Chapter XIV: The Autocrat

The enterprise which Pee-wee was now about to launch was the most gigantic of any that had ever emanated from his seething brain. We shall have to follow it step by step. His first call was at Administration Shack where he asked Tom Slade, camp assistant, if he and his patrol might have the use of the old float for cruising.

“You know the one I mean,” he said; “it’s the one I fell off of that summer when I was diving for licorice jaw breakers. Don’t you remember the day my mouth was all black? It’s got four barrels under it to hold it up--”

“What, your mouth?” young Mr. Slade asked.

“No, the old float, and the barrels are airtight, because they were filled with water when the float was drawn up and I’ve got two in my patrol and they haven’t shrunk, I mean the barrels, so will it be all right for us to pitch our tent on that old float and kind of be sea scouts, because anyway all of us know how to swim and I saved a scout from drowning last summer. Can we?”

Young Mr. Slade was not too ready with his approval of this scheme; he said he would take a look at the old mooring float.

Pee-wee did not wait for his approval but proceeded immediately to the cooking shack where he accosted Chocolate Drop, the smiling negro chef.

“I want an onion and an empty bottle and a lot of other things to eat,” he said. “Three of us are going camping on an old float and we want beans enough to last for a week and some Indian meal and some flour and some bacon and I’ll give you a note to say we’ll pay for them. We want some sugar too, and some egg powder and if the bottle’s full of olives or pickles, it won’t make any difference because we can empty it and we want some coffee too and some potatoes.”

“_Lordy me_, Massa Pee-wee! What else you want, eh? Yo’ hev a reckezishon from Massa Slade, hey?”

“I’ll get it,” said Pee-wee; “you get the stuff ready.”

It was the rule that supplies for bivouac camping and camping outside the community limits should be supplied by the commissary at nominal prices. Scouts could give their I. O. U.’s for such supplies and these charges appeared upon the regular bills for board and accommodation. But requisitions, properly endorsed by either scoutmaster or camp official, were necessary to the procuring of such supplies.

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” Pee-wee shouted, waving all doubts aside; “I’ll get it from Tom Slade. Do you know what an enterprise is? I had an inspiration about an enterprise and my patrol is going to make lots of money and we can pay for everything, because if you’ve got an inspiration about an enterprise you can get credit, can’t you?

“Listen, Chocolate Drop, do you remember that summer when all the scouts were jollying each other about going scout pace around the lake? Do you remember? Do you remember you said that every scout that went scout pace around the lake in an hour could have three helpings of dessert for the rest of the season? Gee whiz, you’re the boss of the desserts, you have a right to do that, haven’t you? Gee whiz, you’ve got just as much right to offer prizes for scout stunts as anybody, haven’t you? Because anyway you’re an official. One thing sure, you’re the boss of the eats, aren’t you?”

Chocolate Drop was certainly the boss of the eats, desserts included. Not even John Temple himself was such an autocrat as Chocolate Drop in his Utopian dominion. Within those hallowed precincts he waved his frying-pan like a sceptre of imperial authority. He and he alone was never interfered with by officials higher up. Not even the National Scout Commissioner could tell Chocolate Drop what he should serve for dessert. The President of the United States could not add or subtract one dab of icing to or from those luscious cakes.

Every time an honor medal was awarded the proud recipient received an “honor pie” from Cooking Shack, a huge round medal, as it were, more precious than shining gold. Yes, the will of Chocolate Drop was supreme and he spoke to the multitude as no one else could speak.

His liking was expressed in crullers, his tribute to prowess or heroism found voice in puddings. He conquered with fried corn cakes. He made friends and converts with fudge. His cookies were like so many merit badges. He was such an artist that he could reproduce these in icing. Once, upon a mince pie (a hot one) Chocolate Drop designed in luscious jelly the First Aid badge. For Chocolate Drop had a sense of humor....