It was lying just before&nbsp;.&#8196;.&#8196;. Oh, where in&nbsp;.&#8196;.&#8196;.</p> <p>He had it. Like lightning he poured kerosene on it from the old can, then tied an end of cord around it. The old periodical was dry enough for ready ignition, surely; its yellowed pages were fairly brittle.</p> <p>All right. He hurried to the window. Now he could hear a far-distant rattling—never mind. Where was the red spot? Gone! No—there it was, hardly more than a spark .&#8196;.&#8196;. In ten more seconds .&#8196;.&#8196;. Suppose the cord wasn’t long enough .&#8196;.&#8196;.</p> <p>There was no time for any bull’s-eye practice here. In ten seconds, fifteen at most, the tiny coal .&#8196;.&#8196;. No—yes—of course the cord was long enough! “I’m—I’m—I’m always—lucky,” breathed Pee-wee. “I—I am—” He heard the whistle of a locomotive now—<i>in the east</i>. Pretty far away yet .&#8196;.&#8196;. But <i>hurry</i>!</p> <p>If the stone throwers of Barrel Alley had been there that night they would have seen something which ought to have raised the blush of shame upon their dirty faces. They would have seen little Pee-wee Harris of Terrace Avenue, Bridgeboro (where the rich sissies lived), throw a magazine. They would have seen its drift and action so nicely calculated that it alighted plunk upon a little burning ember obscuring it from view. One shot, that was enough. The little master marksman leaned far out of the window, dangling his cord, waiting.</p> <p>Waiting .&#8196;.&#8196;.</p> <hr class='c011' /> <p>There was no cover on that old magazine. But on the soaked and faded page which did duty as a cover was the smiling countenance of Posy Brazen, the famous movie star. That enchanting visage fell face down and presently a radiant spot appeared upon her cheek which would have delighted her. But suddenly it burst into flame and Posy Brazen went up in a blaze of glory.</p> <p>Quickly, like a dextrous angler, Pee-wee hauled up the magazine before the spreading flame had touched the cord. He had ready in the other hand an iron bar perhaps a yard in length which had leaned upright against the window jam and had probably been used for propping up the departed sash. He laid the burning magazine open over this bar holding it well clear of the house. Then he allowed himself a breathing spell of just a second.</p> <p>This flaming torch would do well enough for a makeshift signal, only it would not last long. Pee-wee had but one hand disengaged, but the feeling of infinite relief which came over him enabled him to do calmly what was still to be done. It was not an easy matter. With the light which his projecting torch shed in the little enclosure he was able with one hand to remove the oil receptacle from one of the red lanterns. It was much rusted but he managed it and was glad to find that the dried out wick was intact.</p> <p>The hardest part was filling the little container, which he stood on the floor under the faucet of the old oil tank, and replacing it in the lantern. But these things were camparatively easy; anything was easy now that he had his flaming signal flying, and his suspense was over.</p> <p>Yet still this sturdy little hero had a vague feeling that he would be blamed, condemned, and perhaps punished. He still felt that he was trifling with things too important for his young hands—good little scout that he was. He was doing his best, and a very glorious best it was, but he had unhinged the universe and he was still fearful and apprehensive of what would happen to <i>him</i>. From which you will see that he was not one of those self-sufficient super boys that one reads about.</p> <div class='figcenter id001'> <ANTIMG src='images/illus-005.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> <div class='ic001'> <p>Pee-wee held the burning magazine well clear of the house.</p> </div> </div> <p>The work of lighting the red lantern with his flaming torch was not easy but it was not so difficult, though he burned his fingers. This done he cast the magazine from the iron bar well clear of the little tower house. Then he tied the red lantern to the end of the bar and tried to devise a way of lodging the bar so that it would remain in its horizontal position, projecting from the window. This, with all his ingenuity, he could not do so he leaned out of the window holding the rod with his tired, nimble, little hands.</p> <p>“Anyway, gee whiz, that was a dandy inspiration,” he panted in a feeling of exquisite relief. “It shows I got a lot of resources, you bet.”</p> <p>He meant <i>resource</i> but what’s the difference?</p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />