And now that the encounter which had almost resulted in a tragic
sacrifice was over, and while our scout hero pauses triumphant, it
may be fitting to apologize to the reader for introducing our hero
in the act of eating. But indeed it was a question of introducing
him in the act of eating or of not introducing him at all.

For a story of Pee-Wee Harris is necessarily more or less a story
of food. And this is a story abounding in cake and pie and waffles
and crullers and cookies and hot frankfurters. There will be found
in it also ice cream cones and jaw breakers and coconut bars and
potatoes roasted on sticks. Heroes of stories may have starved on
desert islands but there is to be none of that here.

In this tale, if you follow the adventures of our scout hero
(who now at last appears before you as a star), you shall find
lemonade side by side with first aid, and all the characters shall
receive their just desserts, some of them (not to mention any names)
two helpings.

So there he sat upon the branch, the mascot of the Raven Patrol,
with an interior like the Mammoth Cave and a voice like the
whisperings of the battle zone in France. Take a good look at him
while he is quiet for ten seconds hand running. Everything about him
is tremendous--except his size. He is built to withstand banter,
ridicule and jollying; his sturdy nature is guaranteed proof against
the battering assaults of unholy mirth from other scouts; his round
face and curly hair are the delight of the girls of Bridgeboro; his
loyalty is as the mighty rock of Gibraltar. A bully little scout he
is--a sort of human Ford.