"So I'm a scarecrow, eh?" Mr. Gamely said with a side glance at
Pepsy. He was not going to have her witness his discomfiture at the
hands of this glib little stranger. Moreover, a slur at his personal
splendor was a very grave matter and not to be overlooked.

"I don't like fresh kids," said Mr. Deadwood Gamely, advancing with
an air of veiled menace.

"Sometimes they get so fresh they have to be salted a little. Don't
you think you'd better take that back?"

Pepsy waited, fearful, breathless.

"Sure I will," said Pee-Wee; "the next scarecrow I meet I'll
apologize to him."

Deadwood Gamely paused. His usual procedure in an affair of this
kind would have been to advance quickly, ruffle his victim's hair in
a goading kind of swaggerish good humor and send him sprawling. He
would not really have hurt a youngster like Pee-Wee but he would have
made him look and feel ridiculous.

But a glance at Pee-Wee's gummy stencil brush reminded Mr. Gamely
that discretion was the better part of valor. A dexterous dab or two
of that would have put an end to all his glory. Pee-Wee left no doubt
about this.

"This summer-house is on private land," he said, "and I'm the boss
of it. If you try to get fresh with me I'll paint you blacker--blacker