HOME AGAIN
Sam’s knee was so much better the next morning that he announced his
intention of joining the campers that afternoon. Mr. York pressed him
to stay until next day, but, seeing that Sam really preferred to take
his departure, studied the itinerary that Mr. Langham had left with Sam
and helped him locate the expedition.
“Take the two-fifty-two from here,” advised Mr. York, “and change
at Wickston for Norrence. Let’s see what train you can get.
Wickston--Wickston--south-bound--Here we are. Leave Wickston at
four-twelve and arrive Norrence at five-thirty-six. That’s rather late,
isn’t it? And after you get there you’ll have to find the camp.”
“I guess it won’t take long,” said Sam. “This thing says, ‘Norrence,
Lindenville road, east of village.’ That oughtn’t to be hard to find.”
“No, if they camp where they say they will you can get them in half an
hour, I dare say. Besides, it doesn’t get really dark until nearly
seven. I’d like to have you stay longer, but if you insist on going,
why, I’ll take you over for that two-fifty-two. I made a mistake in
giving that knee of yours such a good rubbing last night, Craig.”
“It certainly cured it, sir. It doesn’t hurt a mite to-day, unless
I punch it.” And Sam pressed the knee experimentally, to Mr. York’s
amusement.
“You’re a regular boy, Craig,” he laughed. “I remember when I was a kid
and had a toothache I’d put my finger in my mouth and bite down on it
as hard as I could to see how badly it would hurt! Well, we’ve got four
hours before lunch, and if you want to try out that leg of yours we’ll
stroll around and see the place.”
The morning passed quickly. The subject of college was not mentioned
again until, at half-past two, they were speeding along the road to the
station in the grey roadster. Then Mr. York said:
“Craig, could you pass a college examination next fall if you had to?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Sam. “I don’t just know what the requirements
are, Mr. York. I’ve never thought much about it, you see, because
it’s never seemed I had any chance to get to college. I guess I’d have
trouble with my Latin, though.”
“Well, look here, I wish you’d try this winter and see if you can’t
get yourself ready. If nothing comes of it, it won’t do you a bit of
harm. But--well, I hope something will come of it, old man. I’d like
very much to be sure that you were going through college. Perhaps you
think I’m a strange sort of a chap to meddle so much in your affairs,
but you’ve made quite a hit with me, Sam, especially since last night;
and when I like anyone I want to see him get all that’s coming to him.
I don’t care a continental what college you go to or whether you play
ball or don’t. That’s out of it. But I would like to see you get to
college.”
“I’d like it myself, Mr. York. Only I wouldn’t want to go unless I
could do it fairly.”
“You’re right, old man. The end doesn’t always justify the means. Well,
I’m going to put my thinking cap on and see if between us we can’t
find a way. I’ll write to the secretary at Warner and see if there’s a
scholarship you could try for. I’ll write to the other colleges around
here, too. Look here, if you could get a real job next summer that
would pay you, say, eighteen or twenty dollars a week, would you take
it?”
“I’d jump at it!” said Sam. “But I don’t believe I know enough to make
that much, Mr. York. There isn’t much I can do, I guess.”
“Seems to me you can do a good many things. You told me you’d canvassed
for books, sold newspapers, and worked in a mill. And now you’re being
councillor in a boys’ camp.”
“None of those jobs paid eighteen dollars a week, though, sir.”
“No, but what I’m getting at is that if you can do those things you can
do other things. The only problem is to find something that will bring
you real money. With, say, a couple of hundred dollars I dare say you
wouldn’t be afraid to start college.”
“N-no, sir. Two hundred wouldn’t go very far, though, would it? Even at
a state university?”
“It would pay your tuition, maybe. Tell you what I want you to do, Sam,
when you get home. You go and see John Holden. I’m going to write to
him about you. He’s a fine fellow. You can’t help liking him. And he
is going to be a good man to know before very long. He’s only just
making his start now, but he’s the sort you can’t stop, and in five
years he will be Somebody in your town. You go and see him and tell
him who you are. Get to know him. John and I are pretty good friends;
have been ever since we were freshmen in college; they used to call us
the Pair of Jacks. In that way you and I’ll be able to keep in touch.
I’m a fairly busy man when I get back to work and I’m not much of a
letter-writer, but if you’ll let me hear from you now and then I’ll see
that your letters don’t go unanswered. And I’ll keep my eyes open and
see if I can’t find some job that will put some money in your pocket
when next summer comes.”
“I’d like that,” responded Sam gratefully. “I’d be willing to do ’most
anything, I guess. Only--only I wouldn’t want you to--to just _make up_
a job for me, Mr. York.”
“You’re certainly suspicious!” laughed the other. “But I give you my
word, Sam, that if I find anything for you it will be real work and
well worth the pay. Here we are, with four minutes to spare. By the
way, how about funds? All right that way, are you?”
“I have enough, thanks.”
“Quite sure? Glad to lend you a few dollars. You can return it when you
reach camp, you know.”
“I have plenty, sir, truly.”
