THE COUNCILOR
Blackie hesitated.
“Yes, sir, I always do that when I’m camping. It makes it seem more as
if I was really in the woods,” he said.
The tall man—he must have been six feet two, and stockily built—looked
down at Blackie and frowned. He was big enough to have picked up the boy
and used him for a baseball.
“I wouldn’t lie if I were you,” he drawled. “It’s a bad habit for a
young lad to acquire. That bunk belongs to Ken Haviland, my aide. By the
time he’s ready to crawl in to-night, he’ll be plenty tired from a long
day on the job. Don’t you think he’s entitled to a good sleep?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, since we are to be tent-mates, we ought to get acquainted.” He
grinned broadly, and held out his hand. “I’m Wally Rawn. What’s your
name?”
“Blackie. Blackie Thorne.”
The man grinned as he took the boy’s hand in a firm grip and surveyed
the bright black eyes, the shining black hair.
“Not a bad name, at that. What’s your mother call you?”
“She calls me Blackie, too. My regular name is Ambrose.”
“I won’t tell a soul. Blackie you are and Blackie you shall be. Now,
Blackie, I’m going to offer you a chance to show what sort of a spirit
you have for helping to make the Tent Four boys known all over camp. I
have, after much thought, decided to paint our tent-poles with pink and
green stripes. That ought to start the rest of camp thinking about us.
Now, please run up to the kitchen and ask the chef to send you down here
with a bucket of striped paint—pink and green.”
Blackie was off like a flash, but his leader called him back.
“While you’re up there, Blackie, you can also ask him to lend you a
bunk-stretcher. I find that my feet stick out over the edge of my berth,
and I don’t want to wake up in the morning and find the birds roosting
on my toes. A left-handed bunk-stretcher—my bunk is on the left-hand
side.”
“Yes, Mr. Rawn.”
“Call me Wally. Now, off with you!”
Blackie bounded up the short hill to the side door of the kitchen.
Through the screen came the tantalizing fragrance of something good;
supper was on the way, evidently, and Ellick, that good-hearted king of
the kitchen, was at his busiest. Blackie pushed open the door and ran in
with an important look on his dark face. He was greeted by Leggy, a
skinny, coffee-colored individual whose thin shanks, although they
seemed to have no end, did no more than reach the ground. He waved a
long-handled spoon, and made a swing with it at Blackie’s head.
“Outside, white boy!” he cried. “Kitchen ain’t no place for little boys
at de supper-call.”
“I got a message for the chef—very important. Let me in!”
“Hol’ on dere!” came Ellick’s voice from the far corner of the room.
“You ain’t de boy what is lookin’ for de striped paint, is you?”
“Yes, I am, chef.”
“Well, if dat don’t beat all!” exclaimed the surprised cook. “We is just
out of striped paint. If I wasn’t busily pre-incapacitated by carving
dis yere ham for dinner, now, I would shorely help you-all out. A
left-handed bunk-stretcher wouldn’t do as well, would it, now?”
“Say, that was the other thing I was sent for!”
“Who-all sent you?”
“Wally Rawn—he’s my leader.”
“Oh, that Wally boy! It must shore be important then. If I could only
dis-extricate myself from carvin’ dis yere ham, now——Let me see. De
bestest thing to do under de concircumstances is for you-all to go down
to de boat dock and petitionate de person in charge to give you de keys
to de campus. And, whiles you’m down there, you-all might bring up a
cargo what’s waitin’ for some smart young boy to fetch me. Ask him
pussonally from me to deliver unto you-all de shipment of fence-post
holes and de Royal Official Back-Scratcher.”
“You bet, chef—keys to the campus, fencepost holes and the Royal
Official Back-Scratcher.”
“I thanks you. What might be you-all name?”
“Blackie.”
“Hmm. I decalculate from dat name dat you are repartial to doughnuts.”
There was a sweet, sugary smell in the warm kitchen air.
“Doughnuts? You said it, chef!”
“Catch!”
The grinning Ellick deftly caught up a doughnut from a bowl beside him,
and tossed it in the air. Blackie got under it like a veteran fielder,
and sped out the door. The gangling Leggy aimed a parting swing at him
with the long-tailed spoon, and missed.
