“HELP!”
Dirk Van Horn wondered if he were going to like Camp Lenape. There
seemed to be far too many uncomfortable rules that got in the way when a
fellow wanted to have some fun. Then, too, outside of little Joey
Fellowes, nobody had seemed duly impressed with his father’s wealth and
his luxurious camping outfit. It was clear that this was going to be
quite different from Wild Rose Camp, where everyone knew that he was J.
T. Van Horn’s only son, and where he and his tutor had shared a cosy
cottage with every convenience that money could buy.
Dirk sighed; then turned suddenly as a new idea struck him. He’d show
these kids what a real sportsman could do!
“Joey, old son,” he said, “would you mind clearing up the rest of this
stuff? I’m going to take a look around the woods and see what the
chances are for a bit of sport.”
“What you going to do, Van?”
“Oh, just a bit of gunning. That chap Reardon mentioned at lunch that he
had scared up some partridge on the mountain this morning. I thought I
might get a shot at a few.”
Joey Fellowes stood aghast at such daring. “Whe—you mean, shoot them?
Say, nobody at Lenape ever does that! We just go out and watch birds and
animals and things, and try to study them and take pictures of them.
Nobody in camp is supposed to have a gun!”
“Humph! What do they come up here in the woods for? Well, here’s one
person who isn’t going to overlook a chance if he happens to see one!”
“But—but—— Why, Sax McNulty or any of the rest of the councilors would
sure bawl you out if they found you with a gun! It’s against the camp
rules!”
“Bother the old rules! Good heavens, McNulty may change his mind pretty
quick if I present him with a nice bag of partridge ready for Tent One
to eat for supper.” With deliberate casualness, Dirk slung his gun-case
over his shoulder, unearthed from a suitcase a large box of chocolate
cake as provisions, and paused at the door of the tent. “Come along if
you like, Fellowes.”
“No—no thanks,” blurted Joey. “You better report to the Chief before you
go.”
“I won’t be long,” said Dirk carelessly. “Well, then, ta-ta! If you’ve
got most of my things stowed away by the time I come back, I’ll slip you
a dollar or two.”
With these generous words, Dirk waved an easy farewell, and strode off
through the trees, taking care to make a wide circle about the lodge,
where some fussy councilor might see him and keep him from his purpose.
His plan was simple. He wanted to make Brick Ryan and the rest of the
campers realize what a fine fellow was now in their midst. If he could
casually stroll into the tent with a dozen partridge in one hand and his
shiny new rifle in the other, they would see at a glance that here was a
comrade to be reckoned with! He conjured up pleasant pictures of their
surprise and admiration, himself the center of the group.
Still lost in these happy visions, he crossed a sunny meadow and picked
his way over the dusty, rutted country road that led to camp. Here he
plunged into thick woods, making straight up the mountainside. It was
cool in the leafy forest, and he would have been very well contented
save that a swarm of gnats hovered over his hatless head in a buzzing
cloud, following wherever he went. His coat was too warm, but he did not
want to carry it as his hands were already full, and he wished to be
free in case he located the desired covey of partridge.
Ahead lay a flat, marshy stretch of ground, where clumps of grass and
rotting tree-limbs formed a half-submerged, muddy mass. There was no
path going around, and Dirk, balancing his burdens dangerously, jumped
from one solid-looking tuft to another. More than once he slipped on the
rotting stuff, and floundered ankle-deep in slimy water. Long before he
reached the other side, he regretted that he had not changed his city
flannels for togs more suited to mountain work. His low sport shoes were
caked with ooze and half full of water; his erstwhile spotless white
flannels were muddied, streaked with green scum, and a triangular tear
on one leg showed where he had come up against a sharp branch.
Ruefully he sank to a seat on a decayed oak-trunk and unloosened his
wilted linen collar. He would have liked a drink, but he knew that the
stagnant pools at his feet were unhealthy, and he settled back,
inspected his glistening rifle to see that the magazine was full of .22
caliber cartridges, and then slowly began munching the cake he had
brought with him.
He had barely eaten half of it, however, when he leaped hastily from his
seat with a cry. One arm was afire, beneath the sleeve, with a thousand
prickling stings! A simmering stream of large black ants that infested
the rotting wood—no doubt attracted by the chance of refreshment in the
shape of sweet crumbs of cake—was flowing over his hand and arm, and
even beneath the collar of his shirt. In a painful frenzy he dropped the
cake and began brushing off the stinging insects, stripping off his coat
and shirt. It was several minutes before he could fight free of the
crawling horde, and then, grabbing his things, he rushed off up the
hillside away from the treacherous lower ground. Even then, he was
reminded now and again of his misadventure by a red-hot sting in some
part of his tender skin beneath his clothing.
So far, his expedition had not been successful. He had not seen any sign
of a partridge or any other small game. Even had there been any of the
birds in that part of the mountain, his stumbling progress would
undoubtedly have given them warning long before he could train his rifle
on them. But he kept on up the slope, smashing his way through the thick
underbrush and trying not to turn his ankles on the rocky ground
underfoot.
To his right he saw through the leaves a long scar of gray rock
outcropping on the hillside. This promised easier going than the tangled
underbrush. Besides, he thought, if he could get high enough, he might
be able to look around and see in just which direction lay the camp. His
flight from the marsh had twisted him around somehow, and a glance at
the sky gave him the feeling that the sun was not where it should
rightly be at this time in the afternoon. He altered his course and
began scaling the sloping, moss-encrusted rocks.
