THE LIE
“You put up a pretty good scrap,” grunted Gallegher approvingly.
Blackie had donned his shirt and sweater after the boxing bout. “Thanks,
Irish,” he said.
“I’ve seen lots of tough fights, and I know what I’m sayin’, see? Say,
are you tired?”
“No, not very.”
“What do you say we take a little walk? I’m sick of bein’ shut in this
lodge all mornin’.”
Blackie looked out a window; the rain had slackened, but still drizzled
down with settled persistence. “In the rain?”
“Sure—what’s a few drops matter? Put on your raincoat and come along.”
The two boys slipped into their rainproof ponchos, and then Gallegher
led the way a short distance through the wet woods behind camp. Here he
turned off and struck through the brush toward the mountain, following a
line of lead pipe that ran from a spring above down to the lodge,
supplying fresh, cold water for the use of the camp. A trail had been
cut when the men had laid the pipe, but it was overgrown and indistinct,
and it was easy to see that few campers ever passed that way. After
about a quarter of a mile of trudging in silence through the dripping
forest, Gallegher turned off and floundered through the undergrowth
until he came to the thick trunk of a fallen tree that lay rotting on
the ground.
“Here we are,” he said. “Not so bad, eh? I come here lots of times.”
“What for?” asked Blackie curiously.
“I’ll show you.” Gallegher stuck out his chin, and winked meaningly.
“Have a good time, away from all the baby kids in camp. See what I
mean?”
He fished out a crumpled, gaudily-colored package from his shirt, and
held it out to Blackie. Within were a few cheap cigarettes.
“Gee!” exclaimed Blackie, “cigarettes! Where did you get them, Irish?”
“Aw, I always carry some. I like to get away and have a little smoke by
myself now and then. Have one.”
“You’ve been smoking all the time we’ve been up here? Say, don’t you
know the Chief sends a guy home right away if he’s caught smoking?”
“What of it? He has to catch us first, and nobody ever comes here. Don’t
chew the rag so much; light up and be happy.” Gallegher winked again.
“Naw—I’m in training for boxing practice with the Lieutenant,” said
Blackie uncomfortably. “Smoking is bad for the wind, and I got to have
good lungs to be a good scrapper.”
“Aw, one won’t hurt you,” Gallegher jeered. “Know what I think? I think
you’re scared you’ll get caught. You’re just yellow, like all the rest
of the babies at this camp.”
“I’m not scared. Here, give me one, Irish. I’ll show you.”
Blackie seized one of the white cylinders and hastily lighted the end.
Gallegher lit another and settled back on the fallen tree trunk, puffing
away expertly.
“Pretty soft, eh?”
“Not bad,” agreed Blackie, fumbling amateurishly with the lighted
cigarette. He coughed and wiped away the tears that formed in his eyes
as the smoke blew into them. “Say, are you sure nobody ever comes around
here?”
“Sure they don’t—especially on a rainy day. I’ve had a quiet little cig
here lots of times. Don’t get scared, kid—we’ll be safe. Besides, now we
both got the honor emblem, we can get away with lots of stuff. If you
wear one of these things on your chest”—he indicated the green swastika
and the “L” upon his sweater—“you can put over stuff that would be too
raw for other guys to get away with. I’ve been kind of layin’ low
lately, but believe me, there’s goin’ to be some fun around this camp
pretty soon, and I’m goin’ to get back at the guys that kicked me out of
the Stuck-Up initiation. Are you with me, Blackie? They did the same
dirty trick to you.”
“Sure—sure I’m with you, Irish.”
“Have another fag, then.”
“No, one is enough for me.”
“Come on, have another. What are you afraid of? We can eat a hunk of
candy before we go back to camp, and nobody will ever know a thing about
it.”
Blackie accepted another, but threw the stump away before he had smoked
much of it. He didn’t like it, but the idea of sitting there hidden in
the woods doing a forbidden act that would be heavily punished if it
were known gave him a devil-may-care, excited feeling.
