A HARD CASE
Blackie was wakened somewhat rudely the next morning. A sloshing glass
of cold water landed on his face, and he jumped up half-awake to find
Gil Shelton standing over him in the fresh sunlight with the empty glass
in his hand.
“Rise and shine!” called the patrol-leader. “First Call will sound in
about a minute. Gee, you must have been sawing wood not to hear the
noise the gang has been making ever since four o’clock this morning!
Most of the tenderfeet woke up early and have been horsing around. I
couldn’t sleep, so Chink Towner and Spaghetti Megaro and I got
permission to hike down to the cottage and back. Look at the big frog we
found by the brook!”
He held up a monstrous bullfrog by the hind legs, so close to Blackie’s
face that he jumped backwards in alarm, while Gil’s two companions
laughed.
“Don’t let him scare you,” said Megaro, the Italian boy.
“I ain’t afraid. Say, what are you going to do with him, Gil?”
“Give him to Ellick—he likes to eat frog legs. Come on, here comes
Fellowes with his tin horn ready to blow First Call.”
Blackie picked up his bed and made his way to Tent Four. All his
tent-mates were awake and laughing at little Guppy, who had just
discovered that his nightgown was floating in the breeze at the top of
the flagpole. The bugle’s call routed them all out to formation in front
of the lodge, where after a snappy setting-up drill the entire camp flew
down the slope to the boat dock for the Indian dip.
The blue waters of the lake reflected a hundred white bodies standing
about the edge of the dock waiting for Wally’s whistle. No sooner had it
sounded than there was a tremendous plunging and splashing as most of
them tumbled head-first into the crisp, bracing water. A few younger
boys and timid souls waded in from the shore.
“Stick your head under, Toots!”
“Oh, boy! Say, ain’t this water cold?”
“It ain’t cold, you dummy. Just the way I like it—wakes me up fine!”
Blackie took a swift racing dive off the front end of the dock, swept
cleanly through the water in a shower of small bubbles, and came to the
surface with a speedy overhand stroke. He swam some fifty yards out to
the life-saving boat that was stationed there with Sax McNulty at the
oars and a leader named Munson at the bow, and there floated a minute.
He was surprised to hear the trill of the whistle, followed by cries of
“All out!”
Swimming over to the dock again, he shouted in a grieved tone to Wally,
who was supervising the general exodus from the water, “What’s the idea,
Wally? Do you call this a swim?”
“Of course not—this is just morning dip, and you’ll get a chill if you
stay in long. Swim comes later.”
“Aw, heck!” Somewhat disgruntled, he climbed out and raced back to the
tent to dress for breakfast.
The morning meal over, there was a period of duty. “We’re on police
squad, you fellows!” called Ken Haviland.
“Police?” asked Blackie. “What do we do—go around arresting guys?”
“No, you sap. Get a blanket and I’ll show you.”
Blackie discovered that policing camp merely meant going about the
campus and picking up bits of paper and destroying unsightly objects
that littered the paths. Church Call sounded soon after they finished,
and together with the rest of the campers he went to a shady glade in
the forest beside the lake and sat on a log while the short Sunday
service was held. He liked sitting there in the leafy woods and singing
the various tunes, even though they were the same ones they sang in
Sunday-school at home; he admired the handiwork of the rustic pulpit
that the campers had built the year before; but when the Chief began his
talk he was frankly bored. The Chief was saying something about
different trees and how they were like different kinds of boys; but
Blackie only listened now and then. He was wishing that church was over
and that they could go in swimming again; and he passed the time
catching ants and dropping them down the neck of a smaller boy who sat
in front of him.
As a matter of fact the service was quite brief; but it seemed to him
that it would never end. After years of waiting, or so he thought, the
brisk challenge of Swim Call came from the lodge porch, and slipping
into his bathing suit, he headed again for the dock. He was the first
one there, with the exception of the life-saving crew, composed equally
of councilors and older boys who had won the Red Cross emblem that was
stitched over their breasts. Wally was in charge; he was sending out
three boats to patrol the waters about the dock and posting the guards
who would stand in various places about the tower to be on the watch for
water accidents. When this was done, the man turned to Blackie.
“First one down for swim? Say, if you’d only show as much speed doing
squad-duty, the rest of the fellows wouldn’t have to do a thing!”
“Can I go in now, Wally?”
“You’ll have to hold yourself down until the rest get here and the
whistle blows. The rule is that there’s no swimming except when the
life-savers are on duty. There aren’t going to be any accidents while
I’m in charge. By the way, I noticed this morning at Indian dip that
you’re not a bad swimmer.”
“I’m pretty good, I guess,” said Blackie modestly.
