FRIENDS AT OUTS
Hal won the captaincy, and two days later he and Joe and Bert Madden
started for home. About three hundred other youths also started for
home, but none of them lived in Central City, and so, beyond the
Junction, Joe and Hal and Bert went on westward alone. Bert was well
over seventeen and would be a senior next year, as would Hal, a year
younger. Joe, who was Hal’s age within a few months, was returning to
Holman’s in the fall as a junior. He and Hal had been friendly at high
school, and when Hal had decided to go to Holman’s for the last two
years Joe had decided to go also. It wasn’t so easy for Joe, however,
for Joe’s folks weren’t wealthy by any means, while Hal’s were. But he
had found employment last summer and worked hard, and, when September
had arrived, his earnings, with what his father had been able to
provide, had been sufficient to put him through the first year.
It wasn’t going to be nearly so hard next fall, for Mr. Kenton’s
business had improved. Nevertheless, Joe meant to find some sort of
employment for the summer months, and on the journey home this matter
occupied his thoughts a good deal of the way. He couldn’t go back to
Murray and Bankhead’s, for his place there was occupied permanently
by another, but he was certain that he could find a job of some sort.
While Joe considered ways and means, Hal was telling Bert about the
good time he was going to have at his father’s camp up north and Bert
was picturing the delights of summer life at one of the nearby summer
resorts. Hal had invited Joe to visit the camp some time toward the
last of the summer and Joe had half accepted the invitation. He didn’t
really expect to get there though.
Hal left town about a week after their return home, and Joe missed him
a good deal at first, even though they didn’t get together very often
in Central City. Hal moved in a different circle than Joe. Looking for
work, however, occupied much of Joe’s time during that week and the
next, for he had been home more than a fortnight before he secured the
job with Donaldson and Burns, who operated the Central City Market.
His principal duty was to deliver by bicycle, orders that could not
await the trucks or that had been forgotten by them. When not occupied
in that way he sometimes helped to put up orders. His hours were from
eight to five, save on Saturdays, when the store kept open until nine.
Thursday afternoons he had off, for in Central City Thursday was the
weekly half holiday from July to September.
It was on the first Thursday afternoon after starting to work that
he sat on an empty soap box by the window of the stable loft and
listlessly distributed type from a “stick” in his left hand to the
case before him. The July day was hot, and from the printing press
that stood on a stout packing case came a strong though not unpleasant
odor of fresh ink. Joe wasn’t very happy this afternoon. On a shelf
under the type case lay the results of his recent labor, twelve printed
invitations still sticky from the press. Now, having distributed the
last of the type, he lifted one of the invitations, held it at arm’s
length and read it. Beginning in script, it ran the gamut of Old
English, italics and small Roman, and it read as follows:
You are Cordially Invited
to Attend a House Warming at
Camp Peejay, Squirrel Lake,
Thursday, July 6.
Philip Levering Joe Kenton
R. S. V. P.
It really looked awfully well, but he couldn’t get much of a thrill
from that fact since, as sightly as they were, those invitations would
probably never be used.
Until yesterday all had gone well. After work, with Philip reading the
copy, Joe had finished the typesetting, and then, triumphantly, they
had pulled a smudgy proof and viewed it with pride and elation. Just
why at such a joyous moment the subject of painting the camp should
have crept into the conversation is beyond knowledge, but it did,
and half an hour later the two friends had parted in enmity, Philip
flinging back as he clanged the front gate behind him: “Then I guess
there won’t be any housewarming!” and Joe replying haughtily: “Suits me
all right!”
They had started the camp in April during Joe’s week of vacation,
dragging the timbers and boards from Loomis’s mill behind Mr.
Levering’s Ford. By the end of the week it was complete even to the two
windows, and they had stood off and viewed their work with pleasurable
emotion. Everything about it was delectable: the tar-papered roof that
smelled so gloriously in the spring sunshine, the little four-foot,
uncovered porch that ran the ten-foot length of the front, the door
that wouldn’t quite close unless you put your full weight against it,
the little square windows――everything!