Later, after they had sneaked back to camp for swim, he did not feel
quite so dashing. The secret act now appeared sordid. He felt
uncomfortable and guilty; he could not forget what he had done, and went
to bed that night with an uneasy fear that he might be discovered any
minute. He dropped off to sleep assuring himself that never again would
he let Gallegher or anybody else persuade him to break a camp rule and
do an unworthy, hole-in-the-corner deed.
He awoke some time later. A pocket flashlight was shining in his face,
and he blinked fearfully for half a minute before he came to his senses.
Dimly he heard Wally whisper close to his ear.
“Get up and put on your bathrobe, Thorne. I want you to come up to the
lodge with me.”
“Wha—what for?”
“You’ll find out later.”
He could hear the heavy breathing of his tent-mates about him as he
struggled into his bathrobe; but when he stepped outside the tent he was
surprised to find that all of them were not asleep. Gallegher, also
attired in his bathrobe, stood waiting outside on the path with Wally,
who had not yet undressed for the night.
“What time is it, Wally?” asked Blackie.
“About ten-thirty. Now, keep quiet and don’t wake up the rest of the
fellows. Come along.”
The two boys followed him up to the lodge. The rain had stopped, and a
crisp, bracing wind was blowing up from the lake. As they mounted the
steps leading to the lodge porch, they saw a light still burning in the
little office in one corner of the building. The Chief had not gone to
bed yet, either. Wally opened the outer door, and stepped inside to let
them enter.
“This way, you two.”
The boys exchanged scared glances. There was no time to do more. They
stepped inside. The Chief turned in his chair and bent a serious look
upon them.
“Sit down, Gallegher, Thorne. Come on in, Mr. Rawn. Now, I have had your
leader bring you boys up here because I wanted to ask you some
questions.”
Gallegher slumped in his seat with a scowl. Blackie shivered; he did not
dare to face the Chief, but looked away, fearing what was to come.
“Mr. Rawn tells me,” continued the Chief in an even tone, “that to-night
at Taps, he noticed that something fell out of Gallegher’s pocket as he
was undressing. He brought this object to me. Here it is.”
Blackie stole a glance at the man’s outstretched hand. It was as he
feared. The Chief was holding a crumpled paper package of cigarettes.
“I asked him to bring Gallegher to me right away. He was seen going into
the woods this morning, and as Thorne was with him, I asked that both of
you be brought up to talk with me. The directors of Camp Lenape, knowing
that smoking is injurious to the health of growing boys, have a rule
that any boy who smokes while at camp will be sent home in disgrace at
once. Have you both heard that rule?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“I am going to ask each of you a question, and you are on your honor to
answer it truthfully. Gallegher, have you smoked cigarettes while at
Camp Lenape?”
There was a moment of silence. Gallegher bit his lip and considered. He
was caught with the goods. He shrugged and mumbled, “Yes, sir.”
Blackie felt the Chief’s eyes upon him. “Thorne, have you been smoking
at camp, too?”
He must not be sent home! Blackie shifted in his chair and tried to
think. Sent home in disgrace, away from all the wonderful times at camp;
sent back to town, to face his mother’s disappointed eyes, to be in the
city and know that he had missed the big camp show, the boat regatta,
the swimming meet—— The Chief and Wally couldn’t be sure—Gallegher
wouldn’t give him away——
“Answer me, Blackie.”
There was only one way out. “N-No, Chief.”
He had done it! He had lied; deliberately he had told an untruth to save
his own skin. He was glad the Chief was not looking at him any more, but
had turned his attention to Gallegher. Blackie stared at the floor.
“Gallegher, I’m glad you haven’t made it any worse by lying about your
act,” the director was saying. “Now, because you’ve owned up to it like
a man, and because I know that you have lived in a bad neighborhood back
in town and might in that way have picked up some wrong ideas about
things, I’m going to give you a choice that may permit you to stay on
here at camp. You can either leave camp to-morrow, or stay here and chop
wood for the kitchen three hours a day. You’ll lose your honor emblem,
of course. Which is it—stay or leave?”
Gallegher turned away, so that the Chief could not see his face. “I’ll
stay and chop wood,” he muttered with a catch in his voice. “And—thanks,
Chief.”