On the parade ground, Blackie paused in his headlong lakeward course at
the sight of Gil Shelton, hair combed, face shining from a recent
scrubbing, and spotless for supper. “Hey, Blackie, where you heading?
After fence-post holes?”
“Yep—how did you know? And striped paint and a left-handed
bunk-stretcher and——”
Gil started in great surprise. “Don’t tell me,” he exclaimed, “that they
picked you to bring the Royal Official Back-Scratcher?”
“They sure have.”
“That’s a great honor, my son. In fact, only the newest and greenest
boys are ever picked for it. Say, Blackie, I didn’t think you’d fall for
that old stuff. Did you ever see a fence-post hole? Does striped paint
come in cans?”
Blackie paused and thought for the first time.
“Well, Gil, it was my leader Wally who sent me. He told me not to tell
lies, too, so I thought it was all right.”
“Say, did you ever hear of Santa Claus? Why, for a week now the little,
new, green, smart, bright city boys will be looking all over the place
for striped paint and the key to the lake. And you fell for it the first
thing!”
Gil’s laughter was so deep that Blackie was glad to get back to the
shelter of his tent.
Wally greeted him. “So you didn’t find it, eh? Well, that’s all
right—don’t be discouraged. You can help me out in another way. Just run
down to the dock, will you, and ask if anyone down there has seen the
key to the lake?”
“Not on your life, Wally,” grinned Blackie. “Send one of the new fellows
down, can’t you?”
The camp bugler, Ted Fellowes, sounded Assembly Call at that moment, and
there was no time for further talk before supper. After the Retreat
ceremony and the lowering of the flag, the boys attacked the supper that
had been prepared in the depths of the kitchen. Blackie had never found
a meal that tasted quite so good.
He met the remainder of the boys of Tent Four at the table. Ken
Haviland, the tent aide, was busily serving as waiter at one end; he had
to run again and again to the serving window for additional platters of
ham, potatoes, and turnips, mountains of bread and oceans of milk.
Blackie didn’t envy him his job.
Wally had evidently met all the boys in his group. He paused and,
between mouthfuls, addressed them.
“There’s one thing that’s worrying me, gentlemen of the famous Tent Four
group. There are only seven of us, and there should be eight, counting
myself. One of our number has not turned up. I shall call our imposing
roll. Haviland!”
“Here, sir.” Ken seized his serving tray and dashed off in pursuit of
dessert.
“Thorne! Here, I see. Slater!”
“Here, sir!” answered a freckle-faced boy with burning red hair.
“Guppy!”
Blackie looked with interest at the boy with such a beautiful name. He
was a little chap of about eleven, at the end of one row.
“Lefkowitz!”
“Present!” came a squeaky voice from across the table.
“Gallegher!”
“Here!” He was a sunburnt, black-haired chap with a scar across his
forehead, shaped like a V.
“Crampton! No answer. It is the notorious Mr. Crampton who is missing.
Has anybody here ever heard tell of the gentleman?”
“That must be Fat,” said Blackie. “We saw him down at the end of the
lake before we hiked up. He was in the wagon then.”
“Maybe that’s the fat fellow we dumped off the wagon coming along the
road back of camp,” volunteered Slater. “We told him that walking was
the best way to reduce his figger, and dumped him out.”
“To our fat friend’s rescue, then, tent-mates!” cried Wally, drinking
down the last of a glass of milk. “As soon as the Chief makes his
announcements, we shall be in the saddle and off for the hunt!”
A whistle sounded, and quiet fell on the groups. The Chief was about to
speak. He rose, an imposing figure of a man, quiet, dignified, and with
a voice full of calm command. He was dressed in camper’s togs, and wore
the green “L” on his sweater.
“All I have to say is this, fellows. We are all up here for a good
time—the best time ever. Now, I want to mention a few things that will
help the new camper to get along and make himself at home. Don’t expose
yourselves to the sun too much until you get a coat of tan gradually;
you won’t blister then. Don’t cut up or mark the trees on the campus of
which we are so proud. Don’t have any firearms in your tents; none of
any kind are permitted here at camp, and if you have any, bring them up
to the lodge and I will look after them for you. And finally, I only
need mention the rule we have about boys who smoke. Now, those are all
the ‘don’t’s’ I’m going to mention. In an hour there will be a grand
jubilee campfire below the baseball diamond, where I will introduce you
to the councilors, who will then have something to say to you. All set
for the best camp season ever! Everybody happy?”
