“Don’t let him scare you,” said Megaro, the Italian boy.
“I ain’t afraid. Say, what are you going to do with him, Gil?”
“Give him to Ellick—he likes to eat frog legs. Come on, here comes Fellowes with his tin horn ready to blow First Call.”
Blackie picked up his bed and made his way to Tent Four. All his tent-mates were awake and laughing at little Guppy, who had just discovered that his nightgown was floating in the breeze at the top of the flagpole. The bugle’s call routed them all out to formation in front of the lodge, where after a snappy setting-up drill the entire camp flew down the slope to the boat dock for the Indian dip.
The blue waters of the lake reflected a hundred white bodies standing about the edge of the dock waiting for Wally’s whistle. No sooner had it sounded than there was a tremendous plunging and splashing as most of them tumbled head-first into the crisp, bracing water. A few younger boys and timid souls waded in from the shore.
“Stick your head under, Toots!”
“Oh, boy! Say, ain’t this water cold?”
“It ain’t cold, you dummy. Just the way I like it—wakes me up fine!”
Blackie took a swift racing dive off the front end of the dock, swept cleanly through the water in a shower of small bubbles, and came to the surface with a speedy overhand stroke. He swam some fifty yards out to the life-saving boat that was stationed there with Sax McNulty at the oars and a leader named Munson at the bow, and there floated a minute. He was surprised to hear the trill of the whistle, followed by cries of “All out!”
Swimming over to the dock again, he shouted in a grieved tone to Wally, who was supervising the general exodus from the water, “What’s the idea, Wally? Do you call this a swim?”
“Of course not—this is just morning dip, and you’ll get a chill if you stay in long. Swim comes later.”
“Aw, heck!” Somewhat disgruntled, he climbed out and raced back to the tent to dress for breakfast.
The morning meal over, there was a period of duty. “We’re on police squad, you fellows!” called Ken Haviland.
“Police?” asked Blackie. “What do we do—go around arresting guys?”
“No, you sap. Get a blanket and I’ll show you.”
Blackie discovered that policing camp merely meant going about the campus and picking up bits of paper and destroying unsightly objects that littered the paths. Church Call sounded soon after they finished, and together with the rest of the campers he went to a shady glade in the forest beside the lake and sat on a log while the short Sunday service was held. He liked sitting there in the leafy woods and singing the various tunes, even though they were the same ones they sang in Sunday-school at home; he admired the handiwork of the rustic pulpit that the campers had built the year before; but when the Chief began his talk he was frankly bored. The Chief was saying something about different trees and how they were like different kinds of boys; but Blackie only listened now and then. He was wishing that church was over and that they could go in swimming again; and he passed the time catching ants and dropping them down the neck of a smaller boy who sat in front of him.
As a matter of fact the service was quite brief; but it seemed to him that it would never end. After years of waiting, or so he thought, the brisk challenge of Swim Call came from the lodge porch, and slipping into his bathing suit, he headed again for the dock. He was the first one there, with the exception of the life-saving crew, composed equally of councilors and older boys who had won the Red Cross emblem that was stitched over their breasts. Wally was in charge; he was sending out three boats to patrol the waters about the dock and posting the guards who would stand in various places about the tower to be on the watch for water accidents. When this was done, the man turned to Blackie.
“First one down for swim? Say, if you’d only show as much speed doing squad-duty, the rest of the fellows wouldn’t have to do a thing!”
“Can I go in now, Wally?”
“You’ll have to hold yourself down until the rest get here and the whistle blows. The rule is that there’s no swimming except when the life-savers are on duty. There aren’t going to be any accidents while I’m in charge. By the way, I noticed this morning at Indian dip that you’re not a bad swimmer.”
“I’m pretty good, I guess,” said Blackie modestly.
“Do you know the Australian crawl? No? Well, if you want to make speed, that’s the stroke to use. The camp always holds a big boat regatta and swimming meet at the end of each section—that’s two weeks from now—and we compete with our old rivals of Camp Shawnee. I’d like to see you take a few honors and help us to beat them. What say I teach you the crawl some time?”
“Now?”
