OFF FOR CAMP
Sam gave his new mitt a good try-out that evening. He and Tom and Tom’s
particular chum, Sid Morris, took possession of the alley behind the
hardware store and, admiringly regarded by a dozen or so small boys,
pitched and caught until supper-time. Sidney, a slim, lithe, handsome
chap of nearly eighteen, had been told about The Wigwam and, like Tom,
sighed because he could not accept the position himself.
“I’ll tell you what, though, Sam,” he said, as he made an imaginary
swing at the ball just before it thumped into Sam’s new glove, “if
you go up there Tom and I will come and visit you for a day or two. I
suppose they’d let us, wouldn’t they, Tom?”
“I don’t see how they could stop us visiting the place, but they might
object to our staying overnight. Here goes for a knuckle-ball, Sam.
Watch it.” But the attempt was not successful and Tom shook his head
as the ball came back to him. “I guess I’ll never make much out of
that,” he said. “What’s that, Sam? Four fingers? I can’t see very well.
All right, here she goes.” A slow ball sped across the imaginary plate
and Sidney, making believe to swing and miss, uttered a disappointed
grunt and angrily slanged a non-existent umpire, to the delight of
the gallery. It was time to stop then, and, pocketing his ball, Tom
accompanied Sam and Sidney to Main Street and, after Sidney had jumped
a car to hurry home to dinner, detained Sam a minute on a corner.
“Made up your mind yet?” he asked.
Sam hesitated a moment. “Mother wants me to try for it,” he said, “and
Nell, too, but I don’t know as I ought to leave them so long.”
“Well, you know best, Sam. Only, if you can do it you’d better. You
know as well as I do that there’s mighty little chance of a fellow’s
getting work in Amesville in summer, except at the mills; and they
don’t pay anything over there.”
Sam nodded agreement. “I guess,” he answered thoughtfully, “I’ll write
and see what Mr. Langham says. I suppose, though, he will tell me I’m
too young.”
“How would it do,” asked Tom, “to say nothing about your age? He didn’t
seem particular about that, you know. Just tell him you’re in your
senior year at high school and are captain of the nine; and that you
think you could hold down the place to the King’s taste, and so on!”
“I might, only--I’d feel pretty cheap if I got up there and he told me
I wouldn’t do. Besides, it wouldn’t be quite honest, I guess.”
“I suppose not. No, you’d better tell him you’re nearly eighteen.”
“But I’m not,” objected Sam gravely. “I won’t be until December.”
“Then tell him you’re well over seventeen,” laughed Tom. “Anyway, make
yourself out as old as you can, you fussy old chump! And don’t be too
modest. I don’t know but that I ought to see that letter before you
send it, Sam.”
Sam shook his head. “I’ll do it all right,” he said. “And you write to
him, too, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll do it this evening. So long. You ought to get an answer by
Friday, I should think. I hope it comes out all right, Sam.”
“So do I,” said Sam soberly. “It would be a dandy job if I could get
it. Good night, Tom, and thank you for telling me about it.”
That wasn’t an easy letter to write, as Sam discovered later when, with
the assistance of his mother and sister, he set about its composition.
Nell, a pretty girl a year older than Sam, scored his first draft
indignantly.
“Why, you haven’t said a thing about what you can do,” she exclaimed.
“You’ve just told him what you _can’t_! The idea of saying that you’re
a fair swimmer! You know very well, Sam, that you’re a perfect wonder
in the water.”
“Pshaw, lots of fellows can swim better than I do.”
“No one around here, anyway. And you practically tell him that you
don’t know a thing about looking after young boys.”
“I don’t!”
“But you don’t have to say so, do you? Now, you write that all over
and--I tell you what, Sam! Write it just as if you were trying to get
the place for someone else!”
Finally both Nell and Mrs. Craig approved, and Sam made a clean copy
of the letter, slipped it into an envelope, stamped and addressed it,
and went out to the mail box with it so it would be gathered up at
eleven-thirty and go off on the early morning train. Now that he had
made up his mind to get the position if he could he was impatient to
learn his fate.
But three days passed without any response and he had begun to think
that nothing was to come of his application, when one afternoon a
messenger boy brought a telegram. It was extremely brief.
“Mail references immediately. LANGHAM.”
“It doesn’t look as though he thought you too young,” said Tom when,
later, Sam dropped in at Cummings and Wright’s to tell the news. “If
he did he wouldn’t bother with your references. I guess you’ve got it,
Sam.”
And Sam acknowledged that it looked so. The letters of reference went
off that evening, one from the High School principal and one from
the minister of the church Sam attended. Both were, he considered,
undeservedly flattering. They bore immediate result. Just thirty-four
hours later another telegram arrived, this time not quite so brief.
“Satisfactory. Join camp July fifth. Rail to East Mendon, stage
to Indian Lake. Bring grey flannel trousers, blue sleeveless
shirt, sweater, sneakers, mackintosh. LANGHAM.”
They referred to that telegram at intervals all day. Sam was a bit
troubled because it said nothing about socks or a hat, but Nell said
she supposed Mr. Langham gave him credit for enough sense to bring such
things without being told.
“He doesn’t say whether the sweater has to be any special colour,
either,” mused Sam. “Mine’s grey.”
