He looked at Peanut at the end of the line, and the boy quavered, “Y-Y-Yes.”
“Sir!” roared the entire group within the lodge, bellowing with all their might and beating their clubs upon the resounding floor.
“Y-Y-Yes, sir,” said Peanut, more frightened than ever.
“What is your name?” asked the inquisitor.
“P-P-Peanut, sir.”
“You have a most suspicious bulge in your trousers. Please remove the padding, Master Seneschal.”
A boy stepped forth and removed the pillow that Peanut had placed where he thought it would do the most good, while the circle of campers roared with laughter at his predicament.
“Let’s see how smart you are, Peanut,” commanded the Grand Mogul. “Spell your name with a sneeze and a hiccough.”
Peanut looked bewildered. Blackie nudged him and whispered, loud enough for everybody to hear, “Go ahead, kid—he won’t hurt you. He’s only Sax McNulty dressed up a little.”
The crowd gasped, horrified at such unheard-of impudence from a candidate.
“One bell!” said the Mogul solemnly, looking gravely at the offender. Off at one side, a dishpan struck with a drumstick resounded once with a hollow clang. “Now—go on, Peanut.”
Taking courage, the smaller boy began: “P—achoo!—E—hup!—A—choo!—N——”
“That will do. Now get down on the floor and scramble like an egg.”
Peanut gave the best imitation of an egg in the process of being scrambled that he could muster. When he had finished, Sax ordered him to rise, and spoke again.
“Neophyte Peanut, you must learn that the spirit of Lenape is found in sacrifice and self-denial. Through secret channels I am informed that your greatest weakness is wasting the time of your leaders with foolish questions. To remind you that it is better for a camper to discover things for himself, I command you not to ask a single question of anybody all day to-morrow; if any member of the society hears you ask a question, he will be entitled to hot-hand you once. Now, you tall, gangling, skinny drink of water on the other end,” he continued, turning toward Slim Yerkes, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Slim quietly.
“That’s just the trouble with you. You’re always so quiet that nobody ever knows you’re around. I’ll bet a dollar to a flash of lightning that you’ve got lots of talent but are afraid to let anybody know it. Camp is the place where a boy learns to step out of the background and show what he can do. You’re here to-night to help amuse the Stuck-Ups. Let’s see—can you sing?”
“No, sir.”
“There you go—I’m sure you’re a mighty fine singer if only you had a little confidence. Now clear your throat, sound off, and sing in a bold voice ‘How Dry I Am,’ starting from the end and working forwards.”
“Am I dry how——” Slim croaked feebly. The campers set up a groan, but the Grand Mogul pretended to be immensely pleased at the thin lad’s singing ability.
“That’s not so terrible. Now, just to make you get out of your shell, I order you to put on a free show to-morrow for anybody that asks you. Just pretend you’re a whole circus side-show, and when they ask you, give imitations of the Fat Lady, the India-Rubber Man, JoJo the Dog-Faced Boy, the Snake Charmer, or anything else they happen to think up. Now, next case for the executioner!” He transferred his attention to Blackie Thorne.
“All right,” said Blackie insolently, deliberately leaving off the title of respect. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Sir!” roared the assembled Stuck-Ups.
“Two bells! Three bells and the foolhardy neophyte hangs on the red cedar at midnight!” intoned Sax McNulty. The dishpan gong resounded with two slow strokes. “You have twice dared the wrath of the Stuck-Up Society. What excuse have you to offer, you in the middle? What’s your name?”
Blackie resolved that he would not be daunted by the rigmarole of the initiation as his two companions had been, and answered as impudently as he could, “Aw, I go by the name of Saxophone McNulty.”
The listeners broke into a pandemonium of hooting and roaring, almost drowning out the booming of the gong sounding three bells. For the first time the Grand Mogul’s tone became deadly serious, and when he could make himself heard he addressed Blackie with measured calm.
“Though the Stuck-Up Society has assembled here to-night in a spirit of fun, the unwritten code of good-fellowship should govern our every action as much now as at any other time. You, Thorne, have deliberately disregarded that code. Besides being an obvious falsehood, your answer showed a silly wilfulness. In the few days you have been at Lenape you have shown yourself to be a ‘fresh guy’ and a bully to those who are weaker than yourself; you have shown a lack of self-control and a selfish forgetfulness of the other fellow. You get lots of fun out of playing jokes on somebody else, but as soon as they play a trick on you, you get sore and go off by yourself and sulk. Am I right?”