“Gee,” Philip had exclaimed, “it will look perfectly corking when we
get it painted!”
And Joe had agreed heartily. What color it was to be painted hadn’t
been discussed then. The painting of it was to await Joe’s home coming
in June. It nearly broke their hearts that they couldn’t enjoy their
handiwork, but Joe was returning to school the next day, and so they
finally clicked the padlock on the door and, not without many backward
looks, left the cabin behind.
Philip had guarded it as well as he could during the ensuing two
months, but Joe had received one heartbroken letter from him in May
in which he told of going out to Squirrel Lake and finding the cabin
broken into and both window panes smashed.
“It was ‘Bull’ Jones and Harper Merrill and that crowd that did it,”
Philip had stated, “but you can’t prove anything on them.”
Philip had repaired damages and when Joe got back the last of June the
cabin had not been again molested.
Since then the two boys had found time to furnish the camp. They had
put in an old stove from the Kenton attic, a table and two chairs
and a camp cot――some day they meant to have another cot――and cooking
things and tin plates and so on until the furnishings threatened to
exclude the occupants. The housewarming idea had been Joe’s. It would,
he explained, be dandy to issue invitations and have, say, about
ten of the fellows out there for supper. They could go out in the
Fullerton bus and walk back by moonlight. Joe wasn’t certain about the
moonlight, but he hoped for the best. Philip accepted the idea with
enthusiasm, making but one reservation: none of Bull Jones’s crowd
should be asked! To this Joe agreed unhesitatingly, even passionately,
and that evening they had arranged a menu for the supper, counted their
cash on hand and composed the invitations. The next day Joe had brushed
the dust from the printing press in the stable loft and, with Philip
aiding, set type, worked the lever of the neglected press and pulled a
proof.
Joe laid the invitations back now with a frown. He wondered why he had
gone to the trouble of printing them, since they would never be used.
Even if he and Philip made up again later, those cards wouldn’t be any
good, for there was the date set forth plainly: “Thursday, July 6.” And
that was only a week from to-day, and Joe was very, very sure that he
couldn’t be persuaded to forgive Philip in any such brief space of time
as a week!
He turned moodily away and looked out of the window. On the Merrill’s
back porch Harper and Pete Brooks were doing something with a board
and some wire. Harper kept rabbits and perhaps the contrivance had
something to do with them. Joe wasn’t interested, anyway. If he had
been he could easily have gained enlightenment for the porch was only
fifty feet away and the back of the house acted like a sounding board
and threw the voices of the two boys right in at the window. But Joe
was busy with his thoughts.
After all, he supposed it didn’t matter much whether Camp Peejay was
painted red or green. Only, having held out for green, he wasn’t going
to give in now, especially as Philip had acted so pig-headed and
selfish. Viewing the question calmly, he wasn’t sure that Philip’s
argument was not quite tenable. Philip had said that if they painted
the camp green it wouldn’t show up well amongst the trees, and that,
besides, red was a better color for winter, looking warmer and more
cozy. Even before they had parted in anger, Joe had felt himself
inclining toward red, but by that time too many things had been said!
Gee, it was a mighty unimportant thing to quarrel about! Even in the
matter of finding a name for the camp there had been no clash of
opinion, although Joe had been secretly of the notion that, since the
idea had originated with him, Jaypee would have been more proper, if
less euphonious, than Peejay. Well, anyway, what was done was done,
and if Philip expected that he, Joe, was going to back down and
lick his boots he was mightily mistaken! No, sir, by jiminy! Philip
could――could――
His indignant musings were disturbed. A new voice, loud and compelling,
came in at the window. On the Merrill back porch Bull Jones had added
his bulky presence to the group. Joe looked down and scowled. Bull was
a bully and a braggart, the ringleader of the other crowd, the evil
genius who had so nearly put an end to Camp Peejay, and Joe detested
him so thoroughly that the mere sight of him was enough to re-rumple
Joe’s brow. But the scowl of dislike gave way to one of incredulity.