“To-morrow, maybe. Well, here comes the gang!” He turned away as the crowd of campers, all in swimming togs, trooped on to the dock, and at the sound of his whistle the swim began.
Blackie sported about the water happily for the remainder of the period. He was quite pleased with himself for having thus been singled out by his leader for swimming ability. Tired of circling about the life-boats, he began ducking less experienced swimmers and pushing boys off the dock into the water, until he was reprimanded for this conduct by Lieutenant Eames because of the danger of someone slipping and injuring himself against one of the piles or the superstructure of the dock. This scolding made him sulky, and he swam by himself until the whistle blew, and then tardily walked up to the tent, stopping many times on the way to chase butterflies or to hunt for snakes among the rocks; and thus, when he finally reached the tent, he found his comrades working busily. All the beds were made except his own, and under the direction of Ken Haviland, the boys were sweeping and arranging, cleaning the tent lantern, putting their lockers in order, and tidying up the place.
“Where have you been?” the aide greeted him. “Snap out of it and get dressed and make your bunk and get ready for inspection. Wally had to go up to leaders’ meeting at the lodge.”
“Aw, don’t make such a fuss,” said Blackie. “I’ll do it, won’t I?”
“Yes, but we have only a couple minutes before inspection. If the tent isn’t in apple-pie order, we don’t stand a chance to win the pennant to-day.”
“Well, what if we don’t? What’s the good of having an old pennant in front of your tent? It don’t get you anything.”
“But don’t you see it means that the Tent Four bunch are the best campers? When you’re here longer you’ll learn not to waste time talking back when we have a chance to show our stuff.”
Without haste, Blackie peeled off his swimming suit and cast it on the floor, dressed with tantalizing slowness, and with a scowl at the aide, began to make his bed. He knew that Haviland was angry and thought it a good chance to get the tall camper’s “goat.” In the midst of his preparations the call came down the line, “All out of tents for inspection!” Haviland and the others jumped outside and lined up at attention, but Blackie delayed to try and shake his blankets into shape. Just as he stepped outside, Mr. Colby, one of the councilors and a scoutmaster known for his strictness, came along with his inspection staff.
“Tent Four! Two demerits for having a camper inside the tent after inspection call. The tent seems to be in pretty good shape, but there’s a wet bathing suit in the middle of the floor, and one bunk that isn’t made. Sorry, Haviland—but this will give you so many demerits that you’ll probably get the booby prize to-day! Any excuse?”
“No excuse, sir,” answered Haviland, looking daggers at the guilty Blackie. After the inspection crew had passed on, he turned to Blackie and said, “We would have had a good chance at the pennant if it hadn’t been for you! As it is, we’ll probably have the booby can tied to our tent-pole until to-morrow! What do you say, fellows—shall I recommend that Wally puts him on the chain gang?”
“Put me on the gang if you want to—I don’t care!” exclaimed Blackie boldly; but he was silent all during dinner, and even fried chicken, green corn and ice-cream failed to make him forget that his careless attitude had won him the black looks of all his tent-mates.
After the meal there was the usual siesta period. The boys were scattered about lying in their bunks, resting and writing letters home. Blackie crouched in his place with a pencil and pad before him. Haviland sat across from him, now and then looking gloomily up at a big tin can, painted black with the white letters BOOBY across it, which hung swinging in plain sight over the front steps. Slater was writing busily. Fat Crampton was asleep, and Gallegher was tickling the stout boy’s nose and neck with a stalk of grass, while Guppy and Lefkowitz watched the proceedings with amusement.
Blackie looked down at what he had written. “Dear Mother—We got here O. K. and Camp Lenape is a fine camp. I am on the Chain Gang already and the swimming is O. K. I will learn the Ostralien crawl soon please send me up some fudge and cake. Last night I slep out-door. I think this is a fine camp o boy and don’t forget the fudge and cake and some chewing gum too.”
He read this over for the fifth time, wondered what to put down next, and looked up to find Haviland watching him.
“What’s biting you?” Blackie asked. “Still sore because you didn’t win your old pennant?”
“It’s not myself I’m worrying about, but after dinner I heard a couple of the other leaders kidding Wally because he is always so proud of having his tent make a good showing, and to-day we were handed the merry razz.”
