And there you have
Pee-wee Harris in a nut-shell . . .

The game in the middle of the large field must have become exciting, for
its votaries were gathered into a close group. None of the players
seemed able now to spare so much as a cautious glance toward the street.
Once, during his intense preoccupation, Slats Corbett gave a quick,
furtive glance afar, but it was only in a sort of sub-consciousness that
he glimpsed a figure sitting on the fence, its back toward him. That was
enough.

The group gathered closer, voices were heard in excited altercation,
there were long intervals of silence. The group had shrunken and become
compact. All were stooping. Their preoccupation seemed intense. They
had forgotten all about the lookout. Occasionally some civilian passed
along the distant alley and guilty instinct caused one or another of the
group to glance thither to give a hasty appraisal of his mission and
character. And so the wicked game went on. And the sports of Barrel
Alley never knew that their stronghold had been invaded by the boy scouts.

Then around the distant corner appeared two figures in civilian clothes,
strangers in Barrel Alley. They were County Detectives Slippett and
Spotson. They strolled down the alley innocently. Keekie Joe, whose
activities were chiefly local, knew them not. But Pee-wee Harris, Scout,
knew them. On one of his long hikes he had seen them arrest a motorist
in Northvale. He had seen them loitering in the post office at Little
Valley.

They did duty in the various municipalities of the county where the
familiar faces of the local officials were a stumbling block to the
apprehension of wrongdoers. They were going to break up this ring of
gambling rowdies, and so forth and so forth and so forth . . .

Pee-wee's first impulse was to shout, but on second thought it occurred
to him that the army of invasion consisting of two, one of them might
make a flank move on hearing his warning voice, and that one detective
could thus drive the criminals into the very arms of the other, as they
passed through the back yard of Chin Foo's laundry. Chin Foo's back yard
was a sort of trap.

So instead of shouting he descended from the fence with lightning agility
and ran across the field as fast as his legs would carry him, and
pell-mell into the group.

"Two detectives are coming down the alley," he panted. "Beat it over
that way and then you'll _sure_ not run into one of them beca