Bull was outlining in perfectly audible tones a scheme never intended
for Joe’s ears! It was plain that none of the three on the porch knew
that he was at the window. Perhaps the sunlight’s glare masked him, or
perhaps they had not thought to look. That as may have been, Joe acted
promptly. He slid swiftly from the box, extended himself full length
on the floor, well out of sight, and listened avidly. Fifteen minutes
later, the group on the porch having departed, he arose, abstractedly
dusted his clothes and seated himself again on the box giving himself
over to deep thought. The shaft of sunlight moved backward the space of
one dusty floor board before Joe arrived at a course of action. Then,
guiltily conscious of wasted moments, he seized his cap from the floor
and raced down the stairs and out into the yard. The shortest way to
Crown Street was via the side fence and the Martin’s rhubarb patch.
This route was attended by some risk, for Mrs. Martin’s ideas on the
subject of trespass were extremely narrow, but the present occasion
seemed to Joe to warrant risk, and he took it. Reaching the top of
the board fence by means of the grape trellis, he landed astride the
bursting crinkly head of a rhubarb plant, cast a swift and anxious
glance at the kitchen door and dodged under the pear trees to the
further side of the yard. For once no strident voice bade him halt, and
in a jiffy he had vaulted the privet hedge and was safe.
Philip lived a dozen houses southward, and while yet two doors distant
Joe knew that Philip was at home. The excruciating wail of Philip’s
violin floated sadly forth on the afternoon air. Joe smiled as he
heard. Philip’s practice hour ordinarily ended at four, and here it
was long after, and the inference was clear that he was prolonging the
agony merely because the quarrel with his chum had left him with no
better way of spending the time. In front of the Levering house Joe
stopped and gazed frowningly up at the open window of the room above
the porch. The practice paused for an instant and he raised his voice
in the accustomed hail:
“_Oo-ee-e-e!_”
Philip appeared at the casement and looked down. Joe had made up
his mind that if Philip’s face showed triumph over his friend’s
capitulation the reconciliation should go no farther. But it didn’t.
Philip’s countenance expressed faint surprise, instantly suppressed,
and then casual and wary interest.
“Hello!” he said.
“Hello!” answered Joe.
Philip worried the curtain cord with his bow for a moment. Finally,
after a gulp that was almost audible below: “Come on up,” he said.
Joe glanced up the street and then down, as though doubtful that his
manifold interests would permit of his accepting the invitation. In the
end, however, he nodded. “All right,” he answered. Then, as if fearing
he had shown too eager a spirit, he added: “Got something to tell you.”
It was Philip’s turn to nod, and, having done so, he disappeared from
the window and Joe went, not too hurriedly, through the gate and in at
the door. Philip awaited him, as usual, at the top of the stairway.
Each ventured a doubtful and fleeting grin as they met, and then
Philip closed the door of the little room and Joe flung himself on the
bright-hued afghan that covered the bed by day. Having landed there,
he reflected that he had meant to comport himself somewhat haughtily
while making it clear to his host that only a matter of extraordinary
importance would have brought him. But it was too late now. He glanced
at the violin on the chair and then at the music rack with the bow
lying along the ledge.
“Practicing?” he asked.
Philip nodded and Joe continued mercilessly. “Sort of late, ain’t
you?” he inquired. Philip’s gaze wandered evasively.
“I got started kind of late,” he murmured. Then, realizing that the
statement was not quite the truth, he amended it. “There wasn’t much
else to do,” he said.
Joe stifled a triumphant chuckle. “Say,” he substituted, “did you tell
Charley Nagel about――about the housewarming?”
“Kind of,” answered Philip. “I told him we were going to ask some of
the fellows out to the camp Saturday.”