“I’m glad you took that choice, Gallegher. Camp has done a lot for you,
and I’d hate to lose you now. Mr. Rawn, you may all go back to your tent
now. Good-night!”
Wally nodded briefly, and the three left the lighted office. Not a word
was spoken; they walked slowly and thoughtfully back to Tent Four, and
turned in silently.
Between his blankets, Blackie drew a deep breath for the first time
since he had been awakened. If Gallegher only did not give him away,
nobody would ever know, and things would be just the same as before.
Nevertheless, he did not find it easy to get to sleep, and woke before
dawn to lie wretchedly in his bunk until the activity of the day would
begin and he might win forgetfulness in the rush of the day’s program.
The first blow fell just before breakfast, when the entire camp strength
was lined up after flag salute and morning Call to the Colors. Hungrily
expectant and waiting for the command to march in to mess, the arrayed
campers were surprised to find that the Chief delayed in giving the
command. He stood beside the flagpole with a stern look in his eyes. The
boys stirred in the ranks, shifted their feet curiously,
uncomprehendingly.
“Why doesn’t he tell us to go to breakfast?”
“Gee—I never saw him do this before!”
“Quiet in the ranks!” came the command of Mr. Avery, the officer of the
day. “Attention!”
The expectant bodies stiffened. The Chief cleared his throat.
“Timothy Gallegher, five paces forward!” he said.
A ripple of astonishment ran down the line. Blackie felt a movement at
his side; Gallegher had left his place and now appeared in front of the
Chief, standing with a strange white look on his drawn face, swaying
slightly in his place.
“Timothy Gallegher, you have been guilty of conduct unbecoming to a
Lenape camper. You will here, in the sight of all your comrades, be
stripped of the honor emblem which you have been found unworthy to
wear.”
The crowd gasped. Gallegher never moved, staring in front of him with a
blind tenseness. The Chief reached into his pocket and drew forth a
clasp-knife, opened one of the sharp small blades. From the end of the
line came a muffled tattoo; little Pete Lister, trap-drummer in the camp
orchestra, was sounding a rattling roll on his drum, as he had been told
to do.
Slowly, in the sight of all, the swastika-L on the front of Gallegher’s
sweater was cut away. The thin blade slit the stitches, and the Chief’s
hand tore away the green and white emblem of honor. Blackie watched
Gallegher’s face, fascinated. He should be out there, too, taking his
medicine, suffering along with the Irish boy; he was just as guilty, and
more so, for at least Gallegher had not lied about his guilt. Blackie
wanted to cry out, to tell them all that he should be standing there,
too, with the Chief tearing away his own badge; but he stood rooted in
his place with a dry tongue and pale cheeks beneath his tan.
Now it was too late. The Chief had put the emblem and the knife into his
pocket; the drumming had stopped; Gallegher shambled doggedly back to
his place in the line, beside Blackie and the other boys of Tent Four.
The chance to confess was past. Blackie rather envied Gallegher; he had
owned up and taken his punishment, and however hard the work on the
woodpile might be, at least he would have no ugly stain on his
conscience.
“Right face! Forward—march!” The files trailed up toward the lodge
steps, and instantly a curious babel of voices broke out.
“Gee, what did you do, Irish?”
“Say, you must have done something pretty wild to get stripped like
that!”
“Aw, shut up!” said Gallegher. “Key down, see? That’s my business.
Maybe, if the guys that run this camp knew their stuff, I wouldn’t be
the only one to get stripped.”
“What do you mean?” asked Slater.
“I don’t mean a thing, see? Not a thing.” He looked darkly at Blackie,
who pretended he had not heard. The boys of Tent Four clattered up the
steps. There was a smell of breakfast in the air; everything was
forgotten at the thought of heaping dishes of cereal, hot biscuits,
steaming cocoa. But Blackie took his seat in worried silence, bowing his
head for grace. As he looked down, there showed before him the emblem
sewed on his jersey, the swastika-L he had won but had disgraced and now
wore dishonorably. He had a sudden, unreasoning desire to pluck it from
its place and throw it to the floor. It wavered before his eyes, the
burning badge of his shame.