“I guess so, sir.” Blackie hung his head; he hated to be talked to this way in front of all the other campers.
“Don’t forget, Blackie,” went on the leader, “that the difficult things in the world are the ones worth fighting for. It’s easy to be fresh, to be a bully, to lose your temper, to stir up mischief; but the worth-while things are gentlemanliness and self-control. Everybody here will help you all they can, but only you yourself can fight the fight to make yourself a good Lenape camper. When you have won that fight and proved that you possess the spirit of sportsmanship and team-play, you can have another chance to join the honorable ranks of the Stuck-Up Society. The initiation ceremonies will now proceed without you. Go to your tent!”
“Last night about dusk, when I was walking by the marsh down where the creek empties into the lake, I was surprised to discover a large flock of snipe. Now, hunting this wary game-bird is one of the sports that Camp Lenape is famous for; and since in my opinion we couldn’t have better weather for it, I suggested to the Chief that we have a hunt this very night.”
Mr. Carrigan, leader of Tent Nine and camp naturalist, was making a report after supper the next day; and judging from the cheer that went up at his words, the sport he spoke of was one of the greatest attractions that camp life could offer. Blackie Thorne, sobered by his humiliating experience in the Throne Room of the Stuck-Up Society the previous night, listened with both ears as the councilor continued his announcement.
“I do not need to explain to campers who have spent a season at Lenape that it is exceedingly difficult to capture the elusive snipe. It requires great care and skill to catch them, and since it would be impossible for all of us to go after them, it has become the custom for the old campers, who have all bagged their birds, to give first chance to the new boys and to act as ‘beaters’ and scare up the game for them. They will take care of the inexperienced hunters, see that they are placed in a good position along a well-known snipe ‘run,’ and do all they can to drive the birds their way.
“Now, since many of the new boys will not know about the habits and method of catching this most famous of all game-birds, it will be best to explain a few details. There are several varieties of snipe. The variety that is usually found on the Lenape campus is the ‘coo’ snipe, which may always be recognized by the fact that its eggs are not round but cube-shaped. Another variety, the ‘fan-tail’ snipe, is found a few miles north of here, near Camp Shawnee, our rivals on Iron Lake. The snipe is a bird with long legs and long bill, and the meat is very succulent, tasting like a cross between turkey and lemon pie. Ellick, our genial chef, is well-known for his ability to fry snipe in the most toothsome way, and has furthermore, out of his love for the sport, offered a prize of one watermelon from the camp ice-box to the first camper who brings in his snipe.”
Cheers followed, for Ellick, for Mr. Carrigan, and for the watermelon.
“The best method of catching this cunning bird,” continued the leader when the noise had died down again, “is by means of the bag and lantern. Each hunter should provide himself with a burlap bag—or a pillow-case will do—and a lantern of some sort. When one of the beaters posts him along a snipe ‘run,’ as we call the trails which the birds make along the ground through the bushes on their way down to the lake for a drink, the hunter should prop the mouth of the bag open with sticks, place a small pyramid of rocks in front of it, and station himself behind the bag with his lantern. He then at intervals gives the snipe mating-call, like this—coo-coo-coo!—in a soft and liquid voice. The snipe, aroused and startled by the approach of the beaters through the bushes, flies into the air in alarm. Hearing the mating-call and mistaking the pile of rocks for its nest, it flies toward the open bag, and dazzled by the light in its eyes, blunders right into the bag. Then all the hunter has to do is to grab the top of the bag quickly, and the bird is imprisoned alive and brought back to camp. Remember—the first one to catch his bird wins the watermelon!”
He sat down amidst a tornado of cheering. During the uproar Wally managed to make himself heard at the Tent Four table.
“With four hunters in our bunch,” he said, “we ought to have enough snipe to-morrow to make a full meal for the whole table. Soon as we’re dismissed, you fellows hop around and see if Ellick hasn’t got some old bags you can borrow. Don’t let anybody else get ahead of you if you can help it—it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have some watermelon to eat along with that fried snipe!”
As soon as the whistle sounded, Blackie joined the torrent of boys that poured out into the kitchen to besiege Ellick for bags, boxes—anything in which a bird might be trapped. The chef looked about genially, finding something for most of them, smiling and assuring them that the prize offer was true, showing them the big green watermelon that would fall to the lucky Nimrod. Blackie was fortunate enough to find an empty potato-sack, and after providing himself with the powerful flash-lantern he had brought to camp, was ready to put himself in the hands of the experienced beaters, who would show him the correct place to post himself.