Blackie snorted. “Say, who is this guy Wally that he should boss us around? Always blowing his whistle just when the water’s getting good!”
“Yeah,” put in Gallegher, who had finally succeeded in awakening Fat Crampton. “Down our way all the guys would think he was sure a sissy, landin’ on me just because I cussed a little.”
“He wouldn’t give me seconds on ice-cream, either,” said Fat Crampton mournfully. “Said I ought to start to reduce.”
Ken looked at them all pityingly. “Say, don’t you know Wally is a senior at Columbia University and on the varsity water-polo and basketball teams? He’s coming up here and spending his time teaching you birds how to be good campers, and that’s all the thanks he gets!”
“I guess he has a pretty good time,” said Blackie.
“Of course he does, or he wouldn’t be here. But it’s no fun to have a tent full of lazy draw-backs like you that object every time he tries to make a good showing.”
There was a short space of silence. Slater looked up from his writing.
“Hey, Ken, do we have council ring to-night?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“What’s council ring?” asked Blackie curiously.
Slater explained. “Just when it’s getting dark, we all put on blankets and go over to council, just like the Indians used to do. We all sit in a circle around a four-square fire, and one of the fellows lights the fire with flint and steel, or else with rubbing-sticks. Then we have report of scouts. Any fellow who has seen any interesting birds or animals or anything like that gets up and tells about them. Then we suggest anything we can do to help make the camp better and offer to do it. Then they have all kinds of contests—hand-wrestling and talk-fests and imitations, and usually end up with a ghost story. It’s real fun, all right.”
Blackie remembered that Gil had pointed out the way to the council ring the evening before, and suddenly thought he would like to see the place by daylight. He put away his letter, rose, and stretched.
“So long, you guys,” he said.
“Where are you going?” asked the aide. “Nobody’s allowed to leave until after Recall.”
“None of your business—and if you ask me, I think you’re nothing but a spy on us for this Wally of yours.” He dived into the bushes and disappeared before Haviland could follow.
Not only did he want the fun of tormenting Ken, but also wishing to look over the famous council ring, he took a course through the woods that he thought would bring him out at the place he sought. It was quiet; the camp was still even for a Sunday afternoon. He pressed through the underbrush and in a short time stumbled upon a well-worn path that led in the direction he was going. Shortly he caught a glimpse of white birch railings through the leaves, and he trod softly in case there should be anyone there who might question him. His precaution proved to be wise. From a clearing ahead came the low hum of men’s voices.
A circle some fifty yards across had been cleared in the woods, and seats built about it, with an imposing stone dais on the north side to furnish a proper elevation for the chieftain. Sitting on this stone were the Chief himself and Wally Rawn, chatting together.
They had not seen him, and it struck Blackie that it might be a daring thing to get close enough to overhear their conference. Forgetful of the old saying that eavesdroppers seldom hear well of themselves, he wormed his way around through the bushes and found a place where he could listen without being seen.
“I approve of the life-saving crew assignments you’ve made, then, Wally,” the Chief was saying. He rose as if to leave. “By the way, what do you think of the bunch I’ve put in your tent?”
“They look pretty good,” answered Wally. “They ought to turn out first-rate after a couple of days. Haviland is a pretty capable kid, and Slater is bugs about stars and scouting and doesn’t give much trouble. That Crampton lad is lazy, but I hope to have him get over that when we get out on the hikes.”
“You have two fellows I put in with you because they need pretty careful leadership. Know who they are?”
“Think I do, Chief—Gallegher and that Blackie Thorne.”
“Right. Gallegher comes from the worst part of town, and I think he may have picked up a lot of questionable habits. Thorne is a different sort. He’s lively and smart as a whip; but his father is dead and maybe he’s getting to be too much for his mother to handle alone. He’s full of mischief, his scoutmaster tells me, but he ought to turn out right. They’re a pair of hard cases, I guess; but keep them busy and they’ll soon be real Lenape fellows.”
“I like hard cases,” grinned Wally. “Blackie is crazy about swimming; guess I can get him interested through that, and the old camp spirit is bound to follow. Well, let’s get back.”
The two men, arm in arm, disappeared down the path. Blackie Thorne, in his hidden covert, laughed unpleasantly at their backs.
