SHOWS THAT A MOTOR-DORY CAN GO AS WELL AS STOP
When Nelson awoke the early sunshine was dripping through the tender
green branches outside the window, the birds were singing merrily, and
Tom Ferris was digging him in the ribs. He blinked, yawned, and turned
over again, but Tom was not to be denied.
“Come on, Tilford, and have a douse,” he whispered. “First bugle’s just
blown.”
“Wha--” (a magnificent yawn)--“what time is it?” asked Nelson.
“Five minutes of seven. Come on down.”
“Down? Down where?” inquired Nelson, at last sufficiently awake to hear
what Tom was saying.
“Down to the lake for a douse. It’s fine.”
“Huh! It’s pretty fine here. And the lake must be awfully cold, don’t
you think, Ferris?”
“It really isn’t, honest to goodness! It’s swell! Come on!”
“Oh--well--” Nelson looked out the window and shivered; then he
heroically rolled out onto the floor, scrambled to his feet and donned
his shoes. One or two of the bunks were empty, and a few of the fellows
who remained were awake and were conversing in whispers across the
dormitory, but for the most part sleep still reigned, and the “No
Snoring” order was being plainly violated. Tom and Nelson pattered
down the room--the former stopping long enough at one bunk to pull
the pillow from under a red-thatched head and place it forcibly on
top--and emerged into a world of green and gold. As they raced past the
flagstaff the Stars and Stripes was fluttering its way aloft, while
from the porch of Birch Hall the reveille sounded and floated echoing
over the lake. The air was like tonic, crisp without being chill in the
shady stretches of the path, pleasantly warm where the sunlight slanted
through, and the two boys hurled themselves down the firm pathway as
fast as lurking roots would allow. At the pier a handful of fellows
were before them. There was very little breeze, and what there was blew
up the lake and so failed to reach the water of the cove. Over on Plum
Island the thin streamer of purple smoke betokened breakfast, while up
at Bear Island, farther away across the sunlit water, the boys of Camp
Wickasaw were moving about the little beach. At the edge of the pier
the water was bottle-green, with here and there a fleck of gold where
the sunlight found its way through the trees that bordered the lake. It
looked cold, but when, having dropped their pajamas, they stood side by
side on the edge of the pier and then went splashing down into fifteen
feet of it, it proved to be surprisingly warm. A moment or two of
energetic thrashing around, and out they came for a brisk rub-down in
the dressing-tent and a wild rush up the hill and into the dormitory,
where they arrived side by side--for, considering his bulk, Tom had a
way of getting over the ground that was truly marvelous--to find the
fellows tumbling hurriedly into their clothes.
Nelson had received his camp uniform, a gray worsted jersey, a gray
gingham shirt, two pairs of gray flannel trousers reaching to the
knees, one gray worsted sweater, two pairs of gray worsted stockings, a
gray felt hat, a gray leather belt, and a pair of blue swimming trunks.
Jersey and sweater were adorned with the blue C, while on the pocket of
the shirt ran the words “Camp Chicora.” Following the example of those
about him, Nelson donned merely the jersey and trousers, slipped his
feet into his brown canvas shoes or “sneakers,” and, seizing his toilet
articles, fled to the wash-house in the train of Hethington and Tom
Ferris. By the most desperate hurrying he managed to reach the door of
Poplar Hall before the last note of the mess-call had died away. He
found himself terrifically hungry, hungrier than he had been within
memory, and applied himself diligently to the work in hand. Mr. Verder
asked how he had slept, and referred jokingly to the bath.
“Every fellow has to go through with it sooner or later,” he said
smilingly. “They don’t even exempt the councilors. I got a beautiful
ducking last week.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind it,” laughed Nelson. “But I was awfully surprised.
I expected something of the sort, but I hadn’t thought of a wetting. I
don’t see how they did it, either.”
“Well, in the first place, they got a wrench and took the legs off your
bunk; then they put them on again the wrong way, tied a rope to the bed
and trailed it along the wall where you wouldn’t see it. All they had
to do then was to pull the rope, and the legs simply doubled up under
the bed. As for the water, that was in a pail on the beam overhead;
it’s so dark you couldn’t see it unless you looked for it. Of course
there was a string tied to that too, and-- Who pulled the string last
night, fellows?”
“Dan Speede,” two or three replied promptly.
