Pee-wee
was sleeping peacefully inside with his head on the floor and one of his
legs sprawled up over the seat.

As well as I could see, we were rolling merrily along a track that
branched away from the main track. I thought that, because I couldn't
see the full blaze of the engine's headlight any more, and I knew we
were verging away from the railroad.

"Talk about prodigal sons," Westy said; "when this old car gets back
home, they ought to kill the fatted calf for it."

"Good night," I told him; "if the fatted calf gets on the track, he'll
be killed all right."

"Oh, boys, where do we go from here?" Wig began singing.

But those trainmen didn't seem to think it was much of a joke. All of a
sudden, we went rattling through an opening in a fence and I saw a
couple of big white things near us.

"They're tents," Westy said.

By now the car was slowing down and pretty soon it stopped right in
front of a big dark thing--a kind of a building. If we'd have gone fifty
feet more, we'd have bunked our nose right into it.

The trainman said, "That's the craziest old set of brakes I ever saw.
You'll have to be contented to stay right here, that's all;
twenty-three'll back in after you."

"Contented is our favorite nickname," I told him; "is this Flimdunk,
with the fence around it? It's a good idea--the place can't run away. I
hope they'll like us."

"Do you think we're intruding?" Westy said.

I guess those trainmen set us down for a lot of idiots. Anyway, they
didn't have to tell us so, because we admit it. They said that the
brakes were worn off so much that they didn't press hard against the
wheels, only sort of gentle, like. They were nice polite brakes.

One of the trainmen said he'd leave us a lantern so we could see to
talk; then they went back out through the fence and I could see their
lanterns making circles in the dark. Pretty soon we could hear the
engine puffing and all of a sudden, it gave a loud, shrill whistle. It
sounded as if the train was coming very slowly up toward the switch, but
in about a couple of minutes we could hear it rattling along, farther
and farther away, and going faster and faster.

"So long, old flyer," Westy called.

I said, "Listen! Listen to the sound it makes--_tk-ed, tk-ed, tk_----It
seems as if it's saying, 'twenty-three for yours,' doesn't it?"

"Skiddo, flyer!" Connie shouted; "anyhow, you were foiled by the Boy
Scouts."

That word _foiled_ reminded us of Pee-wee, s