stalking camera was swung over his shoulder like a knapsack; his
nickel-plated scout whistle jangled against the saucepan and in his
trousers pockets were a magnifying glass, three jaw breakers, a
chocolate bar, a few inches of electric wiring, and a rubber balloon
in a state of collapse.

The highway from Bridgeboro was a broad, smooth road, a
temptation and a delight to speeders, where motorcycle cops lurked
in the bushes hardly waiting for cars with New York licenses.

It was late in the afternoon when they reached Baxter City and
here they turned into such a road as Charlie vowed he had never seen
before.

Scarcely had they gone a mile over rocks and ruts when the dim
woods closed in on either side, imparting a strange coolness. It was
almost like going through a leafy tunnel projecting branches brushed
the top of the car and mischievously grazed and tickled their faces.
The voices of the birds, clear in the stillness, seemed to complain
at this intrusion into their domain.

"I'd like to know how I'm going to get back through this jungle
after dark," Charlie said. "I wonder what anybody wanted to start a
village down here for?"

"Maybe--maybe they did it kind of absentmindedly," Pee-Wee said.
"I never started a village so I don't know."

"Well, you'll startle one anyway," Charlie said.