To his surprise, Sax McNulty, the councilor who had served the previous night as Grand Mogul and who had ordered Blackie’s ejection from the Throne Room, singled him out. The gloomy-faced comedian nodded somberly.
“Hello, Thorne! Going to redeem yourself and make the camp forget last night by being the first to get your snipe?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Blackie, “but I sure am going to try. Say, Sax!”
“What?”
“I—I’m sorry I was so fresh last night. I won’t forget what you said about being a good sport. And I didn’t mean to act the way I did.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t hurt my feelings any. Just to show you we’re good friends, I’m going to take you to the best place on the campus for snipe. I know where there’s a ‘run’ where as many snipe have been caught as in all the other places within six miles. I’ll be your beater. Got your outfit? Good. Trot along!”
He led the way at a rapid pace and Blackie followed, lugging his bag and lantern. They cut straight through the woods away from the lake; in places it was already so dark that the boy switched on his light to see the way. McNulty made so many turns and twists that it was not long before Blackie lost all sense of direction. At last, much to the boy’s satisfaction, the leader announced that they had reached the place. He helped Blackie rig up the sack with the mouth propped and held open by sticks, and arranged a pile of stones in front.
“In my experience,” said McNulty, “I think Mr. Carrigan is wrong about the mating-call. It really sounds more likekuk-kuk-kukthancoo-coo.” He made the boy practise the call over and over until he was satisfied.
“Now,” he said, “you just wait here until I beat a few down your way.”
He departed stealthily through the undergrowth, and Blackie crouched waiting behind his glaring lamp. For ten or fifteen minutes he heard nothing but the sweet whistles of the whippoorwill and the timid twilight noises of the woods. Then from the front came a series of halloos and the crackling of a body passing through the brush. McNulty’s voice was raised in the beater’s call, advancing swiftly toward him. The boy clucked as he had been told. There was a whirr like that of wings, and a flashing shadow in the bright beam of the light. Blackie fell forward on his bag, sure that some wild thing was struggling among its folds.
“Get any?” asked McNulty, rushing up with a long stick in his hand. “Here—let me take a look—careful now! Don’t let him out, whatever you do! Easy—I’ll hold it, and you reach down and pull him out. Don’t be scared—they just peck you a little bit.”
Gingerly, and not at all sure that he would like to be pecked by a sharp bill even a little bit, Blackie put his arm in the bag and felt about. His fingers closed on something, and hastily he jerked it forth. Instead of a struggling mass of feathers, his hand held only a bunch of tangled grass and twigs.
Sax McNulty snorted in disgust. “Thought you had a snipe! Huh! Here I drove a whole covey of them right at you! Didn’t you see them?”
“Yes, I thought I saw one fly right into the bag! How did this get here?”
“You ought to know. Well, guess I’ll have to go through it all again—and it’s no fun beating these bushes. I’m all scratched up already. If you don’t have better luck this time, we’ll have to go somewhere else. I’ll have to go almost to the top of the mountain as it is—I’ve already covered the ground near here.”
He moved away and disappeared into the July night. Blackie settled himself for a long wait.
It was lonely there in the woods. He thought over one by one every incident that had happened since he had landed in camp. Already four days of his slender two weeks at Lenape had passed; only ten days more and he would have to return to the hot city, far from the exciting adventures of forest and lake and lodge.
It seemed to him that hours had passed since Sax had left him. He listened with all his might to try and pick up the leader’s shouting off in the silent woods. Mosquitoes, attracted by the light, swarmed about him and made him miserable with their tormenting hum; he slapped at them, but still they came to sting his neck and wrists and ankles. He would have turned off the light, but knew that if he did so he would miss his chance of bringing in any snipe; and he was determined not to return to camp without at least one bird. By this time many of the new boys should have captured their prey; and he could not think of returning empty-handed. Why didn’t McNulty return?
