BLACKIE THORNE
AT CAMP LENAPE
CARL SAXON
_Author of
“The Mystery at Camp Lenape”_
[Illustration: Logo]
BOOKS, INC.
NEW YORK BOSTON
COPYRIGHT 1940, 1931 BY BOOKS, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_For
BILL SIMMONS
companion of tent and trail_
CONTENTS
I. Tent Four 7
II. The Councilor 17
III. After Taps 30
IV. A Hard Case 39
V. Treasure 53
VI. The Hermit’s House 59
VII. Initiation 69
VIII. The Snipe Hunt 81
IX. A Rainy Day 97
X. The Lie 111
XI. Kangaroo Court 123
XII. The Hut on Black Pond 135
XIII. Robbery by Night 150
XIV. The Spring-House 166
XV. The Last Race 179
XVI. The End—and the Beginning 198
BLACKIE THORNE AT
CAMP LENAPE
CHAPTER I
TENT FOUR
“We’ve been working on the ra-a-ailroad
All the livelong day——”
Two enormous hay-wains, full and running over with a tumbling mass of
boys, turned a bend in the narrow country road.
Blackie Thorne was the foremost boy on the first wagon. He clambered up
on the narrow seat with so much eagerness to view the camp and the lake
that he almost knocked over the stolid farmer who was driving the team.
His first view of camp!
There it lay on the wooded slope above the shining lake and the boat
dock, a large white lodge with a flag floating lazily above it, and two
rows of canvas tents lost among trees to the right but showing clearly
against the gray mountains beyond, with their heavy covering of tall
pines sticking up like spikes along the skyline. Camp Lenape, where the
wonderful things his friends told about had happened. Why, anything
might happen in such a marvelous place as the camp which grew nearer
every minute as the slow horses plodded their way along the dusty road!
Blackie squirmed with excitement and jerked his arm so that it hit the
head of the driving farmer and knocked his wide straw hat down over his
eyes.
“Here now, sonny!” spluttered the man, grabbing at his hat and almost
falling off the board which served as a seat. “If you’re a-goin’ to get
so het up about seein’ this camp-ground of yourn, you better get out and
walk!”
“A good idea!” exclaimed a fellow standing just behind Blackie, holding
himself up in the jolting wagon by a hand on Blackie’s shoulder. He was
Gil Shelton, patrol-leader in Blackie’s troop back in the city, and a
“three-striper” who wore on his camp sweater three green chevrons to
show that he had been at Lenape for as many seasons. “What do you say,
Blackie? If we hop off now, we can follow the trail through the woods
and beat the rest into camp.”
The trail led around the end of the lake, down through a meadow dotted
with daisies and buttercups, and on again into the deepening shadow of
the pines and birches.
They panted as they ran up a short hill, and came out in a little
cleared space among the scrub-pines.
“Wait a minute, can’t you?” gasped Blackie. “What’s the use of killing
ourselves?”
Gil snorted. “Does that little run make you tired? Wait until you’ve
been here at camp a week, and a trot like this will seem so slow you’ll
think you’re going backwards.” Nevertheless he stopped and threw himself
on the soft ground, and Blackie gratefully followed his example.
“How far are we from camp now?”
“Oh, about a quarter of a mile, I guess. Don’t worry, little one, you’ll
get there before dark.” He pointed his grass-stem, toward the hills,
where the sun was dropping, a ball of red fire in the west. “The Indian
council ring is over that way. We’ll have a pow-wow there to-morrow
night, I guess.”
Blackie’s eyes followed in the indicated direction, but his attention
was immediately claimed by a fan-shaped formation of gray rocks on the
side of the western mountains. His dark eyebrows raised, and he
whistled. “Hey, Gil, what’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“That pile of rocks there—are they rocks?”
“That’s a terminal moraine. Now, ask me another.”
“A what?”
“Terminal moraine, dummy.”
“Well, who put it there?”
“Say,” exclaimed Gil with disgust, “if you listened to the scoutmaster’s
talks instead of skylarking around at troop meetings and stealing Fat
Crampton’s hat, you’d learn not to be so ignorant. A terminal moraine is
a pile of rocks brought down by a glacier in the days when all the part
of the world north of here was covered with ice. You’ve heard of the
Glacial Age, haven’t you? Well, when the ice moved down from the North
Pole it pushed a lot of rocks ahead of it, right over the ground. Now,
when old Mr. Glacier got this far, he heard the five o’clock whistle
blow or something, so he dropped that pile of rocks he was carrying, and
started to melt. When we hike up there, you can see markings on the
rocks where they got scratched being pulled along over the ground.” Gil
finished his lecture by throwing away his chewed grass-stem and
carefully pulling another.
Blackie rose and held up his hand to shade his squinting eyes while he
peered at the slide of boulders which, according to Gil’s story, had
been brought there in such a dramatic manner.
“All right, I believe you,” he said; but he continued to stare.