“Do you know the Australian crawl? No? Well, if you want to make speed,
that’s the stroke to use. The camp always holds a big boat regatta and
swimming meet at the end of each section—that’s two weeks from now—and
we compete with our old rivals of Camp Shawnee. I’d like to see you take
a few honors and help us to beat them. What say I teach you the crawl
some time?”
“Now?”
“To-morrow, maybe. Well, here comes the gang!” He turned away as the
crowd of campers, all in swimming togs, trooped on to the dock, and at
the sound of his whistle the swim began.
Blackie sported about the water happily for the remainder of the period.
He was quite pleased with himself for having thus been singled out by
his leader for swimming ability. Tired of circling about the life-boats,
he began ducking less experienced swimmers and pushing boys off the dock
into the water, until he was reprimanded for this conduct by Lieutenant
Eames because of the danger of someone slipping and injuring himself
against one of the piles or the superstructure of the dock. This
scolding made him sulky, and he swam by himself until the whistle blew,
and then tardily walked up to the tent, stopping many times on the way
to chase butterflies or to hunt for snakes among the rocks; and thus,
when he finally reached the tent, he found his comrades working busily.
All the beds were made except his own, and under the direction of Ken
Haviland, the boys were sweeping and arranging, cleaning the tent
lantern, putting their lockers in order, and tidying up the place.
“Where have you been?” the aide greeted him. “Snap out of it and get
dressed and make your bunk and get ready for inspection. Wally had to go
up to leaders’ meeting at the lodge.”
“Aw, don’t make such a fuss,” said Blackie. “I’ll do it, won’t I?”
“Yes, but we have only a couple minutes before inspection. If the tent
isn’t in apple-pie order, we don’t stand a chance to win the pennant
to-day.”
“Well, what if we don’t? What’s the good of having an old pennant in
front of your tent? It don’t get you anything.”
“But don’t you see it means that the Tent Four bunch are the best
campers? When you’re here longer you’ll learn not to waste time talking
back when we have a chance to show our stuff.”
Without haste, Blackie peeled off his swimming suit and cast it on the
floor, dressed with tantalizing slowness, and with a scowl at the aide,
began to make his bed. He knew that Haviland was angry and thought it a
good chance to get the tall camper’s “goat.” In the midst of his
preparations the call came down the line, “All out of tents for
inspection!” Haviland and the others jumped outside and lined up at
attention, but Blackie delayed to try and shake his blankets into shape.
Just as he stepped outside, Mr. Colby, one of the councilors and a
scoutmaster known for his strictness, came along with his inspection
staff.
“Tent Four! Two demerits for having a camper inside the tent after
inspection call. The tent seems to be in pretty good shape, but there’s
a wet bathing suit in the middle of the floor, and one bunk that isn’t
made. Sorry, Haviland—but this will give you so many demerits that
you’ll probably get the booby prize to-day! Any excuse?”
“No excuse, sir,” answered Haviland, looking daggers at the guilty
Blackie. After the inspection crew had passed on, he turned to Blackie
and said, “We would have had a good chance at the pennant if it hadn’t
been for you! As it is, we’ll probably have the booby can tied to our
tent-pole until to-morrow! What do you say, fellows—shall I recommend
that Wally puts him on the chain gang?”
“Put me on the gang if you want to—I don’t care!” exclaimed Blackie
boldly; but he was silent all during dinner, and even fried chicken,
green corn and ice-cream failed to make him forget that his careless
attitude had won him the black looks of all his tent-mates.
After the meal there was the usual siesta period. The boys were
scattered about lying in their bunks, resting and writing letters home.
Blackie crouched in his place with a pencil and pad before him. Haviland
sat across from him, now and then looking gloomily up at a big tin can,
painted black with the white letters BOOBY across it, which hung
swinging in plain sight over the front steps. Slater was writing busily.
Fat Crampton was asleep, and Gallegher was tickling the stout boy’s nose
and neck with a stalk of grass, while Guppy and Lefkowitz watched the
proceedings with amusement.
Blackie looked down at what he had written. “Dear Mother—We got here O.
K. and Camp Lenape is a fine camp. I am on the Chain Gang already and
the swimming is O. K. I will learn the Ostralien crawl soon please send
me up some fudge and cake. Last night I slep out-door. I think this is a
fine camp o boy and don’t forget the fudge and cake and some chewing gum
too.”
He read this over for the fifth time, wondered what to put down next,
and looked up to find Haviland watching him.
“What’s biting you?” Blackie asked. “Still sore because you didn’t win
your old pennant?”
