CAMP LENAPE ON THE LONG TRAIL
CARL SAXON
_Author of “Blackie Thorne at Camp Lenape” and “The Mystery at Camp
Lenape”_
[Illustration: Decoration]
BOOKS, INC.
NEW YORK BOSTON
COPYRIGHT 1940, 1935 BY BOOKS, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
I. A Feud Begins 7
II. “Brick Ryan’s Not for Sale!” 17
III. “Help!” 29
IV. Dirk Jumps 40
V. The Sinking of the _Sachem_ 54
VI. Fight! Fight! 66
VII. The Red Hand Revengers 78
VIII. Shenanigans for Brick 91
IX. Dirk Hears of the Long Trail 103
X. Off for Camp Shawnee 116
XI. The Captain 127
XII. The Mysterious Watcher 138
XIII. On the March 151
XIV. The Watcher Again 164
XV. The Trap on Flint Island 175
XVI. Fire in the Forest 187
XVII. The Flight into the Hills 200
XVIII. The End of the Trail 212
CAMP LENAPE ON THE LONG TRAIL
CHAPTER I
A FEUD BEGINS
Brick Ryan was bending over a washtub out behind the Lenape lodge when
the big, shiny automobile roared up the road into camp.
Brick paused in the act of wringing out his best and only flannel shirt,
straightened, took one look at the glittering limousine, and whistled.
“Whew! Will you look at the golden chariot!” he exclaimed to himself.
“Brick, my boy, can it be that a young millionaire is comin’ to Camp
Lenape?”
He bent his flaming mop of copper-colored hair over the tub once more,
but kept a watchful blue eye on the big car, which had now drawn up
beside the kitchen wood-pile.
From the wheel of the limousine stepped down a man smartly garbed in the
uniform of a chauffeur. He swiftly threw open the silver-trimmed rear
door, saluted, and offered his arm as the first of the occupants of the
car descended. This person was a lady, somewhat stout, with a worried
look on her face. Brick saw the flash of many diamonds glitter on her
hands as she turned and spoke to those still remaining within the
shadowy interior.
“Dirk, dearest, here we are! Gracious, what a rough and dusty road it
has been! This camp must be in a perfect wilderness! John, you must come
with me right away to see the camp director. I simply must explain to
him about Dirk’s diet, and I do hope he will see to it that Dirk wears
his rubbers and heavy underwear when it rains!”
Her husband, an older man with hair gray about the temples, nodded
reassuringly as he joined her. “There, there,” he said soothingly, “it
will be all right, I’m sure. The director knows his job; he’s quite
accustomed to looking after all the boys.”
“But you know Dirk has always been so delicate! I declare, I wish we had
sent him to Wild Rose Camp again this year—the nurse there was so
sympathetic. But you would insist that he be brought to this outlandish
place, even when you knew that none of the boys of our social set would
think of coming to such an ordinary sort of camp!”
“I know, Marcia,” the man replied. “But Dirk is growing up now. I want
him to mix with a regular gang of fellows his own age, and do all the
things they do. Maybe at first it will seem a bit like roughing it, but
he’ll soon get used to it and be into everything with the best of them.
Isn’t that right, old man?”
“Yes, Papa,” a bored young voice answered from the depths of the back
seat.
“That’s splendid, dear,” the mother said. “I know you will be a brave
lad. Now, your father and I are going to speak to the director about
your diet. Benson will help you with your luggage, and you can find out
which house you are going to sleep in.”
“They sleep in tents here, Mama.”
“Tents! You see, John, what sort of place you have chosen! And you know
how easily Dirk catches cold! The idea of having the boys sleep in
drafty tents! I really must speak to the director at once!” She picked
her way delicately down the hill toward the front of the lodge, followed
by her apologetic husband.
“Gollies!” Brick Ryan muttered to himself, and watched for further
developments.
They were not long in coming. The chauffeur went around to the heaped
luggage-rack of the car, and began unloading its bulky contents. Several
shiny suitcases landed on the ground, followed by a leather hat-box, a
bag of golf-clubs, two tennis racquets, a gun-case, fishing rods, and
finally a large wardrobe trunk, which the man handled with difficulty.
Shouldering the latter, the man also disappeared down the hill. Brick
scratched his head, stared at the pile of baggage that still remained,
and hung a patched pair of khaki pants on the line to dry in the fresh
morning air.
He wheeled about as the same drawling voice he had heard from within the
car came to his ears.
“I say, would you mind lending a hand with this luggage?”
Brick looked at the speaker with open mouth. He saw a tall,
pleasant-looking boy of about his own age, with brown eyes and yellow
hair, spick and span in white flannels and straw hat. Brick was so
startled by the fact that the stranger wore a stiff white collar and
necktie that at first he did not comprehend what the boy had said.
“Huh?”
“I said,” the newcomer repeated carefully, “that I would like you to
help me with all this luggage of mine. That is, if it won’t interfere
with your laundering work.”
Brick slowly drained the soapy water from the tub, and considered this
request. Then he took a second look at the strange lad.
“You’re not a cripple, are you?” he asked solicitously.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What’s the matter with you grabbin’ some of those bags and hikin’ down
with ’em yourself?”
“You don’t understand,” the other said patiently. “Of course I shall
carry my rod and racquets, but I don’t care to lug these heavy bags
about myself. Just take them down to my tent like a good chap. I’ll pay
you, naturally.”
Brick’s Irish temper, never far from the surface, blew up.
