TELLS OF A TALK BY THE CAMP-FIRE AND OF HAPPENINGS IN A DORMITORY
An hour later, having discarded some of the garb of civilization for
more comfortable attire, Nelson lay stretched out on a carpet of
sweet-smelling pine-needles. Above him were motionless branches of
hemlock and beech and pine, with the white stars twinkling through.
Before him was a monster camp-fire of branches and saplings built into
the form of an Indian tepee, which roared and crackled and lighted
up the space in front of Maple Hall until the faces of the assembled
campers were recognizable across the clearing. A steady stream of
flaring sparks rushed upward, to be lost amid the higher branches of
the illumined trees. Beside him was the boy with the gray eyes, who,
having recovered from his temporary excitement, no longer stammered.
Sitting cross-legged in the full radiance of the fire, Tom Ferris
looked not unlike a fat, good-natured Indian idol. Not that he was
as ugly of countenance as those objects usually are; what similarity
existed was due rather to his position and a certain expression of
grinning contentment. He really wasn’t a bad-looking chap; rather
heavy-featured, to be sure, and showing too much flesh about cheeks
and chin to be handsome. He was only fourteen years old, and weighed
something over a hundred and thirty pounds. He had a rather stubby
nose, tow-colored hair, very pale gray eyes, and exceedingly red
cheeks. He was good-natured, kind-hearted, eager in the search for
fun, and possessed a positive genius for getting into trouble. Like
Nelson, he was a student at Hillton Academy, but whereas Nelson was in
the upper middle class, Tom Ferris was still a lower-middler, having
failed the month before to satisfy the powers as to his qualifications
to advance. Nelson and he had not seen much of each other at school,
but this evening they had met quite as though they had been the closest
of chums for years. Nelson had already learned a good deal about Camp
Chicora and its customs, and was still learning.
“The Chief’s a dandy fellow,” Tom was saying. “We call him ‘Clint’ for
short. Carter called him ‘Clint’ to his face the other day, and he
just smiled, and said, ‘_Mister_ Clint, Carter; I must insist on being
addressed respectfully.’”
“He looks like a bully sort,” answered Nelson, turning his eyes to
where the Director-in-Chief, the center of a merry group of boys,
was sitting at a little distance. Mr. Clinton looked to be about
thirty-five years old. A few years before he had been an assistant
professor in a New England college, but the confinement of lecture-room
and study had threatened his health. He had a natural love of the
outdoor life, and in the end he had broken away from the college,
built his camp in the half-wilderness, and had regained his health and
prospered financially. Camp Chicora had been in existence but three
years, and already it was one of the most popular and successful of
the many institutions of its kind in that part of the country. He was
tall, dark, strikingly good-looking, with an expression of shrewd and
whimsical kindliness that was eminently attractive. He knew boys as few
know them, and managed them at once surely and gently. Like the fellows
about him, he wore only the camp uniform of jersey and trousers, and
the fire-light gleamed on a pair of deeply tanned arms that looked
powerful enough to belong to a blacksmith.
“What did he say to you?” asked Tom.
“Said he was glad to see me, hoped I’d make myself at home and be
happy, and told me to let him know if I wanted anything. It wasn’t so
much what he said as--as the way he said it.”
“That’s ju-ju-ju-just it!” cried Tom, with enthusiasm. “It’s the way he
says things and does things! And he’s into everything with us; plays
ball, tennis, and-- Say, you ought to see him put the shot!”
“I liked that Mr. Verder, too,” said Nelson.
“Yes, he’s a peach! The whole bunch are mighty decent. Ellery--that’s
him fixing the fire--he’s awfully nice; he’ll do anything for you. The
Doctor’s another mighty good chap. You’d ought to have seen the way
he got a nail out of ‘Babe’s’ foot last week! It was perfectly great.
‘Babe’ came pretty near fainting! Say, don’t you want to get the bunk
next to mine? Maybe Joe Carter will swap with you, if I ask him.”
“Oh, never mind; maybe when I get to know some of the fellows we can
fix it up.”
“Well, and”--Tom lowered his voice--“I guess they’ll try and have some
fun with you to-night; they always do when a new fellow comes; but
don’t you mind; a little ‘rough-house’ won’t hurt you.”
