its driver looking for a place to turn around so that he might get back
out of his mistaken way.

Most of these were too disgruntled at their mistakes and the
quality of the road to heed the voice of the tempter who shouted at
them, "Lemonade, ice cold! Get your lemonade here!" They usually
answered by asking how they could get to West Baxter. And Pee-Wee
would answer, "You have to go four miles back, get your hot doughnuts
here." Then they would start back but they never, never got their hot
doughnuts there.

If Pee-Wee's stout heart was losing hope he did not show it, but
Pepsy was frankly in despair. In her free hours she sat in their
little shelter, her thin, freckly hands busy with the worsted
masterpiece that she was working. Pee-Wee, at least, had his appetite
to console him, but she had no relish for the stale lemonade and
melting, oozy taffy which stood pathetically on the counter each night.

One day a lumbering, enclosed auto went by, an undertaker's car it
was, and Pepsy was seized with sudden fright lest it be the orphan
asylum wagon come to get her. The two dominating thoughts of her simple
mind were the fear that she would have to go back to "that place" and
the hope that Pee-Wee might get the money to buy those precious tents.
She had learned something of scouting, that scouts camp and live in the
open, and she had learned something of the good scout laws. She was
witnessing now an exhibition of scout faith and resolution, of faith
that was hopeless and resolution that was futile. She was soon to be
made aware of another scout quality which fairly staggered her and left
her wondering.