everett braggen ran his ford to the side of the road, and came toward the partners smiling all over. he was in the transition period when sometimes he wore short trousers and sometimes long ones, and on this day, unfortunately he wore long ones. this made him look considerably older than on the day when pee-wee had encountered him in the snailsdale station. his suit must have been a different one than he had worn on that occasion, but his handkerchief was folded in precisely the same stiff fashion of affected carelessness exhibiting its border.

“well—i’ll—be—jiggered!” he said, affecting not to see hope, but at the same time adjusting his scarf by a little pull, in honor of her. he also made sure that his handkerchief was properly disposed for exhibition. “what—do—you—know—about—that? i was just out taking a little spin to get away from the traffic cops when who should i see but you? how are you, kiddo? so this is goodale farm, huh?” he added, looking around and giving his scarf another artistic little jerk so that it stuck out.

“and what the dickens are you up to?” he asked, planting himself in front of the float as if he might possibly be induced to buy it. “great kids, these boy scouts, hey?” he did not address this last remark to any one in particular. by way of showing how far removed he was from a boy scout he sat down on a box and carefully gave each trouser leg a little hoist, then contemplated his ankles.

“it’s just sort of killing time,” hope said, rather apologetically. “anything’s better than nothing.”

pee-wee was a little disappointed at that. “we’re going in the parade,” he said, “and we’re going to try for the prize; this is my partner, ain’t you, hope?”

this was all the introduction that he received, but it was all he required.

“some artist, hey?” he commented, alluding to pee-wee.

“it’s all we could find to do in this poky old place,” said hope, as if a little ashamed of her participation in the decorative enterprise. she stood, as if rather abashed by braggen’s derisive inspection of their handiwork, a hammer dangling from one hand and a strip of bunting hanging over her shoulder.

pee-wee felt disappointed, almost betrayed. he had always the courage of his convictions, and as for acknowledging defeat before the end of battle, his sturdy little heart rebelled at such a thing.

“it isn’t finished yet,” he said; “it’s going to be a good deal better than this. there’s a—a kind of a secret about it—something that’s going to be inside of it—you wait till you see it in the parade. there’s an inspiration that goes with it,” he added, darkly.

everett braggen winked significantly at hope and she smiled. both the work and the smile were at pee-wee’s expense.

“you ought to see the float we’re going to shoot into the parade,” said the visitor; “it’s a traveling landscape. yours, sincerely, is going to be sitting on the lawn playing cards while we roll merrily, merrily on. the girls up at the snailsdale house—that’s my little old hang-out—they can’t eat their meals on account of getting that float ready. they’ve got us trotting over to the village store forty-eleven times a day. every person in the house put up two bucks. our float’s going to be a whole parade in itself.”

“i bet your float hasn’t got a sign on it as big as this one,” pee-wee said, seizing upon the most conspicuous feature of the float and hurling it, as it were, as a sort of bomb.

hope looked ruefully at the enormous sign as braggen read the words aloud. she caught the note of ridicule in his voice and seemed to join him in his implied derision.

“goodale manor farm” he read. “wherever you go around this neighborhood you find manners—snailsdale manor, goodale manor—”

“it’s a wonder you don’t have some yourself,” pee-wee vociferated.

“oh, aren’t you perfectly horrible!” hope said. but braggen only laughed.

“are there many boys at the snailsdale house?” hope asked. “and girls,” she added, to make her query seem less brazen.

“oh, a couple of guys beside myself,” said braggen, pinching the treasured crease in one trouser leg and giving it a little hitch. “one of ’em’s got a kid sister about fourteen. we’re a pretty lively bunch. there are a couple of chaps from hydome university coming up pretty soon—”

“college boys?” hope asked excitedly.

“tennis sharks,” braggen said; “do you go in for tennis much?”

“oh, i just love it.”

“i’m not so stuck on it; i’m out in my car most of the time.”

“is that your car out there?”

“that’s him; small but lively; can’t hold him in.”

“i bet you can’t tell what kind of tires a car has by the tracks,” pee-wee said, wedging his observation into the talk. “scout’s can.”

“i should bother my young life about tracks,” laughed braggen. “i’ll tell you about that pair,” he continued, speaking to hope, to pee-wee’s utter exclusion. “we’re not saying much about it up at the house, but i don’t suppose it makes any difference what i tell down in this graveyard.”

hope laughed.

“they’re hydome boys and they’re cracker-jack tennis players. so you see we’re booked to walk away with the tennis match, too. say, if the town hall wasn’t nailed down, snailsdale house would walk away with that, too. we’ve got a russian pianist coming up, too, long hair and all that sort of thing; you’ve got to pronounce his name in sections—”

“i know a feller that’s got a name with five syllables,” pee-wee interrupted, in a kind of defiance.

“there’s a rich old guy coming, too,” said braggen. “we’ll be whooping things up in a couple of weeks or so. kind of quiet down here, huh? something like being dead.”

“how do you know, because you were never dead?” pee-wee shouted, at which hope and braggen both laughed.

“some kid, huh?” the visitor said.

“he’s a scream,” hope whispered.

“why don’t you come up and stay at the snailsdale house?” everett braggen asked. “there are a couple of rooms vacant now. you here with your folks?”

“just my mother,” hope said; “she’s run down.”

“well, snailsdale house is the place to get wound up, take it from me. we keep going all right up there—keep the old victrola going overtime. do you dance?”

“you bet i do.”

“well, i’d like to know what you’re doing down here then—”

“she knows more about—about woodlore than you do,” pee-wee shouted, loyal to his pal. but hope was not aware of his loyalty; she was thinking of the snailsdale house with its whirl of gayety—and its victrola.

“are they coming soon, those bo—those people?”

“sure, next saturday; same day as the parade; they’ll just miss it. i think they’re all coming on the same day.”

“if we win the prize we’re going to buy a victrola,” pee-wee announced, in a sudden inspiration, “and then we can have dances here, hey?” he looked almost imploringly at hope. she was sitting on a milk stool which she had been using to stand on; her gaze was on the ground, and she was tracing lines in the dirt with her little foot.

“so you think you’ll win the prize, do you?” everett braggen asked, patronizingly.

“sure, because i’m lucky,” said pee-wee.

neither everett braggen nor hope stillmore caught these momentous words. hope was too preoccupied with visions of russian pianists and college boys and dances. everett braggen was too much preoccupied with himself. so neither took to heart those words of defiant confidence uttered by this little outsider....

girls might come and go, but pee-wee’s luck would not forsake him. and it would have been well for miss hope stillmore if she could have but known that.