Before he was half-way up the rocks, he began to wish he had not chosen
such a steep and rough road. His shoes and trousers were in pitiful
shape. Still he scrambled upward in the hot sunshine, dripping
perspiration, ascending on hands and knees and trailing his rifle after
him. He was glad to see that the rocks ended a few feet above his head
in an overhanging bank of earth and matted shrubs. Over the top! He
charged the little cliff, seized with his free hand the roots of a
sapling oak that grew on the edge, and tried to haul himself up. His
first heave loosened the soil; he could feel his hold slipping. He cast
a fearful eye backwards; if he fell on those sharp rocks——!
A shower of dirt, twigs, and small pebbles rattled down upon his head;
with a rending noise, the roots he was gripping parted. Clawing the air
helplessly, Dirk fell backwards, and slid painfully a few feet down the
smooth rocks. His rifle flew from his hand, described a short circle in
the air, and landed with a bruising crash upon his outstretched right
leg.
Dirk cried out, and rubbed his shin. The sharp blow brought tears of
pain into his eyes, and he gritted his teeth. He realized now that it
had been a foolish thing to trust his weight to such a sketchy
hand-hold. Well, he had suffered for his error!
He clutched the rifle, whose wooden stock was badly scarred by the fall,
and began crawling across the rocks to the shelter of the brush. Every
movement heightened the ache in his leg, which was now throbbing
brutally. When he gained the wooded hillside, he rose and tried to walk;
but after a few steps he gave up, sat down, and began rubbing his
shinbone once more.
Dirk was not used to giving up an idea easily, and he hated to think of
limping back to camp with torn clothes, and lacking the game he had set
out so proudly to get. Here would be a very different return from that
he had visualized! But now he began looking about him and puzzling just
in which direction lay Camp Lenape.
The sound of a bugle call floating up from the lake came to his ears,
and faintly he could hear shouting, off to his right, where the woods
were thickest. He could not be exactly sure where it came from, but
evidently camp was not far away. Of course, he could back-track on his
own trail, but that would mean going through the marsh again. There must
be a short cut that he could take. He rose and began hobbling through
the trees, hoping to find a stream where he could quench his hot thirst.
As he went he thought of his mother and father, by this time far on the
way back to the city. Dirk Van Horn was just a little homesick.
Again came the bugle-call. But this time it sounded from behind him! He
wheeled about, listening. Where was camp? He could see nothing through
the trees. Perhaps if he could climb high enough, he might catch a
glimpse of the flagpole or the tents; but his leg was now swollen and
stiff, and useless for climbing. Where was he, anyway? Could it be that
he was lost among the mountains? Lost! Dirk began to run unsteadily
through the thick brush. His eyes were wild, and the little hammers of
panic were beating in his brain.
Brick Ryan was slipping into his swimming suit in Tent One when Sax
McNulty, followed by a racing pack of boys, appeared at the lower end of
the campus. The new recruits had hit camp just in time for afternoon
swim period.
“Hi, Sax!” the red-headed boy greeted his leader. “You look hot. Just in
time for a dip.”
The long-faced young man gave him a mournful look. Sax always looked
gloomy, even when he was saying his funniest things.
“I’m a little sunbeam,” he announced. “I can keep smiling even after
piloting twenty little greenhorns up from Elmville. Dusty but smiling.
Say, who made my bed so nicely?”
“Me and Lefty.”
“Good lads.” Sax sank on his bunk and began stripping off his dust-laden
garments. “I met two of the new fellows who’ll be with us this section.
Nig Jackson was one—you remember him from last year. Another is a new
kid, Eddie Scolter, who claims he can play a clarinet. But one fellow
didn’t come after all, I guess. The Chief said his name was Van Horn.”
“Oh!” grinned Brick, “you mean the Millionaire Baby! Well, don’t worry
about him. He got here this mornin’, and has been around all day, big as
life and twice as natural.”
“Millionaire Baby?”
Brick pointed to the scattered array of suitcases, clothes, and other
possessions that Joey Fellowes had given up trying to sort out and
arrange. Sax McNulty whistled as he looked at Dirk’s heaped outfit.
“This all belong to Van Horn?”
“Junk enough for ten guys. Wait till you get a look at him.”
Sax shook his head. “Can’t have that. Where is he, anyway? He’ll have to
stow that stuff before Nig and Eddie and the rest get here.”
“Search me,” Brick shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since siesta. He’s
probably off tellin’ the little kids what a rich guy his dad is, and how
Wild Rose Camp is much sweller than this joint.”
The leader pulled on his swimming suit, and looked up thoughtfully.
“Don’t tell me he’s the son of Van Horn, the bank president! Don’t tell
me that!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And he’s going to be here in Tent One this section. Well, well, and a
couple more wells! You don’t seem to have taken to him very kindly,
Brick.”
“He just sort of riled me from the start, I guess.”
“Well, he’ll be all right after a couple days here. No quarreling, now!
We must all be like little birdies in the nest, Brick—— Hark!”
Brick Ryan had heard it too. From the mountainside had come a despairing
cry.
“Help!”
He jumped to his feet, and the two, leader and boy, stared solemnly into
each other’s faces. Then McNulty grabbed for a pair of rubber-soled
tennis shoes, and began furiously lacing them on his bare feet.
“Come along, Brick!” He dived for the door of the tent and up the wooded
hillside, his red-headed follower close on his heels. “Somebody in
trouble on the mountain! We’ve got to run, old boy—and I mean run!”