by
Percy Keese Fitzhugh

Chapter I.
The Battle of the Banana

Pee-wee Harris, mascot of the Raven Patrol, First Bridgeboro Troop, sat upon the lowest limb of the tree in front of his home eating a banana. To maintain his balance it was necessary for him to keep a tight hold with one hand on a knotty projection of the trunk while with the other he clutched his luscious refreshment.

The safety of his small form as he sat on the shaky limb depended upon his hold of the trunk, while the tremendous responsibility of holding his banana devolved upon the other hand.

Pee-wee was so much smaller than he should have been and the banana so much larger than it should have been that they might almost be said to have been of the same size.

The slender limb on which Pee-wee sat trembled and creaked with each enormous bite that he took.

The bright morning sunlight, wriggling through the foliage overhead, picked out the round face and curly hair of our young hero and showed him in all his pristine glory, frowning a terrible frown, clinging for dear life with one hand and engaged in his customary occupation of eating.

He had ascended to this leafy throne with the banana in his pocket but he could not restore it to his pocket now even if he wished to. However, he did not wish to. In a military sense he was in a predicament; both arms were in bad strategic position and his center exposed to assault. His leafy throne was like many another throne in these eventful times — extremely shaky.

But the commissary department was in fine shape….

Suddenly the expeditionary forces of Uncle Sam appeared in the form of the postman, who paused on his way across the lawn to the house.

“Hello, up there,” he said, suddenly discovering Pee-wee.

“Hello yourself and see how you like it,” the mascot of the Ravens called down.

“I saw a banana up there and I thought maybe you were behind it,” the postman called, as he looked among the pack of letters he held in his hand.

“It’s only half a banana,” Pee-wee shouted.

“Well, you’re only half a scout,” the postman said; “you’d better drop it, here’s a letter for you.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

Steadying himself, Pee-wee took an enormous bite, considerably reducing the length of the banana. “Wait a minute till I finish it,” he said as best he could with his mouth full. “Waaer-mint.”

“Can’t wait,” the postman said, heartlessly moving away.

“Waymnt,” Pee-wee yelled, frantically taking another bite; “wayermntdyehear, waymnt!”

“Do you think the government can wait for you to finish a banana?” the postman demanded with a wicked grin upon his face. “You got two hands; here, take the letter if you want it; here it is,” he added, reaching up.

Pee-wee tried to dispatch the remainder of the banana by one gigantic and triumphant bite but the desperate expedient did not work; his mouth with all its long practice, could not keep up with his hand; it became clogged while yet a considerable length of banana projected out of the gracefully drooping rind.

“Here, take it,” the postman said in a tone of ruthless finality.

Chewing frantically and waving the remainder of banana menacingly like a club, the baffled hero uttered some incomprehensible, imploring jumble of suffocated words while the postman moved away a step or two, repressing a fiendish smile.

“Throw away the banana,” he said.

By this time Pee-wee was able to speak and while his chewing apparatus was momentarily disengaged he demanded to know if the postman thought he was crazy. The postman, resolved not to miss the fun of the situation, was not going to let Pee-wee take another bite; time was precious, and two more bites of the sort that Pee-wee took might leave his hand free.

“Take the letter,” he said with an air of cold determination, “or I’ll leave it at the house. Here, take it quick; I’ve no time to waste.”

“Do you want me to waste a banana,” Pee-wee yelled imploringly; “a scout is supposed — ”

“Here, take it,” the postman said.

There followed the most terrible moment in the life of Pee-wee Harris, Scout. He knew that one more bite would be fatal, that the postman would not wait. In two bites, or in three at most, he could finish the banana and his hand would be free.

How could a postman, who brings joy to the lonely, words of love from far away, cheer to those who wait, comfort from across the seas, Boys’ Life Magazine — how could such a being be so relentless and cruel? If that letter were left at the house, Pee-wee would have to go to the house and get it, and there his mother was lying in ambush waiting to pounce upon him and make him mow the lawn. Why would not the postman wait for just two bites? Maybe he could do it in one. He had consumed a peach in one bite and a ham sandwich in four — his star record.

He made a movement with his hand, and simultaneously the postman retreated a step or two toward the house. Pee-wee tried releasing his hold upon the trunk with the other hand and almost lost his balance on the shaky limb.

“Here,” said the postman, unyielding, “chuck the banana and take the letter or you’ll find it waiting for you in the front hall. It’s an important letter, it feels as if it had a couple of cookies in it.” The postman knew Pee-wee. “Here you go,” the torturer said grimly, “take it or not, suit yourself.”

“Can’t you see both hands are busy?” the victim pled. “Two bites — a scout is supposed not to waste anything — he’s supposed — he’s supposed — wait a minute — he’s supposed if he starts a thing to finish it — wait! I’m not going to take a bite, I’m only giving you an argument — can’t you wait — ”

“Here you go, last chance, take it,” the postman said, a faint smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, “one, two, — ”

Out of Pee-wee’s wrath and anguish came an inspiration. “Stick the letter in the banana,” he said, holding the banana down.

“I don’t know about that,” the postman said, ruefully.

“I know about it,” Pee-wee thundered down at him. “You said I had to take it or not; that letter belongs to me and you have to deliver it. This banana, it’s — it’s the same as a mail box — you stick the letter in the banana. You think you’re so smart, you thought you’d make me throw away the banana, naaah, didn’t you? I wouldn’t do that, not even for — for — secretary — for the postmaster-general, I wouldn’t! A scout has resource.”

“All right, you win,” said the postman, good-humoredly, “only look out you don’t fall; here you go, hold on tight.”

Clutching to the knotty projection of trunk, Pee-wee reached the other hand as low as he could and the postman, smiling, stuck the corner of the coveted letter into the mealy substance of the banana.

“You win,” the postman repeated laughingly; “it shows what Scout Harris can do with food.”

“Food will win the war,” Pee-wee shouted. “You thought you could make me throw away my banana but you couldn’t. I knew a man that died from not eating a banana, I did.”

“Explain all that,” the postman said.

“He threw a banana away on his porch instead of eating it and later he stepped on it and slid down the steps and broke his leg and they took him to the hospital and compilations set in and he got pneumonia and died from not eating that banana. So there!”

“That’s a very fine argument,” the postman said as he went away.

“I know better ones than that!” Pee-wee shouted after him.

Chapter II.
A Tragic Predicament

So there he sat upon his precarious perch trying to reassume the posture which insured a good balance, clinging to the trunk with one hand and to the banana with the other.

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 jawbreakers and cocoanut 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.

The question of removing the letter from the banana and getting rid of the banana (in the proper way) now presented itself to him. He took a bite of the banana and the letter almost fell. He then tried releasing his hold upon the trunk but that would not do. He then extracted the letter with his teeth which effectually prevented him from eating the banana.

What to do?