“Say, Mr. Dirk Astorbilt, or whatever your name is, you’ve got me all
wrong! Where did you get the idea that Camp Lenape fellows were a bunch
of Pullman porters, standin’ around waitin’ to carry bags for a ten-cent
tip? Just because I happen to be washin’ out my duds so I wouldn’t look
like a hobo, you must think I’m a bellhop or somethin’. Well, up here,
mister, every man totes his own pack, see?”
“But—— Do you really mean that you are a fellow-camper, like myself?”
the blond boy asked awkwardly.
Brick snorted, stuck his hands in his pocket, and stared pugnaciously at
the other.
“Go climb a tent-rope!” he exclaimed rudely, and swaggered off down the
hill toward the grove of pine trees that shadowed the white canvas
dwellings of the Lenape campers.
In the shade beside the flagpole, he sat down on a log to cool off. With
a blue bandana handkerchief he mopped his freckled brow and snub nose. A
pine-scented breeze fluttered down the mountainside at his back and
ruffled his unruly red hair. Perhaps he had been a little too hasty in
taking affront at the new boy’s request. He sniffed the air, and its
fragrance soon made him forget the unpleasant encounter with the strange
boy in white flannels. For the thousandth time, he gazed over the
spreading campus of Lenape, and peace descended on his fiery soul.
Before his eyes, under the limpid blue sky of August, between the
mountains and the little lake, lay Camp Lenape, summer home of a hundred
lively boys and the dozen councilors who guided their many outdoor
activities. Over his head, on the long porch of the lodge, he could hear
the uplifted voices of Jake and Jerry Utway; the twins were skylarking
about, followed by the laughter of “Happy Face” Frayne, the genial
assistant director. Beyond, from the kitchen, came a clatter of pans and
a snatch of song as Ellick, the chef, and his dusky minions prepared
lunch. Brick looked down the steep hill to the boat dock, where a
rowboat full of boys with fish-poles was just coming in from a trip to
the south end of Lake Lenape. He yawned sleepily, and stretched. From
the rows of tents to his left someone shouted his name.
A group of campers trailed through the bushes in the wake of Mr.
Carrigan, the camp naturalist. Among the boys who were thus returning
from a nature-study hike were Blackie Thorne, Soapy Mullins, and Lefty
Reardon, the latter of whom had called out.
“Hi, Ryan!” Lefty repeated. “Come on down to the tent, you loafer, and
clean up for inspection!”
“Right away!” Brick answered lazily, but did not stir. He hated to break
the spell of contentment that lay over him.
Brick Ryan loved Camp Lenape. It meant everything to him, the camp life,
and for three summers now he had whooped with delight when the time came
to leave the hot city streets behind and make for the Lenape hills for
two months of busy, carefree sport in the green out-of-doors. Here,
among his camper friends and the wise leaders like the Chief and Happy
Face and Lieutenant Eames and Mr. Carrigan, he could do to his heart’s
content the things he loved—swim and fish and get up shows and take long
hikes through the mountains—— And this year, for the first time, he
would be allowed to go on the Long Trail——
The blare of Ted Fellowes’ bugle, sounding Recall, broke forth over his
head. He rose, stretched, and sauntered down to Tent One, his new
quarters for the next two-week period. Every fortnight during the season
was moving day for Lenape; then some of the boys who could not stay the
entire summer would leave, and other boys would come up from the city to
take their places. At this time, too, the tent assignments were shifted
about so that each camper could get to know, and live as tent-mates
with, a wide variety of other boys. Brick, who had that morning been
given a bunk in the tent nearest the lodge, presided over by “Sax”
McNulty, the comical leader who directed camp dramatics, wondered idly
what sort of gang his new tent-mates would turn out to be.
As he entered the tent, Lefty Reardon looked up as he was spreading his
blankets neatly over his canvas bunk.
“Well, it’s about time you were on the job,” he grinned. “What you been
doing, Brick? Picking daisies? How about doing a little fancy work with
a broom?”
“All right, Mr. Tent Aide,” Brick answered good-humoredly, and set about
making his own bed. “What have you guys been doin’ all mornin’—lookin’
for filly-loo birds up in the tall timber?”
“Mr. Carrigan showed us some partridge. That’s better than loafin’ in
the sun. Say, have any of the pups hit camp yet?”
This was Lefty’s belittling way of referring to new boys, tenderfeet who
were that day coming to camp for the first time. Brick groaned.
“Don’t remind me—I’d almost forgot about it! Gollies, I was just
exchangin’ sweet words with one of the juiciest specimens that you’ve
ever seen! Mr. Chauncy Montmorency, the Dude from Swellville! Such a
pretty boy, too!”
Lefty grunted. “What’s he like?”
“You’d have to see it to believe it. Mama and Papa and the shover all
come along in the family limmyzine to see that little Algy gets here
without getting his tootsies wet! ‘And I sye, me good feller,’” he
mimicked, “‘would you be kind enough to carry me bags down to the
_ho_-tel?’”
Lefty’s jaw gaped. “Gee, he sure must be a green one!”
“Wait till you see him! He’s the Millionaire Baby, and no mistake! I
pity the poor guys that get in his tent——” Brick Ryan broke off suddenly
as a shadow fell over his shoulder. He looked up, and gasped.
At the door of the tent stood a blond young fellow in white flannels. A
few paces away a chauffeur in uniform stood respectfully, laden with
shiny suitcases and sporting goods.
“Oh, there you are again,” the lad said breezily. “Sorry to trouble you,
but is this Tent One? If it is, I believe I shall have the pleasure of
sharing it with you chaps. My name is Dirk Van Horn, and the camp
director has assigned me to stay here. I hope that we shall all be very
happy and friendly tent-mates!”