“And Carter pulled the rope,” added another gleefully.
The fellow with the red hair was grinning at Nelson in a rather
exasperating way, and he experienced a sudden desire to get even with
that brilliant Mr. Speede. But he only smiled and, in response to
numerous eager inquiries, tried to describe his sensations when the bed
went down. The affair seemed to have had the effect of an initiation
ceremony, for this morning every one spoke to him just as though they
had known him for months, and by the time breakfast was over he no
longer felt like an outsider. Under escort of Tom and Hethington, who
appeared to have detailed themselves his mentors for the present, he
went to Birch Hall to examine the bulletin and find out his duties for
the day.
The recreation hall stood on the edge of a little bluff, and from
the big broad porch thrown out at the side a magnificent view of the
lake and the farther shore presented itself. Across from the porch
was a monstrous fireplace of field stones in which four-foot logs
looked scarcely more than kindling-wood. The hall contained a piano, a
shovel-board, innumerable chairs, one or two small tables for games,
the letter-boxes, and the bulletin-board. Consultation with the latter
elicited the fact that Nelson, whose name was the last on the board,
was one of the ferry-boys. Tom explained that he would have to go
across to Crescent with the mail at nine, two, and six-thirty.
“You can take the motor-dory, if you like. The letters are in that box
over there; and the bag hangs over it--see? You take the mail over and
bring back whatever there is and distribute it in the letter-boxes
yonder. Who’s the other ferry-boy?”
“Speede,” answered Bob Hethington, referring to the bulletin.
“Well, that’s all right,” said Tom. “Dan knows all about it. You let
him attend to it, but you’ll have to go along, you know.”
“Don’t let him work any games on you,” advised Bob dryly.
Nelson made a mental resolution that he wouldn’t.
Then Tom explained about the duties. Every fellow had something to
do. There were four lamp-boys, who filled, trimmed, and cleaned the
lanterns and lamps all through the camp; four shore-boys, who looked
after the landing and the boats; four fire-boys, who cut wood for and
built the camp-fire and the fire in Birch Hall; four camp-boys, who
swept out and tidied up the dormitories and the recreation hall; three
mess-boys, who set the tables and waited at them; two color-boys, who
saw to the hoisting and lowering of the flags in the camp and at
the landing; two ferry-boys; one historian, who wrote the history of
the day; two orderlies, to whom the others reported, and who in turn
reported to the officer of the day (one of the councilors); one police,
whose duty it was to keep the camp-grounds clean, and one substitute,
who stood ready to take on the duties of any of the fellows who might
be ill or away from camp. The duties changed day by day, and the
penalty for intentional non-performance of them, as Tom explained with
gusto, was to be ducked in the lake by the other chaps.
Then a couple of the camp-boys clattered in with brooms, and the
trio were glad to make their escape. Tom and Bob hurried away to
their neglected duties, and Nelson idled back to Maple Hall with the
intention of getting his things arranged. But the other two camp-boys
were busily at work there and raising such a dust that he retreated.
Just outside, on the scene of last night’s conflagration, two fellows
were bringing brush and piling it up for the evening’s camp-fire. In
the rear doorway of Spruce Hall Mr. Ellery was coaching one of the
juniors in Latin. Near-by a freckled-faced youngster with a pointed
stick was spearing bits of paper and other rubbish and transferring
them to a basket which he carried. Every one seemed very busy, and
Nelson wondered whether the fire-boys would be insulted if he offered
to aid them. But at that moment he heard his name called, and saw
Tom beckoning him from in front of the mess-hall. As Nelson answered
the hail he saw that Dan Speede was with Tom, and surmised that an
introduction was in order. Speede shook hands, and said, with that
irritating smile on his handsome face, that he was glad to know Nelson,
and Nelson muttered something that sounded fairly amiable. Speede was
getting on his nerves, for some reason or other; perhaps because he
looked so confoundedly well pleased with himself and appeared to look
on everybody else as a joke prepared for his special delectation.
“I know one or two Hillton fellows rather well,” Dan said, and he
mentioned their names. One of them was a special friend of Nelson’s,
but the fact didn’t lessen his irritation to any degree.
“We’re ferry-boys,” Dan continued. “Suppose we go over now? It isn’t
quite nine, but no one ever waits, anyhow.”
“All right,” Nelson answered.