“I guess I can stand it. What’ll they do?”
“Oh--er--well, you see, I oughtn’t to tell, Tilford; it wouldn’t be
quite fair, you know; but it won’t hurt, honest!”
“All right.” Nelson laughed. “After the initiation I went through at
Hillton last fall, I guess nothing short of a cyclone will feeze me!”
“Say, we’ve got a society here, too; see?” Tom exhibited a tiny gold
pin which adorned the breast of his jersey. “I’ll get you in all right.
We’re the only Hillton men here, and we ought to stand by each other,
eh?”
Nelson agreed gravely.
“There’s a chap here from St. Eustace,” continued Tom. “His name’s
Speede, Dan Speede; ever meet him?” Nelson shook his head. “Of course
he isn’t a Hilltonian,” went on Tom with a tone of apology, “but
he--he’s rather a nice sort. He’s in our hall; you’ll see him to-night,
a big chap with red hair; he played on their second eleven last year. I
think you’ll like him--that is, as well as you could like a St. Eustace
fellow, of course.”
“I dare say there are just as good fellows go there as come to
Hillton,” responded Nelson generously but without much conviction.
Tom howled a protest. “Get out! There may be some decent fellows--like
Dan--but-- Why, everybody knows what St. Eustace chaps are!”
“I dare say they talk like that about us,” laughed Nelson.
“I’d lu-lu-lu-like tu-tu-to hear ’em!” sputtered Tom indignantly.
Mr. Clinton arose, watch in hand, and announced that it was time for
prayers. There was a scrambling and scuffling as the fellows arose
from their places on the ground to kneel with heads bent and repeat
the Lord’s Prayer. The dying fire crackled softly and its mellow light
played upon the motionless forms, while overhead the white stars peered
down through the dark branches as though they too were giving thanks to
their Creator.
Then good night was said to the Chief and the fellows separated, the
younger boys to climb the hill to Spruce Hall and the older to go to
their own dormitory. Presently from across the clearing floated the
slow sweet notes of the bugle sounding taps, and the lights in the
junior hall went out. The seniors, however, still had a half hour
before they must be in bed, and they made the most of it in various
ways. When Nelson and Tom entered Maple they found three distinct
pillow or “sneaker” fights in progress, and the air was full of
hurtling missiles. On one bed two youths in pajamas were sitting
cross-legged deep in a game of cribbage when a random shoe struck the
homemade board with all the devastating effect of a bursting shell,
and sent it, together with the quartet of pegs, over three bunks.
Whereupon two voices were raised in rage, cards were dropped, and the
ranks of the belligerents were swelled by two volunteers.
The senior dormitory was erected on the side of the hill, well off
the ground for the sake of dryness, and was a simply but well-built
structure some eighty feet long by twenty wide, with enough pitch to
its gable roof to shed rain quickly and afford a sort of open attic
under the rafters, where bags and wearing apparel were precariously
hung from the beams or supported on occasional planks. The effect in
the dim light was picturesque if not beautiful. There was a multitude
of windows on either side, and at each end large double doors occupied
a third of the space. As neither doors nor windows were ever closed,
save during a driving rain-storm, the occupants of the narrow bunks
ranged along each side of the hall practically slept out-of-doors. A
big stove stood in the middle of the building. At the head of each
bunk, secured to the wall, was a white-pine locker. Sometimes this
was supplemented by a square of matched boards which let down to form
a writing-table. Wooden pegs held the every-day attire, and trinkets
were disposed along the horizontal joists. The bunks, wooden-framed
cots, were guiltless of springs, and were furnished with mattresses,
blankets, and pillows. At Chicora sheets were looked down upon as
emblems of effeminacy. The fellows slept with their feet toward the
walls. From a rafter hung a sheet of wrapping-paper bearing the warning
“NO SNORING ALLOWED!” Some one had crossed out the last word and
substituted “ALOUD.”
Nelson’s bunk was the last but one on the left, and in the opposite
corner was Mr. Verder. At the farther end of the dormitory slept Dr.