Gradually it dawned upon him that the leader would not return, that he had not intended to return. It must all be a joke! Just another of those innumerable hoaxes which camp custom had decreed should be played upon all tenderfoot campers during the first days of their first season under canvas. It must be just a conspiracy among the experienced campers and leaders to decoy the credulous greenhorns out into the woods alone under the pretext of a hunt for snipe. With a bag and lantern! The whole story seemed so impossible to him that he wondered how he could have been taken in by it. Sitting behind a pile of stones and a gaping potato-sack, cooing and waiting for birds to fly his way! McNulty must have bundled up grass and twigs into a ball and thrown it into the bag when he had approached on the pretense of “beating” the birds toward the light. And how he and the rest of the knowing ones would laugh at Blackie when he returned to camp, shamefaced and abashed at having been hoodwinked by such a ridiculous flimflam! Snipe that laid cube-shaped eggs!
The thing must be faced like a good sport, however. If he hurried back to camp, he might still arrive in time to watch some of the other victims come in, and thus have the laugh on them——He suddenly realized that he was not sure which was the way back to camp. He had depended on the guidance of McNulty, and did not have the least idea where he was, or how far away the tents might be. Well, he would have to explore a bit, pioneer the way home for himself.
Carrying his flash-lamp hooked on his belt, he beat his way through the scrub carefully, on the lookout for snakes and other dangerous dwellers in the forest. He blundered across a narrow ravine, pushed his way through a clump of laurels, and climbed a stone fence. The light showed on the rutted tracks of a lane that wandered through the trees—a lane that seemed somehow familiar. Sure enough! It was the road that led to the gloomy house of Rattlesnake Joe, the hermit; it was the trail he and the others had followed only two nights before!
He knew his way now. The stars were out, and a half-moon was tilted among the tree-tops. He snapped off his lamp, so that it would not draw too many mosquitoes, and found he could follow the lane well enough by moonlight. Taking the direction that led away from the hermit’s dwelling and toward the campus, he trudged along by himself, almost laughing to think how easily the snipe-trick had worked. It was a good joke; and next year, if he came to camp, he could have the fun of taking some scary tenderfoot out into the woods and planting him there for the evening, to coo and wait for snipe that would not come.
Only about five minutes passed before he was aware that someone was coming toward him up the road; he could hear the low mumble of voices only a few hundred yards in front. Could one of them be McNulty, alarmed because Blackie had not yet turned up in camp, and coming to seek him and break the news? If so, he was due for a little scare; the jester would himself be the butt of a jest. Blackie planted himself behind a thick oak trunk, ready to jump out with a shout and throw the bag over the leader’s head and give him the fright of his life.
The voices came nearer; one of them harsh and bullying, the other sounding strangely weak and pleading. Blackie pondered. Neither of them could be McNulty. They must be strangers, even men who, finding him alone, might do him harm. He resolved to keep quiet and let them pass without noticing him. Inwardly congratulating himself for turning off his light, he concealed himself as best he could behind the friendly oak. The voices grew louder; they were rough, uncouth, and profane.
Two slouching figures emerged from the dark, and stopped right beside the tree Blackie had chosen. He could have reached out his arm and touched them both. There was a scratching sound as a match was drawn across a rock; a red flicker burst forth and revealed two faces bent to light cigarettes. The face of the taller man was seamed and dirty, and the unshaven jowls were covered with gray stubble. A green patch hung over one eye, giving him a peculiar and sinister look. The other man was younger, with a slack mouth and watery eyes, and a vacant face that showed he had little or no will of his own. Both were garbed in loose, patched garments streaked with mud and torn in places.
“Tramps!” thought Blackie. “Gee, they sure look hard-boiled! If they ever find me here——” He crouched behind his shelter, fearing that they had seen him already.
“Aw, what ya want to be yeller for?” the older man was growling. “I tell ya it’s a sure thing! He lives all alone up there—I heard all about him down in Elmville. The hermit, they call him around here, and everybody knows he’s got a silver mine somewheres in the mountains that he won’t tell about! Every once in a while he sneaks off and digs up some silver and buries it under the stones of his fireplace!”
“Are ya sure, Reno?” asked the other, in snivelling tones.
“’Course I’m sure! I seen him myself the other night, diggin’ up the stones at the fireplace and takin’ somethin’ out that looked like a bar of silver. There ya stand moanin’ like a sick chicken, and all we have to do to get rich is just walk in and tie him up and take the silver!”
“We might be seen!” The younger man’s terror was increasing every minute. “And he’s got dogs, too.”
“Blast the dogs! They’re all chained up anyway.”
“But how about them kids?”
“Aw, they’re all in bed by now. If you’d seen that bar of silver like I saw, you’d pull yer freight and get the job done.”