“Gee! Didn’t you know he’d go and tell Bull and that bunch?”
“Sure! I wanted him to,” replied the other stoutly. “After the way
those fellows acted――”
“Well, you went and made a mess of it,” said Joe sternly. “Bull and his
crowd are going out there to-night. They’re going to bust the door in
and use our things and have a feed!”
“_Wha-a-t!_ How do you know?”
Joe told him. “Bull said they’d ‘warm the house’ for us,” he added
bitterly. “They’re going to take a steak and some onions and some
ginger ale and――”
“Who’s going?” demanded Philip frowningly.
“The whole bunch: Bull and Harper and Pete and Dill Treadway and all
those. Charley Nagel, too, I suppose. Six or seven, probably.”
“When?”
Joe shrugged. “Guess they’re on the way now. They went to get Dill and
some others about half an hour ago. Then they had to buy the steak and
things.” Joe looked at his nickel watch. “Probably they’re just about
starting. I thought you’d want to know.”
Philip nodded thoughtfully. “Of course,” he muttered. “But I guess
it’s too late to do anything. That’s a tough crowd, Joe, and they love
a scrap. Even if we could get some of our crowd to go out there we
couldn’t drive those fellows away. Gee, I wish I hadn’t said anything
to Charley!”
“So do I,” said Joe morosely. “They’ll just about wreck the camp! And
use up all our things too.”
Philip agreed gloomily. “Potatoes and coffee and everything! If we
could only get out there ahead of them――”
“We can’t.”
Silence fell. Presently Philip arose and quietly returned the violin to
its case and relegated the music stand to the closet. Joe watched him
anxiously. He had firm faith in Philip’s wit and wisdom, but it seemed
that here was a problem too difficult for the chum’s solving, and Joe’s
hope languished. Outside, the evening shadows were lengthening fast.
The strident whistling of the carroty-haired youth who delivered the
evening paper grew near and there was a gentle thud as the damp copy of
the _Evening Star_ landed against the front door below.
“There’s the paper,” murmured Joe dejectedly.
“Get it if you like,” said Philip in abstracted tones.
He had seated himself again, hands in pockets and his long legs stuck
out across the faded ingrain art-square. Joe murmured indifference
to the _Star_ and Philip continued to stare at the floor. Five
o’clock struck from the steeple of the Presbyterian Church and Joe
instinctively listened for the screech of the eastbound express as it
reached the trestle. But before it came Philip lifted his head suddenly
and exploded a question in the silence.
“What time does it get dark?” he demanded.
“Dark? Why, about seven, I guess,” replied Joe, startled.
“Think they’ll have their supper before that?”
“I don’t know. Why? If they get out there by five――”
“They won’t,” interrupted the other decisively. “It’s a mile and a
half. Suppose they got the crowd rounded up and bought their things in
half an hour. They’d get started about a quarter to five. Walking, the
way they would, they’d take a good half hour to get there. Then they’d
have to get into the cabin, and that would take them five or maybe ten
minutes longer. Well, suppose they began to prepare supper right off,
which they wouldn’t, it would take them another half hour to make the
fire and peel the onions and all that, wouldn’t it?”
“Why, sure,” agreed Joe. “More than a half hour. They’d make Charley
and Dill do the work, and they’re as slow as snails. What are you
getting at, though?”
“I’m trying to figure out when they’d have that supper ready to eat. I
don’t believe it would be ready much before seven.”
“Maybe not, but as I’m not going to eat it, it doesn’t mean much in my
life.”
“Wouldn’t you eat some of it if you had a chance?” asked Philip,
chuckling.
“With that gang of thugs?” retorted the other indignantly. “I would
not!”
“Suppose they weren’t there, though?” suggested Philip gently.
“Weren’t there! Say, you’ve got a scheme! What’s it?”
Philip smiled. “Maybe I have,” he answered. “See what you think of it.”