“Yay!” The resounding, united call of the campers reverberated among the
lodge rafters.
“Let the lions roar!”
“Rao-a-ow!” A pack of well-fed lions never sent up such a tremendous
roaring to the Sahara moon.
“Dismissed!”
Tent Four remained a little island in the swirling rush of campers that
broke up after the meal.
“Are you with me, gang?” shouted Wally. “Onward to the rescue of our
wandering brother!” He made for the back door, pushing through the crowd
like a fullback carrying the ball to victory, followed by his eager team
of tent-mates. Tent Four was on the round-up.
No sooner had they reached the road behind camp than the leader began
giving directions, curtly and with precision. “Spread out, fellows, and
we’ll cover a path on each side of the road. Keep in touch with my
whistle—I’ll be in the center. Shout for Crampton at intervals, and
we’ll soon have him back in the fold——What’s that?”
A low moan was heard behind him, just off the road.
“Help! Help!”
Wally bounded off in the direction from whence it came. His muscular
legs cleared the low bushes like so many hurdles.
“Behind that big tree!” shouted Gallegher. The six boys dashed off after
their leader, and found him staring down at a mournful figure sitting
with his back to the trunk of a tall pine. It was Fat Crampton. His
bulging cheeks bore the trails of tear-marks; he sat hunched amid the
wreckage of his knapsack and accouterment, with the most woebegone look
in the world.
“I’m lost in the woods,” he moaned. “I’ve been walking around for
hours!”
“Why, you poor nut,” said Blackie, “if you had walked two steps further
you would have tripped over the camp!”
Fat transferred his doleful gaze. “Oh, Blackie, is it really you? Say,
I’m scared. I heard a bunch of lions off in the woods a minute ago, and
I thought they were going to get me.”
“Lions, nothing!” The whole tent broke into a storm of laughter. “That
was us! Rao-a-ow! Look out for us, Fat—we’re lions!”
“Come on, lion-hunter,” said Wally, “come on and get a meal of raw meat.
I think the chef will have saved something for you.” He lifted the
rotund lad on his shoulder and set off toward the kitchen, with Fat
helplessly waving his arms from his lofty perch. The rest of the boys
ran with them, roaring terribly and making quips at the wanderer’s
expense.
Little Guppy ran beside Wally, looking up at the leader.
“I’ll make up Fat’s bunk,” he offered, “if he’ll tell me where his
blankets are.”
“That’s the spirit! Keep it up, and you’ll make a great aide some day,
Gup!”
By the time the fat boy was fed, the bugle sounded Assembly for the
campfire. It was now dark, and the campers found their ways down through
the baseball diamond to a field above the lake shore, where a group of
three or four leaders were standing beside a high pyre of logs and
branches, talking to the Chief. They were Mr. Frayne, the burly
assistant director whom everyone, even the smallest boys, familiarly
called “Happy Face” because of the smile he always wore; “Sax” McNulty,
the mournful-looking comedian and saxophone artist who had charge of the
shows and stunt-nights; and Lieutenant Eames, the West Pointer. The
other leaders were to be found among the crowd of boys settling around
the piled fire.
In the glow of somebody’s flashlight Blackie caught sight of Gil
Shelton’s face in the crowd. Gil saw him, also, and shouted over: “Hi,
Blackie! How’s the guardian of the Royal Official Back-Scratcher?”
“Aw, forget it, Gil. Say, what are they going to do now?”
“Light the fire, of course. Then I guess we’ll have a song or two, and
the Chief will introduce all the leaders, and somebody will tell a
story, and then we’ll burn all the little new greenhorns at the stake.”
Blackie laughed as much as the joke required, and snuggled down next to
Wally, in the midst of the Tent Four group. The fire was lighted, and
the glow was reflected in the faces of the happy throng of campers who
gathered around the first campfire of the season. The boys of Tent Four,
already bound together by loyalty to their leader, were content to lie
and listen to the calm voice of their Chief, as a spout of flaring
sparks rose from the flames to challenge the distant glitter of the
stars.