They left Tom, put the letters in the bag at Birch Hall, and went down
the path. There wasn’t much conversation on Nelson’s part, but Dan
rattled on carelessly from one thing to another without seeming to care
whether his companion answered or not. At the landing he threw the bag
into the motor-dory and climbed in, followed by Nelson.
“They’ve got quite a navy here,” observed the latter.
“Yep; steam-launch thirty feet long, motor-dory, four steel skiffs,
three canoes, one punt, and two four-oared barges--only the barges
aren’t down here yet. All aboard!”
Nelson took the lines and off they chugged straight for the corner of
Bear Island, where the red-and-white banner of Camp Wickasaw floated
above the trees.
“Hold her off a little more,” advised Dan; “there’s a shoal off the
end of the island.” He was gazing steadily toward the landing there,
and Nelson noticed that he looked disappointed. “Pshaw!” said Dan
presently; “I guess they’ve gone on ahead.”
“Who?”
“The Wickasaw fellows. They have a little old sixteen-foot launch which
they think can go. We usually get here in time to race them over.”
“Who beats?”
“We do--usually. Last time I raced with them this pesky dory stopped
short half-way across. I thought they’d bust themselves laughing.
That’s why I hoped we’d meet them this morning.”
“Too bad,” said Nelson. “What sort of a camp is Wickasaw?”
Dan shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “No good. The fellows sleep
between sheets and sing hymns every night before they go to bed.
Besides, the worst of it is, they have women there.”
“Is it a big camp?”
“Only about twenty fellows this year.”
Presently Nelson asked another question: “Can you walk from the camp
over to the village?”
“Yes, there’s a good road.” Dan nodded toward the end of the lake. “But
it’s pretty near two miles, I guess. I never walked it.”
Crescent proved to be the tiniest sort of a settlement. There were no
more than half-a-dozen buildings in sight. To the right of the landing
was a high stone bridge, through which, as Dan explained, the water
from the lake flowed on into Hipp’s Pond by way of a small river, and
so, eventually, to Lake Winnipesaukee.
“You’d better go up front,” advised Dan, “and jump onto the landing
when we get up to it. Take the painter with you.”
Nelson obeyed. The dory wormed its way in between a lot of rowboats,
the propeller stopped, and Dan poised himself for a leap as the boat
drifted in. When it was still some three or four feet away from the
float he jumped. All would have gone well with him if at the very
moment of his take-off the dory had not, for some unaccountable reason,
suddenly started to back away. The result was that Nelson landed in
five feet of water, with only his hands on the float. It was something
of a task to crawl over the edge, but he managed it finally and sat
down in a pool of water to get his breath. Then he glanced up and
encountered Dan’s grinning countenance and understood. But he only said:
“That was farther than I thought, or else the boat rocked. Throw me the
painter and I’ll pull you in.”
Dan, his smile broadening at what he considered Nelson’s innocence,
tossed the rope and jumped ashore with the bag.
“I guess I’ll let you go up alone,” said Nelson. “I’m too wet to visit
the metropolis.”
Dan said “All right,” and disappeared with the mail-bag. Nelson climbed
back into the boat and started the motor. The sun was warm, and after
taking his shoes off and emptying the water out of them he was quite
comfortable. He even smiled once or twice, apparently at his thoughts.
Presently Dan appeared around the corner of the nearest building, and
Nelson quietly pushed the dory away from the landing.
“What did you start her up for?” asked Dan. “She’ll get all hot and
smelly if you do that.”
“Oh, I just wanted to see if I could do it,” answered Nelson. “Pitch
the bag in; I’ll catch it.”
Dan did so.
“You’ll have to bring her in, you know,” he said. “I can’t walk on
water.”
“But you can walk on land, can’t you?” asked Nelson sweetly.
“Walk on--? Hold on, you idiot, you’re backing her!”
“Must be something wrong with her,” replied Nelson calmly. He reached
for the tiller-line, swung the dory’s nose toward the camp, shot the
lever forward, and waved gaily at Dan. “It’s only two miles, you know,”
he called, as the boat chugged away. “And it’s a good road!”
He looked back, expecting to hear Dan explode in a torrent of anger.
But he didn’t; he merely stood there with his hands in his pockets and
grinned. Half-way across the lake Nelson turned again and descried
Dan’s form crossing the bridge on the road back to camp. Nelson winked
gravely at the mail-bag.