Blackie wanted to cry out and tell them that the hermit was poor, that he had no money or treasure at all, that the man must have seen him looking at his precious thunderbolt which he kept under the hearthstone. But his mouth was so dry with terror that he could not make a sound. He leaned against the tree for support, and the lantern on his belt clinked against the rough bark.
“What’s that?” The weak-chinned man jumped nervously about.
“Aw, yer jumpy as a cat to-night! ’Fraid of the dark, ain’t ya, Lew?”
“I thought I heard somebody in the bushes.”
“Not likely. If I thought there was, I’d pull out his windpipe. There ain’t nothin’ to be scared of. Now, will ya come, or will I have to do the job meself?”
“I—I’ll come, Reno.”
The two men moved off in the direction of the hermit’s house. Some minutes passed before Blackie dared to relax his body from the stiffened position his fright had put him into. Reason told him to get away from the spot before he was discovered and would have to face the wrath of the two tramps alone; but curiosity and an uncanny fascination seemed to draw him to the house whose grim face had somehow haunted him since first he had arrived at Lenape. With lagging steps, he followed down the lane toward the fateful, tumbledown dwelling.
As he drew near the door, his terror increased. The hounds were making a dismal racket in their kennel, rattling their chains fiercely. One small, dusty window on the ground floor showed red with firelight; the rest of the house was dark. Drawn and yet repelled by what might be going on behind the weather-beaten walls, he dared the chance of one of the dogs escaping and attacking him, crept to the door, and listened.
The sound of voices raised in anger came to him, a bedlam hubbub of words. He thought he could distinguish the peculiar, slouchy dialect of Rattlesnake Joe above the others.
“Ye’re crazed, ye devils! I’ll have the law onto ye!”
“Will ya tell us where yer silver mine is located?”
“No! I won’t tell ye a tarnal thing——”
There was the clatter of a chair overturned on the board floor. A piercing, terrifying scream, hoarse and horrid, came once and broke off. A heavy body slipped noisily to the floor. Afterward endured a hushed, strained silence, during which Blackie heard with distinctness the beating of his own pulse and the hollow ticking of a clock beyond the door.
The wind was rising; a gust swept over the roof of the somber house, rattling the loose shingles and stirring the tops of the pines. Its coming brought panic to Blackie Thorne. He turned and, with eyes starting with horror, fled away into the dark with the ghastly memory of that hoarse, despairing scream still ringing in his ears.
Blackie did not mention to a single soul what he had seen and heard at the hermit’s house the night of the snipe hunt. He wanted nothing more than to forget the terror which had gripped him by the throat as he stood outside the door of the house in the woods. Indeed, when the crystal clear morning came and the busy camp routine began, it was hard to believe that he had witnessed any dark deed the night before.
As the days passed, he almost forgot he had ever overheard the two tramps planning robbery and violence upon a harmless old man. The glorious Fourth of July came and went, leaving only burnt fingers and a powder-blackened litter of colored papers on the baseball field as souvenirs of the sparkling and explosive celebration. Wally continued his lessons in the Australian crawl, and also taught the Tent Four group many things about the art of diving. Camp Lenape held a field meet, and Blackie was awarded three ribbons of various colors as trophies of his prowess in running and jumping. Tent Four wiped out its bad record by winning inspection three times in succession. On Friday night each tent group put on an impromptu show or stunt, ranging from a vaudeville act with a trick horse (front part, Gil Shelton; hind legs, Spaghetti Megaro) to an uproarious imitation of a tent full of sleepy-heads turning out for Reveille. Blackie and Gallegher spent much of their time studying to pass their requirements for the honor emblem, and at the Indian council on Monday night they both were summoned before the Chief’s seat and proudly received the coveted badge.
Blackie was awake twenty minutes before First Call on Tuesday morning, and passed the time stitching the swastika emblem on the front of his jersey. The sky was dull and leaden; for the first time since he had come to camp there was a smell of rain in the air. When the campers were returning up the hill after the Indian dip the storm broke, bucketing down in torrents; the boys went up to breakfast in raincoats and ponchos, and stood assembled for flag-raising on the long porch of the lodge.
“I was going out with the pioneers to help build a signal-tower this morning,” Blackie grumbled over his oatmeal at breakfast, “and here it’s got to go and rain. Gee, what rotten luck!”