“That thing!” exclaimed Nell scathingly. “Why, mother’s darned that and
darned it, Sam. It isn’t fit to be seen in. You must have a new one.”
“Gee, if I buy a new sweater besides all those other things I won’t
have any money left! I asked Miller, at the station, what the fare to
Indian Lake is and he said it’s four dollars and sixty cents.”
“I don’t care, Sam, you can’t take that old sweater. You can get a new
one for three dollars, I guess.”
“Can’t afford it,” said Sam decisively.
“Then I’ll present it to you. I’ve got a lot of money.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Craig, “it would be nice if Nellie and I bought
those things for you, dear. How much would they cost, do you think?”
Sam demurred, but in the end they had their way, and the next morning
Sam set out to Cummings and Wright’s with his precious telegram in hand
and laid the matter before Tom Pollock.
“So you got it!” exclaimed Tom. “Gee, but I’m awfully glad, Sam! Shake!
Now let’s see what you need. What shade of blue do you suppose that
means? Dark, I guess. Here you are, then. Eighty-five cents each.
You’ll need two of them. Sneakers are ninety-five and a dollar and a
quarter. Better pay the difference, Sam. The cheaper ones aren’t much.
What about flannel trousers? I’m afraid--Oh, you’ve got a pair? All
right. Then that leaves only the sweater. What colour?”
“It doesn’t say. What do you think?”
“Guess it doesn’t matter, Sam. Grey’s usually the best because it won’t
fade and doesn’t show dirt, but you can have blue or red or white
or----”
“Grey, I guess; and not very expensive.”
“Here’s one for two and a half and here’s a better one for three and
here’s----”
“I guess this three-dollar one will do, Tom. Do I get anything off on
this truck?”
“Certainly; fifteen off, Sam. That makes it--let me see--five dollars
and six cents; call it five dollars even, Sam. What about the raincoat?”
“I’ve got an old one that will do, I guess. You see, I don’t want to
spend very much, because the fare up there and back comes to over nine
dollars, and that’s two weeks’ wages.”
“He didn’t say anything about paying your fare, then?”
Sam shook his head. “He wouldn’t, would he?”
“I don’t know. Seems to me he ought to pay it one way, at least,
though, Sam. I’d mention it to him, anyway.”
“Maybe I will,” replied Sam doubtfully. “Well, I guess that’s all,
then. I’ll take these things along with me. How many boys do you
suppose there will be up there, Tom?”
“I don’t know. Maybe forty or fifty. And look here, Sam.” Tom walked
around the counter when he had finished tying up the bundle and seated
himself on the edge, swinging his legs. “Don’t do this,” he explained,
“when there’s customers around. Look here, Sam. About those kids, now.
Take my advice and start ’em off right.”
“How do you mean, Tom?”
“I mean make ’em understand right away that you won’t take any nonsense
from them. Of course, a summer camp’s different from a school, I
suppose, and there’s a lot more--more give-and-take between the
councillors and the boys, but it’s a good idea, I guess, to make the
kids understand that while you love ’em all to death you aren’t going
to tell ’em to do a thing more than once. Get the idea? Kind but firm,
Sam.”
“Anyone would think you invented boys’ camps,” said Sam, with a
twinkle. Tom laughed.
“Never you mind whether I did or not, Sam. You do as I tell you and
you’ll find things going easier. You aren’t enough older than the boys
to make ’em much scared of you, so you want to hold the reins pretty
tight at first. No charge for the advice. When do you go?”
“Seven-ten on the fifth. That gets me to East Mendon at eleven-twenty.
Then there’s a stage-coach or something that goes over to the Lake at
two.”
“I’ll go down and see you off, Sam, and wish you luck.”
And a week later Tom kept his promise. He and Sidney escorted Sam to
the train, Tom carrying the traveller’s old-fashioned yellow leather
valise and Sid his raincoat, leaving Sam the free use of both hands
with which to satisfy himself every two or three moments that his
ticket was safe. There was one excruciating minute when they reached
Locust Street, and were in sight of the station, when Sam couldn’t
find the ticket in any of his pockets and blank dismay overspread his
countenance. He was on the verge of retracing his steps when Sidney
patiently reminded him that just one block back he had placed the
precious pasteboard in the lining of his straw hat for safe-keeping.
Sam said, “Oh!” and looked extremely foolish, and, amidst the laughter
of his guard of honour, the journey began again.
News of Sam’s departure had spread through town and there was quite a
gathering of friends to see him off. Buster Healey was there, with a
bouquet consisting of two sprays of gladiolus, mostly in bud, which
Buster was suspected of having acquired by the simple expedient of
reaching through someone’s garden fence; and Tommy Hughes was there,
and Joe Kenny, and half a dozen more; and there was a good deal of
noise and rough-house until the train pulled into the station and
Sam climbed aboard. You might have thought that Sam was leaving for
the Grand Tour or for a year in Darkest Africa. All kinds of advice
was showered on him. He was instructed not to put his head out the
window, not to speak to strangers, not to take any wooden money, and
not to lose his ticket. Then the train moved and a cheer went up and a
much embarrassed Sam waved good-bye from a window. And at that moment
Buster discovered that Sam had left his flowers on a baggage truck, and
rescued them and raced the length of the platform before he was finally
able to hurl them in at the window. So began the journey.