nineteenth centuries to get to it. He was no longer a pioneer scout
now, nor a scout at all, but a doughty explorer about to set foot for
the first time on soil that white man had never trod before.

He sank farther down in his chair as he voyaged afar. He was soon out
of sight of land and almost out of sight of the few readers in that
drowsy old library. He continued to sink lower and lower in his chair
as if he had sprung a leak. Only his round, curly head was above the
table. The island which he reached was a delectable spot, an earthly
Paradise, with trees laden with fruit which came down like summer
showers when he shook the trees. He wandered about on the enchanted
shores, and ate so much fruit that oddly he felt that he was himself a
tree and that some one was trying to shake fruit out of him. . . . He
sat up with a start and found himself confronting the smiling
countenance of Miss Warden, the librarian, who had been shaking him not
unkindly.

"Where have you been?" she asked, laughing.

"To a desert island," said Pee-wee.

He roused himself and wandered out into the balmy air and down toward
the river, a lonesome little figure. A broad field bordered the stream
and crossing this he approached the old car which was the troops'
headquarters. But before he reached it he was aware of something which
caused him to rub his eyes and stare. As sure as he lived, there in
front of him was the seventeenth century, F. O. B. Bridgeboro, with all
appurtenances and accessories. He stood gaping at a little island out
in the middle of the stream, which had no more business there than
Pee-wee had had to be dozing in the library.