The car swept up to the platform and they jumped out, Sam with his
battered valise. By the time he had purchased his ticket to Norrence
the train was bustling in. Mr. York went to the car-steps with him and
shook hands there.
“Good-bye, Sam. Take care of yourself, and let me hear from you,
please. I certainly enjoyed having you with me, old man, and next
summer, if we can fix it, you must come up again. Good-bye! Try
throwing from your ear and shorten your swing!”
Sam’s own farewells were drowned by Mr. York’s and abruptly cut short
by the sudden starting of the train, but he managed a more or less
coherent speech of thanks before he got beyond hearing. The last he
saw of Mr. York was that gentleman standing beside his car evoking
excruciating blasts on the electric horn with one hand and waving
farewell with the other.
Before dark Sam had found the encampment outside Norrence and was
eating a belated supper. The following three days were pleasant ones.
They broke camp every morning after an early breakfast, fixed their
packs, and hiked until an hour before noon. Then came a three-hour rest
by the road, with dinner, and at about two they were off again. They
did about eighteen miles a day, ate ravenously, slept like logs, and
reached Indian Lake the evening of the fourth day after leaving Mount
Placid, a little footsore but only healthily tired. Kitty-Bett had a
hot supper awaiting them and they more than did justice to it.
Sam found a letter awaiting him from Tom Pollock. As it was short and
concise we may as well quote it in full. “Dear Sam,” wrote Tom, “when
are you coming home? The reason I want to know is that Lynton is to
play us here on the sixteenth. She beat us the first game and we beat
her last Saturday, 5 to 1, and we’re going to play off the tie. We
want you to catch for us. I looked up that letter from Mr. Langham and
it said the camp ran to September 13th. If that’s so you’ll be back
here by Thursday, I guess. Let me know if you will and if you’ll play
Saturday. All well here and I’m very busy. Sid is kicking his heels
against the counter as I write this and wants to be remembered. Yours
as ever,
“TOM.”
Sam answered the epistle the next morning and saw it off by Jerry the
mailman. (The boys took delight in referring to Jerry according to the
duty he was at the moment engaged in, as “Jerry the scullion,” “Jerry
the iceman,” “Jerry the woodman,” and so on. On one occasion, Dick
Barry discovered the versatile Jerry painfully inditing a letter and
promptly dubbed him “Jerry the scribe.”) Sam told Tom that he expected
to be back in Amesville the sixth and would be glad to catch for the
Blues the following Saturday, if nothing prevented.
A few days later came Visitors’ Day, and the camp took on a gala
appearance. Strings of flags blossomed along the fronts of the
buildings, pine and hemlock branches were festooned about the
dining-hall, floors were scrubbed until they shone, and no one, even
with a microscope, could have discovered a bit of paper or any sort of
litter from the landing back to the pulpit tree. The visitors were not
many in number, for parents and friends living at a distance found
it impossible to reach Indian Lake before noon, but some twenty-odd
appeared, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the programme supplied for
their entertainment. There was an aquatic carnival in the morning,
with swimming and diving competitions and canoe races, and another
thrilling tilting contest, to say nothing of a swimming exhibition by
Junior Councillor Craig. And at one o’clock there was a special dinner
for the guests, followed by one not quite so “special” for the boys.
There was no siesta that day, which alone made it blessed in the eyes
of the fellows! In the afternoon there were athletic events and a final
ball game between the Indians, “Camp Champions,” as the banner which
they displayed proudly announced, and the Mascots. True to precedent
the Indians won in six innings, thus finishing their season in a final
burst of glory. The score was 16 to 4! But then, George Porter, with
his mother and sister to watch him admiringly, pitched a remarkable
game.
Some of the visitors stayed overnight, and for these tents were
erected. Camp-fire was an especially merry occasion that evening. Very
agreeably, the moon came up, big and mellow, at nine and, so to speak,
joined the party. The musicians were never better, and the songs were
sung with unusual enthusiasm if no more melodiously. Bedtime was set
back a full hour on this last night and it was nearly midnight when
quiet finally settled over the moonlit camp.
The next morning the exodus began and by noon only a half-dozen or so
fellows remained to bolt a hurried dinner and then tumble into the
waiting coach and disappear, cheering, toward the village.
The councillors all remained with Mr. Langham until the next day.
Shutters were to be closed and everything made ready for the winter
before they left. Supper that evening was a pleasant meal. All were
fairly tired, and they sat late about one end of the Chief’s table and
comfortably talked over the summer and their plans for winter. There
was a little impromptu speech by Mr. Langham, in which he thanked the
others for their help. And Mr. Haskins, replying for the councillors,
was quite funny in his serious way, and they finally pushed back their
chairs in laughter and strolled over to the office feeling very kindly
toward each other.
Mr. Langham, Mr. Haskins, and Sam travelled southward together the next
morning, Mr. Gifford and Steve Brown parting from them at Indian Lake.
Sam, with nearly sixty dollars in his pocket, a deep coat of tan over
most of his body, and a fine appearance of rugged health, stepped from
the train at Amesville at a little after four o’clock into the arms of
Tom and Sidney.