“Why worry?” asked Ken Haviland; “Rain doesn’t spoil anything here at Lenape. Last year we had so much fun on rainy days that I’ve been wishing for a wet day soon. We’ll have a good time to-day, and don’t forget it.”
“What will happen?”
“Oh, lots of things. Everybody stays here in the lodge, and we have boxing and wrestling matches, indoor track meets, or signalling contests. Maybe some of the leaders will tell stories. Rainy days are good times to practise for the big show that comes at the end of every section, or to get the dope on map-making, life-saving drill, forestry and merit badges. Some fellows can work in the carpenter shop on handicraft. I remember one wet day last year we had a big mud-marathon around the lodge. Everybody put on old clothes and went through a big obstacle race; we almost laughed ourselves sick.”
Haviland’s prophecy was correct; the program for the day was more active and strenuous than for a day of sunshine. The campers put the lodge in order, cleared away a big space in the center, and brought in a tall heap of firewood for the cheerful blaze that was crackling in the stone fireplace. Wally Rawn, who as officer of the day was supervising the program, caught Blackie by the arm as he was helping to lay down some large, padded wrestling mats.
“Blackie, will you go in to the Chief’s office and get the O. D. report blank for me?”
“You bet, Wally!”
Blackie skipped over to a far corner of the lodge, where the Chief had a small room fitted with a desk and cabinet to hold the camp letters and records. The door was slightly ajar, and two voices sounded beyond. The Chief had a visitor. Blackie paused at the door, hesitating to intrude upon the conversation.
“Just stopped on my way from Elmville,” came the heavy voice of the visitor. “Couldn’t find out anything about the matter there, and as I was riding back over the mountains I thought I might as well stop on the chance that you might know something about it.”
“Mr. Lane, who brings in our provisions, told me what he’d heard in town,” answered the Chief. “That’s all I know. Wednesday night it happened, wasn’t it?”
“That’s what the coroner thinks. The body wasn’t found till Friday—nobody goes up there, you know, and the old man lived alone. It was just by luck that one of the neighbors stopped in to see him, and found the body.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Sheriff. It’s a terrible thing to have such a murder so near camp. And the old hermit wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”
Sheriff! Murder! Blackie clutched the doorpost and almost fell over at the words. The hermit!
“Well,” said the sheriff, scraping back his chair as he rose, “if you do hear anything, I live over by Newmiln Center. You can send word to me there. It’s a puzzle, sure enough. As brutal a thing as I ever heard of in all my experience; if it was robbers that did it, they surely didn’t find anything.”
“I hope you catch them,” said the Chief fervently. “And I’m sorry I can’t give you any clue. Good day!”
Blackie just had time to collect his thoughts and run away from the door before he might be discovered listening. He dashed off and joined the group about the wrestling-mats, covertly watching the man who came out of the office. The sheriff was a heavy-set, black-mustached man in spurred and muddied riding-boots and glistening slicker. He stamped across to the back door and, while Blackie watched at a window, mounted a waiting horse and cantered off down the muddy road through the downpour.
The watching boy heaved a sigh of relief; he had escaped being caught and questioned. The two tramps must have tried to force the hermit to tell what he knew. The old man, of course, possessed neither a treasure nor the secret of a silver mine, and in the struggle he had somehow been—killed. Murder! What an ugly-sounding word it was! Blackie shivered. He wanted to forget; but he knew that never in this world would he lose the memory of that sullen, threatening house and the racking scream that had issued from it on that fatal Wednesday night.
He looked about him. The rainy-morning program in the lodge was already in full swing. In front of the fireplace Lieutenant Eames had roped off a square space and was giving boxing instruction to an interested group. Two older boys, their fists hidden in bulging padded gloves, were clumsily sparring together under a rapid stream of cautions and advice from the lieutenant and a perfect hail of cheers and urgings from the howling bunch of spectators.
“Put your body behind it!” counseled the West Pointer. “Place your blows where they’ll do the most good—don’t thrash around wildly. There—not bad! Don’t run away, Pete; stand up to him and defend yourself with the gloves. Whoa!” The two boys, smarting under a few well-placed blows, were mixing it in earnest, their fists whirling rapidly but with little damaging effect. “That’s enough—you can’t fight best when you lose your tempers. Now, who’s next?”
“Match me with somebody!” urged Chink Towner. “It’s my turn now, Lieutenant!”
“Whom do you want to take on, Chink?”
