“Even if they should see us or hear us,” Pee-wee encouraged, “they wouldn’t dare come after it, because it isn’t theirs. They thought nobody would ever find it in here. It’s good I was on the inside, hey?”
“That’s the place to be,” said Mr. Swiper.
“You bet it is,” said Pee-wee. “Were you ever locked in a place?”
To this purely personal question, Mr. Swiper made no reply; Instead he walked about the car thoughtfully, then climbed into the front seat and turned on the dash-light. He seemed to know what he was doing. Pee-wee did not wait but excitedly climbed in beside him.
“Gee whiz, a feller’s got to have nerve to steal a car, hasn’t he?” he asked, unable in his elation to keep still.
“That’s what,” said Mr. Swiper briefly.
“It—it kind of—sort of—makes us feel like thieves, taking it,” Pee-wee commented, looking about him rather fearfully, “but anyway we’ve got a right to, that’s one sure thing.... Haven’t we?”
“And it’s all right, that’s one sure thing. Oh boy, I’m glad I met you and you’ll get as much credit as I do, that’s sure. Anyway, we’ve got a right to take it away from the thieves, I hope. Gee, nobody can deny that. Anyway, I guess you don’t feel scary.”
“Guess they won’t follow us,” said Mr. Swiper. “Not if they know what’s well for them. Thieves don’t come after you, they run away from you.”
“You bet they do,” said Pee-wee, delighted at his new friend’s rather generous contribution to the talk.
The engine now purred softly, the silent shifting into reverse gear told the young rescuer that a practiced hand was at the wheel. Slowly the big car backed out of the building and around till it headed into the dark over-grown road.
“You didn’t put the lights on,” Pee-wee said.
“Time enough for that,” said his companion, who seemed quite accustomed to driving in the dark.
Presently the big super six Hunkajunk touring model was rolling silently along through the woods, rescued, saved! Soon to be restored to its rightful owner by W. Harris, scout, B.S.A.
By the dash-light, Pee-wee obtained a first glimpse of his companion’s face. There was nothing in particular about him, save a long, diagonal scar on his face which Pee-wee thought might have been caused by some tool in the ruined manual training room. The young man had also very short hair; it was so short, in fact, that it seemed almost like no hair at all. It was like a convict’s hair.
The light which Pee-wee had seen across the water was not on a boat as he had supposed. It was on a small island the very name of which would have delighted his heart, for it was called Frying-pan Island, because of its rough similarity of form to that delightful accessory of camp life. If Scout Harris could have eaten a waffle out of such a frying-pan he would have felt that he had not lived in vain.