“I’m lucky,” he said to himself as he trudged down to the post office; “I’ll fix things all right. I’ll show them; I don’t care, I’ll show them. They won’t take her back to that place, not while I’m around.”
He did not know how he was going to prevent this but he had unbounded faith in his capacity to fix things and in his good luck.
So, as he trudged along, stepping out of the way of many cars, he came to the home of Doctor Killem.
“Hello, soldier,” piped up a little thin voice upon the porch.
“My father can arrest people,” said the little gnome, looking straight ahead of him.
“That doesn’t prove I’m a soldier,” said Pee-wee.
“You’ve got a uniform,” said the gnome. “I’m not afraid of soldiers. My father’s got a lot of money, he’s got two hundred and fifty dollars and I’m not going to get dead.”
“He’s up the road and he’s going to catch people and put them in jail.”
“Why do you say ‘Is he?’ I didn’t go to the hospital last night. Do you want to know why?” He asked questions as if they were riddles.
“Yes, why?” Pee-wee asked, half interested.
“Because the bridge burned down. Do you like bridges?”
“It isn’t a question of whether a person likes them or not,” Pee-wee said, preoccupied with his own sorrow and worry, yet amused in spite of himself at this queer little fellow.
“Oh, I don’t know, I guess I was thinking of something else.”
“You didn’t tell me about why you didn’t go to the hospital last night.”
“I can see things that other folks can’t see,” Whitie announced.
“You’re like Licorice Stick,” said Pee-wee.
“Then how am I like him? I’m white. My name is Whitie.”
Pee-wee felt like a prisoner at the bar of justice with this little personage swathed in blankets, staring down at him. His wrappings covered his neck and all that could be seen of him was his face, perfectly motionless. Finally he said as if he were pronouncing sentence.
“Doctor Killem took me in his auto. We had to turn around and come back when we came to the bridge burning down. He’s going to take me another way. I saw a man getting dead.”
“Where?” Pee-wee asked, his interest somewhat aroused.
“Will you give me that tin thing if I tell you?”
“That isn’t a tin thing, it’s a compass, it tells you which way to go.”
“All right,” Pee-wee laughed in spite of himself. “You tell me about the man getting dead and I’ll give you the tin thing.”