The onlookers chorused a suggestion. “Blackie! Blackie Thorne! Here he is now! Take him on, Chink!”
“How about it, Blackie?” asked the lieutenant. “Want to try a round or two with Chink?”
Blackie’s scare was still too close to him to want to think about anything else, but he resolved not to display the white feather before the group. He could not refuse. “Aw, sure, I’m not afraid of him. Give me the gloves!”
Jerry Utway volunteered to serve as his second, and jumped to help him. Jake Utway, not to be outdone by his twin brother, took Chink’s corner and laced on his gloves. The news of the bout spread around the lodge from group to group, until quite a number of campers crowded about the ring. Ellick, the chef, drifted in from the kitchen, and agreed to judge the contest. Tent Three rallied to support Chink, their champion, and the Tent Four boys patted Blackie on the back and whispered words of advice or encouragement.
Wally Rawn came over while Blackie was stripping to shorts and tennis shoes. “You shouldn’t be matched with Towner,” he said. “He’s got a longer reach than you have, and knows more about boxing than you do.”
“I can’t back out now. I’m not scared of him anyway,” Blackie muttered, but his heart was racing and he had a chilly feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Well, remember to keep your guard up all the time, and don’t lose your head. Another thing—don’t set your body stiff until you’re ready to hit; if you’re relaxed a blow doesn’t hurt so much. But don’t let him take you off balance, or you’ll find yourself chewing the floor.”
Bewildered by the shouting and the hasty advice, Blackie found himself in the center of the ring. The lieutenant was introducing the contenders.
“In this corner, Battling Towner, the Chinese challenger; to my right, Kid Blackie, the Bloodthirsty Bantam. Shake hands, gentlemen! First round—time!”
The two boys closed in upon each other warily, exchanged a few watchful feints and passes. Chink led with his left; Blackie sprang out of the way, and swung harmlessly at the air.
“Get into him, Thorne!” squealed Jerry Utway. “This ain’t a pillow-fight! Hit him!”
Chink feinted with his left and aimed a blow with his right that caught Blackie on the arm, whirling him half around. He caught his balance, leaped forward, and closed in a clinch so tight that neither boy got in any blows before they were separated. They parted; there followed a few seconds of brisk sparring; then Chink, with lightning footwork, dodged under Blackie’s guard and planted a thudding glove upon his face. Blackie was knocked backwards; he shut his eyes and crouched with his gloves over his face and his arms tight to his chest. The spectators shouted, cheering for Chink.
“First blood for the Chinese lightweight!”
“Yay, Tent Three!”
“Get into him, Blackie!”
Blackie set his teeth. The blow had stunned him for a minute, but it had the effect of making him forget the crowd, forget everything but the crouched figure of the boy before him—his antagonist. The faces of the watchers and the referee seemed to show through an unreal haze. He struck out at Towner, and landed on his body; but Chink retaliated with another crushing blow upon the nose. A numb feeling settled upon Blackie’s senses; his limbs seemed to be yards long, the gloves to weigh tons. What was he doing out here in front of the crowd, jumping around breathlessly and being struck again and again? Even Chink’s face came to him half hidden by a dreamy mist. He fought and fought, yet Chink never seemed to be touched; he darted about, apparently placing his fists where he pleased.
A gong sounded; hands reached out and pulled Blackie to his chair. He felt a splash of cold water on his face; Jerry Utway was rubbing his arms with a towel. “Round one—won by Mistah Chink!” came Ellick’s voice.
Again Blackie was aware that the gong had sounded, and once more he was facing Towner. The other boy was breathing heavily, but was apparently as light on his feet and as ready with his hands as ever.
“After him, Blackie—the best defense is an attack!” It was Wally’s voice, coming coolly to him from beyond the ring. Blackie caught his breath and plunged with whirling arms after the shadowy form of his opponent. Chink closed in for an exchange of body blows and another clinch, in which Blackie got the worst end of it. Towner was depending mostly upon blows to the face, concentrating all his attack upon the nose and mouth, placing shrewd hits on these places one after another. Blackie had the feeling that he was fighting against a ghostly figure, an antagonist as elusive and intangible as smoke. He began hitting out blindly, thoughtlessly, raging and hating Towner with all his might. A red flag seemed to drop before his eyes, and he charged with his fists hammering like pistons, careless of the rain of blows that fell upon his unprotected head. He was seeing red, running wild, losing all his skill and direction in a mad, senseless rush. Through the clamor of the crowd came Wally’s low counsel again.
