The regatta was always the big event of the season at Temple Camp.
Pee-wee always had to suck lemon drops for several days succeeding it to
ease the huskiness in his throat. Sometimes he continued sucking them
for several weeks, for a scout is nothing if not thorough.
The institution of the regatta (and the lemon drops) dated from the
season when pretty Mary Temple, daughter of the camp’s founder, had
offered the silver cup. A Rhode Island troop had won it, then it had
passed to a Pennsylvania troop, and then to the Bridgeboro Troop. The
Bridgeboro scouts took a particular pride in keeping it because
Bridgeboro was the home town of the Temples.
Each troop chose its challenger or defender by its own process of
selection, paying a certain regard to the claims of its patrols.
Naturally the merit badge for Athletics, or for Physical Development, or
for Seamanship, would imply eligibility for the honor of challenger or
defender. And these things counted in the selection.
Particularly had they counted in the selection of Connie Bennett of the
Elk Patrol for defender. How much they really counted in a race was
another question. Also, as in the selection of a presidential candidate
the claims of the states have to be considered, so in this business the
patrols had to be considered, and it was now considered to be the Elk
Patrol’s turn. Thus Connie Bennett had been put forward.
There was no complaint about this and no anxiety, but there was just a
little undercurrent of feeling (which Pee-wee could not browbeat out of
the troop’s mind) that the cup was not _quite_ so secure upon its little
velvet box as they could wish it to be.
A course was marked around the lake by long poles driven in about
fifteen to eighteen feet from shore. Some of them had to be pretty long
to reach the bottom. They were saved from year to year. A heavy cord was
carried around the lake caught at each of these poles and from this cord
hung troop and patrol pennants at intervals all the way round. The whole
thing made a very festive and inspiring sight. The cup race (always a
canoe event because Mary Temple thought that canoes were scoutish, being
of Indian origin) consisted of one complete round of the lake. There
were other races of course; comic events, tub races and the like.
I wish to tell you of this thing just as it occurred for it is talked of
at Temple Camp whenever scouts get around a camp-fire. And in a sense it
has never been fully explained.
Mary Temple, with her parents, came up from Bridgeboro by auto, reaching
camp early in the afternoon. They received an ovation as usual. Mary was
exceedingly pretty and looked the more so because of the color which the
breeze had blown into her cheeks. She reached down out of the car and
shook hands merrily with Connie Bennett and handed Pee-wee an enormous
box of peanut brittle, which caused much laughter.
“Oh, I know you, too,” she said, reaching out her hand to Billy Simpson
who lingered in the background. “I often see you in Bridgeboro.”
Billy Simpson seemed greatly embarrassed, and he never looked quite so
much alone as he did then, for all the clamor ceased as she shook his
hand, and the throng fell back silent. There was nothing intentional in
this; it just happened that way. But one or two scouts noticed that
Simpson was more perturbed and shy than the very commonplace little
incident seemed to warrant. He just stared at Mary Temple and did not
take his eyes from her. Brent Gaylong said afterward that there was
something in his eyes, he did not know what, but that he seemed like one
possessed....
He was not seen again until the time of his destiny. A tub race took
place, a graceful affair in which all the participants fell in the
water. This was followed by a swimming race, and a couple of boat races.
Next followed a race of several canoes. And then the event of the day.
The scout who had wriggled his way to the position of challenger was a
red-headed fellow from the Middle West. Pee-wee loathed him for no other
reason than that he dared to try for the cup.
He was lithe and slender, and had a rather attractive way of holding his
head. He looked the young athlete through and through and there was a
kind of aggressiveness about him such as to disconcert an opponent. His
troop seemed very proud of him. He did not show off exactly, but his
manner was such as to make one think he took his victory for granted. A
little deference to his opponents would have been more becoming. Having
seated himself in his canoe and his companion being seated also, he
waited at the float with a blasé air of patience as if he were anxious
to get the thing over with.
This cut and dried assurance was in marked contrast with Connie’s
demeanor, which was modest and painfully nervous. The throng, gathered
about the float and alongshore for many yards on either side, cheered as
he stepped into his canoe and nervously accepted the paddle that was
handed him.
A silent, solitary figure in a black sweater stood upon the float near
Mr. Currie, the starter. He gazed out across the lake, seeming very
nervous. He seemed to be trying to concentrate his eyes and thoughts on
something quite removed from the scene about him. One might have fancied
something exalted, spiritual, in his aspect, but the coarse, black
sweater and rather hulking shoulders, spoiled that.
“This your sand-bag?” Mr. Currie asked. He meant nothing disrespectful.
It was just the name used for the one going to steady the canoe. But
there was a tittering here and there in the crowd as the figure in the
black sweater stepped into the bow of Connie’s light, bobbing little
craft and sat hunched up there.
No one thought of him again. They were thinking of pleasanter things....