Half-hidden among the pines and mountain maples, clinging to the side of
the mountain at the end of a thin line of road that ran above, Blackie
saw the faded clapboards and weathered roof of a house. There was not a
sign of life about it. The sinking sun, nearing its last stand above the
Lenape ridge, was reflected in all its bloodiness in two upstairs
windows of that dark and ominous dwelling; the afterglow swirled and
glinted with the color of molten copper. A little breeze blew up from
the lake, a breeze not too warm for late June; and Blackie shivered
slightly as it struck his back. He didn’t know why, but the sight of
that dead, hidden house scared him—just a little. He thought it looked
like a skull, lost among the trees. There must be some mystery about a
house like that.
“Gil!”
“Well, what is it now, youngster?”
“Does anybody live in that old house up there?”
“Sure. That’s where old Rattlesnake Joe lives. Some people around here
call him the hermit. You can go up and see him some time. Now, have you
got your breath back? If we don’t get going pretty soon, the gang will
be in ahead of us, and we’ll be out of luck for getting a good bunk.”
The two boys trotted on along the trail at a fast pace. Blackie would
have liked to ask some more questions about the hermit who lived alone
in the woods in that mysterious house, but he was afraid that Gil would
taunt him about being a greenhorn, so he saved his breath for running.
The trail soon broke surprisingly into the campus, and they were among
white tents where several of their comrades, already arrived in camp by
the same short-cut around the lake, were busily spreading out their
blankets on the two-decked canvas bunks that lined the tent walls.
“The tent assignments must be already posted,” muttered Gil. “Hurry up
to the lodge!”
Blackie ran with him through the little tent-village, but when he
reached the flagpole before the spreading lodge he halted as the lake
and the far shore spread out before his view.
“Jee-miny!” he whistled. He could see the roof of the boat dock below,
around which were moored about a dozen broad-beamed steel rowboats.
Gil Shelton came tearing by, laden with blanket and duffle that he had
collected from the pile of baggage on the lodge porch.
“Say, Blackie,” he called, “you better get on the job! You’re assigned
to Tent Four, down there. Grab your stuff and hurry down. The first one
in the tent gets his choice of bunks.”
Several boys, the advance guard of the hay-wagons, came streaming down
to the campus from the road behind the lodge. Blackie climbed the steps
to the lodge porch and in the welter of luggage there discovered a
familiar-looking sea-bag with his initials painted on it in black.
Seizing this dunnage, he ran stumbling to Tent Four, his new home in the
woods.
Tent Four lay at the end of the row of tents topmost on the hilly
campus. Before it lay a cleared space dotted by huckleberry bushes and a
few shading pines. The tent was floored and painted a battleship gray,
and eight canvas bunks lined the walls, running the length of the tent
and making two tiers. A tall boy was already swiftly and smoothly making
up a bed in one of the lower bunks. He nodded to Blackie but did not
pause in his work.
Gil Shelton shouted across from Tent Three, next door. His bunk was
already made. With the deftness of an experienced camper, he was setting
each thing in its correct place—shoes and hats in a line under the bed,
coats and sweaters on the rope swung between the two tent-poles, pajamas
under his pillow, and the remainder of his kit in one of the pine-wood
lockers that ran down the middle of the tent.
“The bottom bunks are the best, Blackie! If you pick a top one, the
fellow under you gets you up in the morning by the airplane method!”
Blackie began unpacking his duffle, slowly and clumsily. He laid out his
blankets on a lower bunk as advised, and tried two or three times to
make his result somewhat resemble Gil’s bed; but when he had finished,
it still looked bumpy and not too soft. Then he sat on his sea-bag and
looked about him helplessly.
The tall fellow, who had not spoken until now, looked up and smiled
shyly.
“Stuck? Well, follow what I do, and you’ll soon get cleared up. This the
first time you’ve been to camp?”
It was the first time Blackie had ever been away from home, but he hated
to admit it.
“Yeah. How do they put their stuff at _this_ camp?” He said it as if he
had visited all the other camps in the world before he had happened to
drop in on this insignificant little one.
Two other boys now rushed down, and made haste to stake out their claims
to lower bunks.
“Can’t have that one,” warned the tall, quiet boy to one of them who had
put his bag on the lower bunk nearest the lodge. “That belongs to the
councilor. And a councilor needs a lower bunk because he may have to
turn out quick in the middle of the night if he’s needed.”
“Who is the councilor?” asked the other.
“Mr. Rawn—Wally. He’s the fellow that has charge of the swimming. Well,
I’m going up to the lodge. He promised to let me be the waiter for the
first two days, because I know all about it.” He departed in the
direction of the lodge.
Blackie sat on his bunk and looked around. Everyone was busily engaged
in making up the first night’s bed, and shouts and singing came from all
quarters as the busy campers shook down in their new homes. From the
lodge porch came the brazen blare of First Call sounded by the camp
bugler.
A pine bough brushed against the tent, laden with cones. It occurred to
Blackie that it would be a good idea to take a few and stick them in
between someone’s blankets. He lifted off a few that looked to be the
most prickly and crossing the tent, pulled down the blankets of the tall
lad who had gone to the lodge. The two other boys had now been joined by
a third; but none of them were watching, for they were hurriedly
preparing for supper, and evidently thought the bunk was his own.
Blackie shoved the pine-cones down between the blankets, and looked
around to see if anyone had watched him. Someone had. A shadow fell
across the front of the tent, a tall and muscular figure stood over him,
and a deep voice demanded, “Do you always sleep with pine-cones in your
bed?”