“It’s not myself I’m worrying about, but after dinner I heard a couple
of the other leaders kidding Wally because he is always so proud of
having his tent make a good showing, and to-day we were handed the merry
razz.”
Blackie snorted. “Say, who is this guy Wally that he should boss us
around? Always blowing his whistle just when the water’s getting good!”
“Yeah,” put in Gallegher, who had finally succeeded in awakening Fat
Crampton. “Down our way all the guys would think he was sure a sissy,
landin’ on me just because I cussed a little.”
“He wouldn’t give me seconds on ice-cream, either,” said Fat Crampton
mournfully. “Said I ought to start to reduce.”
Ken looked at them all pityingly. “Say, don’t you know Wally is a senior
at Columbia University and on the varsity water-polo and basketball
teams? He’s coming up here and spending his time teaching you birds how
to be good campers, and that’s all the thanks he gets!”
“I guess he has a pretty good time,” said Blackie.
“Of course he does, or he wouldn’t be here. But it’s no fun to have a
tent full of lazy draw-backs like you that object every time he tries to
make a good showing.”
There was a short space of silence. Slater looked up from his writing.
“Hey, Ken, do we have council ring to-night?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“What’s council ring?” asked Blackie curiously.
Slater explained. “Just when it’s getting dark, we all put on blankets
and go over to council, just like the Indians used to do. We all sit in
a circle around a four-square fire, and one of the fellows lights the
fire with flint and steel, or else with rubbing-sticks. Then we have
report of scouts. Any fellow who has seen any interesting birds or
animals or anything like that gets up and tells about them. Then we
suggest anything we can do to help make the camp better and offer to do
it. Then they have all kinds of contests—hand-wrestling and talk-fests
and imitations, and usually end up with a ghost story. It’s real fun,
all right.”
Blackie remembered that Gil had pointed out the way to the council ring
the evening before, and suddenly thought he would like to see the place
by daylight. He put away his letter, rose, and stretched.
“So long, you guys,” he said.
“Where are you going?” asked the aide. “Nobody’s allowed to leave until
after Recall.”
“None of your business—and if you ask me, I think you’re nothing but a
spy on us for this Wally of yours.” He dived into the bushes and
disappeared before Haviland could follow.
Not only did he want the fun of tormenting Ken, but also wishing to look
over the famous council ring, he took a course through the woods that he
thought would bring him out at the place he sought. It was quiet; the
camp was still even for a Sunday afternoon. He pressed through the
underbrush and in a short time stumbled upon a well-worn path that led
in the direction he was going. Shortly he caught a glimpse of white
birch railings through the leaves, and he trod softly in case there
should be anyone there who might question him. His precaution proved to
be wise. From a clearing ahead came the low hum of men’s voices.
A circle some fifty yards across had been cleared in the woods, and
seats built about it, with an imposing stone dais on the north side to
furnish a proper elevation for the chieftain. Sitting on this stone were
the Chief himself and Wally Rawn, chatting together.
They had not seen him, and it struck Blackie that it might be a daring
thing to get close enough to overhear their conference. Forgetful of the
old saying that eavesdroppers seldom hear well of themselves, he wormed
his way around through the bushes and found a place where he could
listen without being seen.
“I approve of the life-saving crew assignments you’ve made, then,
Wally,” the Chief was saying. He rose as if to leave. “By the way, what
do you think of the bunch I’ve put in your tent?”
“They look pretty good,” answered Wally. “They ought to turn out
first-rate after a couple of days. Haviland is a pretty capable kid, and
Slater is bugs about stars and scouting and doesn’t give much trouble.
That Crampton lad is lazy, but I hope to have him get over that when we
get out on the hikes.”
“You have two fellows I put in with you because they need pretty careful
leadership. Know who they are?”
“Think I do, Chief—Gallegher and that Blackie Thorne.”
“Right. Gallegher comes from the worst part of town, and I think he may
have picked up a lot of questionable habits. Thorne is a different sort.
He’s lively and smart as a whip; but his father is dead and maybe he’s
getting to be too much for his mother to handle alone. He’s full of
mischief, his scoutmaster tells me, but he ought to turn out right.
They’re a pair of hard cases, I guess; but keep them busy and they’ll
soon be real Lenape fellows.”
“I like hard cases,” grinned Wally. “Blackie is crazy about swimming;
guess I can get him interested through that, and the old camp spirit is
bound to follow. Well, let’s get back.”
The two men, arm in arm, disappeared down the path. Blackie Thorne, in
his hidden covert, laughed unpleasantly at their backs.
“Hard case, am I?” he said to himself. “Well, Mr. Smart Wally, if you
call me that, I guess all I can do is to try and live up to it!”