“Keep your head, Blackie! Self-control!”
The mist began to clear. He felt a jolting, sharp blow on the chin, was aware that Chink was off to one side and that in his blind charge he was nowhere near his antagonist. He fell back, protecting his face; then, suddenly, he whirled and struck out with his right arm extended. His glove seemed to plunge forward of its own accord and land with a smack on Chink’s face. The other boy fell back with an amazed look in his eyes.
“Time! End of de bout—no decision!” cried Ellick.
There were shouts of protest; the campers wanted a fight to a finish. Ellick only shook his head and nodded in the direction of Blackie’s corner. Blackie saw his comrades staring at him strangely.
“He tapped you one on the nose, all right,” said Jerry, giving him a cup of water.
Blackie looked with surprise at his hand, still encased in a leather glove. The casing was stained with a few darkening crimson drops.
“What of it? I can still lick him! I’m just getting started!”
Lieutenant Eames crossed over to them with one arm on Chink’s shoulder.
“Sure, you’re not whipped by a long sight, Thorne,” he said. “But we can match up you two again some other time. Now, you two boys have been swatting each other all around the ring enough to satisfy anybody. Another thing, Blackie—I can see that you don’t know the first thing about scientific self-defense, but you have two things that are most essential to a good boxer. You have good muscular control, and you keep your wits about you all the time. If you want to spend some time with me, I think after a few lessons I can make a pretty fair boxer out of you.”
“Say, will you, Lieutenant? I’d sure like that!”
He relinquished his gloves to another boy, and a third match began, while Wild Willie Sanders and Soapy Mullins began a wrestling bout. The group split up and drifted away, while Blackie slipped into his clothes. His nose had stopped bleeding, and he was feeling a glow of happiness that came from the words of the boxing instructor. He felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up and saw Wally.
“Well, you took a beating to-day, all right!”
“Chink didn’t lick me,” frowned Blackie. “They stopped us because he tapped me on the nose.”
“He hammered you all over the ring; I said you were no match for him. Chink Towner did give you a beating; but I was watching another fight at the same time.”
“Gee, you talk funny sometimes, Wally. What fight do you mean?”
“You were fighting against your own self, Blackie, when you were there in the ring. And you won that fight. I saw you. For a minute you got mad, lost your control; then you got hold of yourself and began to use your head. It was a good thing for you to go against a fighter better than yourself; you learned to take your medicine and keep your temper. And they’re both good things for a young lad to know.”
“You put up a pretty good scrap,” grunted Gallegher approvingly.
Blackie had donned his shirt and sweater after the boxing bout. “Thanks, Irish,” he said.
“I’ve seen lots of tough fights, and I know what I’m sayin’, see? Say, are you tired?”
“No, not very.”
“What do you say we take a little walk? I’m sick of bein’ shut in this lodge all mornin’.”
Blackie looked out a window; the rain had slackened, but still drizzled down with settled persistence. “In the rain?”
“Sure—what’s a few drops matter? Put on your raincoat and come along.”
The two boys slipped into their rainproof ponchos, and then Gallegher led the way a short distance through the wet woods behind camp. Here he turned off and struck through the brush toward the mountain, following a line of lead pipe that ran from a spring above down to the lodge, supplying fresh, cold water for the use of the camp. A trail had been cut when the men had laid the pipe, but it was overgrown and indistinct, and it was easy to see that few campers ever passed that way. After about a quarter of a mile of trudging in silence through the dripping forest, Gallegher turned off and floundered through the undergrowth until he came to the thick trunk of a fallen tree that lay rotting on the ground.
“Here we are,” he said. “Not so bad, eh? I come here lots of times.”
“What for?” asked Blackie curiously.
“I’ll show you.” Gallegher stuck out his chin, and winked meaningly. “Have a good time, away from all the baby kids in camp. See what I mean?”
He fished out a crumpled, gaudily-colored package from his shirt, and held it out to Blackie. Within were a few cheap cigarettes.
“Gee!” exclaimed Blackie, “cigarettes! Where did you get them, Irish?”
“Aw, I always carry some. I like to get away and have a little smoke by myself now and then. Have one.”
“You’ve been smoking all the time we’ve been up here? Say, don’t you know the Chief sends a guy home right away if he’s caught smoking?”