Smith. What light there was was given by two reflector lanterns at
either end of the hall, although for purposes of card-playing, reading,
or writing the fellows supplemented this dim radiance by lighting one
or more of the lanterns which were part of each boy’s outfit. Aided by
such extra illumination Nelson’s right-hand neighbor, a curly-haired
youth of about sixteen, whose name later transpired to be Hethington,
was busily engaged in patching a tennis racket with a piece of string.
Near the middle of the hall, a big, good-looking chap with very red
hair was entertaining two companions with a narrative that must have
been extremely humorous, judging from the suppressed laughter that
convulsed them. Nelson had noticed him at table and now concluded that
he was Tom’s St. Eustace friend, Dan Speede.
Nelson undressed leisurely and got into his pajamas, the while
examining the bed and his surroundings for a hint as to the trick
which was to be played him. But there were no suspicious circumstances
that he could see; the bed looked and felt all right, and of all the
sixteen inhabitants of the dormitory not one was apparently paying him
the least heed. When he considered it, the fact that every one seemed
to be resolutely keeping his eyes from his direction struck him as
of ill augury; even the boy with the tennis racket was unnaturally
absorbed in his work. Tom Ferris came over in a pair of weirdly striped
pajamas and sat chatting on the bed a moment until the lights were put
out. Then there was a scrambling, a few whispered good nights, and
silence reigned save for the sounds of the forest entering through the
windows and doors. Nelson found the bunk rather different from what
he was accustomed to, but the fresh night air felt good; there was a
novel pleasure in being able to look out through the branches at the
twinkling white stars, and he sighed contentedly and wished the worst
would happen so that he could go to sleep.
But everything was very still. Minute after minute passed. He strained
his ears for suspicious sounds, but heard nothing save the occasional
creak of a bed. The suspense was most uncomfortable. He had about come
to the conclusion that after all nothing was going to happen, and was
feeling a bit resentful over it, when a sound reached him as of bare
feet on the boards. He turned his head noiselessly and stared into the
gloom. He could see nothing, and the sound had ceased. Probably he had
imagined----
_Bang!_
_Thud!!_
_Clatter!!!_
Down went the bed with a jar that shook the building; down came a
shower of water that left the victim gasping for breath; and Nelson and
a big tin bucket rolled together onto the floor and into a very cold
puddle.
Pandemonium reigned! Gone was the peaceful quietude of a moment before.
From all sides came shrieks and howls of laughter and kindly counsel:
“Pick yourself up, Willie!”
“Swim hard, old man!”
“Try floating on your back!”
“Sweet dreams!”
“Did I hear something drop?” asked a voice.
“Very high sea to-night!” remarked another.
Nelson struggled free of the clinging folds of the wet blankets and
stood up shivering in the darkness. It had been so sudden and so
unexpected, for all the warning he had received, that he didn’t quite
know yet what had happened to him. Then a match flared, a lantern was
lighted, and the tennis-racket youth was holding it out to him.
“Did the water get you?” he asked calmly.
“Rather!” answered Nelson. “I’m soaked clear through!”
“Better get your panoramas off, then,” said Hethington. “I’ve got some
dry ones you can have. I’ll look ’em up.” And he climbed leisurely out
of bed.
By that time Tom had come to the rescue with an armful of dry blankets
from an unoccupied bunk. The tin lard can was kicked out of the way,
the wet mattress turned over, and the new blankets spread. Hethington
tossed over the dry pajamas, and Nelson, his teeth chattering, got
into them and looked about him. As far as he could see in the dim
light white-robed figures were sitting up in their bunks regarding him
with grinning faces. There was something expectant in both faces and
attitudes, and Nelson realized that they were awaiting an expression of
his feelings. With a glance that encompassed the entire assemblage, he
remarked earnestly, but more in sorrow than in anger:
“_Well, I hope you choke!_”
A shout of laughter rewarded him, while a voice from the nearer dimness
remarked audibly:
“I told you he’d be all right, Dan!”
Nelson examined the bed, but found that it could not be made to stand
without the aid of tools. So, thanking Hethington again for his pajamas
and eliciting a calm “All right,” and looking about for evidences of
further surprises without finding them, he blew out the lantern and
descended into his lowly couch. The last thing he saw, as the light
went out, was the amused countenance of Mr. Verder across the dormitory.
Ten minutes later he was asleep.