Pee-wee Harris was a scout. Laugh at him and make fun of him as you
will, he was a scout. He was at once the littlest scout and the biggest
scout that ever scouting had known. He boasted and bungled, but out of
his bungling came triumph. He fell, oh such falls as he fell! But he
always landed right side up. He could save the world with a blunder. And
then boast of the blunder.

He was not a motorist, he was a scout. Wrong or right (and he was
usually wrong), he was a scout. He was a scout with something left
over. Like a flash of lightning he jumped into the car and shut off the
switch, but the imprisoned air was already heavy with the deadly fumes
and his head swam. Shutting off the switch would not save him; nothing
would save him unless his mind and body acted together with lightning
swiftness.

Say that he made a "bull" of it in starting the engine, and you are
welcome to say that of him. But after that the spirit and training of
the scout possessed him. _You_, with all respect to you, would have died
a frightful death in that black prison.

Pee-wee Harris, scout, tore his handkerchief from around his cut finger,
unscrewed the cap of the radiator, dipped his handkerchief into the
hole, bit off two small pieces of the warm, dripping cloth, and stuffed
them into his ears. The wet handkerchief he stuffed into his mouth. And
so Scout Harris gained a few precious moments, _only a few_, in which to
make a desperate effort to find a way out!

You would have forgotten about the radiator full of water, I dare
say....