Our hero planted his flaunting banner between the car and the spacious veranda and stood beneath it as if he were taking possession of the whole place in the name of the Boy Scouts of America. His voice assailed the porch and reached the neighboring lawn and penetrated to the rooms which overlooked it. Here and there, blinds were thrown open revealing the faces of astonished sojourners at the quiet resort. [Illustration: Pee-wee planted his banner in front of the veranda.] From one window an agitated old lady hurled a suitcase evidently under the impression that the place was on fire. It landed on Pee-wee’s head which only seemed to push his voice out more forcibly through his mouth. “Scissors and knives sharpened, ten cents! Scissors and knives sharpened by Townsend Ripley and his shivers slizzer—I mean scissors grinding flivver! Have your knives and scissors and corn-cutters and everything sharpened by the Boy Scouts! Don’t patronize professional flivver sharpeners—I mean scissors sharpeners—they are profiteers. Here you are, bring out anything that’s dull—” “I’m having a perfectly _beastly dull_ time,” a girl interrupted him. “Can you sharpen that?” Indeed he was already sharpening that, for the guests were all laughing. “Sure I can sharpen that!” Pee-wee shouted, “Bring it out! Only ten cents!” “I’m reading a pretty dull novel,” said a lady. “We can sharpen everything,” Pee-wee shouted. “We don’t care what it is. After the sharpening is over we give a special side show exhibition that sharpens dull times and everything—don’t fail to wait and see Scout Ripley and his talking Ford—it dances, it sings, it, it lays down—” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” laughed a man. But no amount of laughing could drown Pee-wee out. “Have your knives and scissors and pencils and everything sharpened by the Ford that got arrested because a goat ate the auto license! See the letter wrote—written—by Judge Dopett of the highest court that proves our essentials—” “Credentials,” whispered Townsend. “I mean credentials,” shouted Pee-wee. “Be able to tell your great grandparents—” “Children,” whispered Townsend. “Be able to tell your great grandchildren that you had your scissors sharpened on the famous talking Ford that had its license eaten by a goat! Here you are! Only ten cents. Three for a quarter.” He added as an afterthought. Dull times must indeed have prevailed at Brookside Villa, for not a knife or scissors was withheld. The raised wheel at which Townsend kneeled whizzed around, sharpening knife after knife and scissors after scissors until there was not a particle of emery left in the emery cloth nor a drop of gasoline in the tank. Still a little pile of familiar domestic implements, which had partaken of the general dullness of the place, lay on the running board of the car awaiting the touch of the whizzing emery. And there was no dullness of any kind at Brookside Villa any more.