“Hard case, am I?” he said to himself. “Well, Mr. Smart Wally, if you call me that, I guess all I can do is to try and live up to it!”
“This chain gang ain’t so bad,” remarked Gallegher.
It was after breakfast on Monday morning. He and Blackie, as well as three other culprits, were chopping wood behind the camp kitchen with the supervision and assistance of Jim Avery, a tall, gangling councilor who was a specialist in woodcraft and bird-study.
Blackie split up a knotty stick of oak before replying.
“Sure, this ain’t such hard work. The leader does half of it, anyway. Say, you were pretty good, to cuss right in front of Wally the other night.”
“Aw, that’s nothin’. I guess I’m pretty tough, all right. I used to go down by the railroad lots of times and hook rides on the freight cars. Once I bummed clear out to Scranton and back, that way.”
“Gee! No wonder the Chief said you was a hard case!”
Gallegher stopped his chopping, and looked up proudly. “Did he say that?”
“Yeah. I heard him talking to our noble councilor about us. He said we were both hard cases, and that Wally would have to watch us.”
“Well, if that’s the way they do in this camp, I’m sure goin’ to get away with everything I can. How about it—are you with me, Thorne?”
“Sure.”
They split wood for a while in silence. Blackie’s back began to ache from stooping over so much. He dropped his ax and stretched.
“Gosh, I’m getting sick of this job. When Jim lets us go, I’m going to head for my bunk and stay there the rest of the day.”
“Say, what did you come to camp for—to be a bunk-stretcher?” asked Gallegher. “They’re goin’ to have tests for the honor emblem this mornin’—ain’t you goin’ to try for one?”
“What’s the honor emblem? What good is it?”
“Aw, you have to pass a lot of tests, and then they give you a badge to sew on your jersey. You’ve seen them—lots of the guys have won them.”
“You mean the things with a swastika and a big L on them? What do you get for it?”
“Say, don’t be dumb all your life! If a guy has an honor emblem he can join the Bugs Society and have an initiation and a feed, and then he can get away with lots of things, just because he’s got a badge, see? It’s somethin’ like the Knights of Columbus.”
“Oh. What did you say you have to do to get one?”
“A bunch of things, like knowin’ the names of the parts of a boat and bein’ good at hikin’ and swimmin’ and athaletics——”
“That’s me. I can do all those things.”
“—And collect flowers and tree leaves and rocks, and know the names of the stars, and box the compass, and cook a meal, and build cabins and do stunts—a whole lot of stuff. We can do it easy.”
Blackie considered this, and after his work was done he joined a nature hike. During the hour before swim, he learned much that he had not previously known about geology and ferns, and collected the ten leaves he must identify as one of the qualifications toward his honor emblem.
Since overhearing Wally and the Chief in the council ring, his attitude toward his leader had changed. He now thought of Wally as an irksome guardian and taskmaster, and found excuses for himself to disagree with every suggestion the councilor made. Nevertheless, he remembered Wally’s promise of the previous day, and after all the other campers had come out of the water after swim, he touched Wally on the arm and reminded him that he was to be taught the Australian crawl.
The life-saving crew now had its brief moment of fun. They were having a game of water-tag about the boats and up the diving-tower. Blackie thought it great sport to be with them, and under Wally’s direction to seem one of the outfit that was so much at home in deep water. He kept one eye on their antics and with the other watched Wally Rawn demonstrate the approved method of breathing with the crawl stroke that sent him plowing through the sunlit water at a speedy rate. Then it came Blackie’s turn to show what he had learned, while Wally stood on the dock and shouted directions.
“That’s right—take a breath every fourth stroke, and let it out under water! Don’t use that frog kick—use the trudgeon! Keep your fingers together! That’s the way.”
At first Blackie found it hard to get the correct timing for his breaths, but after some twenty minutes Wally called a halt and put an end to the lesson for the day, pronouncing himself well satisfied with the boy’s progress.
“If we keep on like this, you ought to win a couple first places in the Shawnee meet, Blackie. I’ll give you some diving instruction later on—I think I’ll give all the fellows in the tent a chance to learn a few jack-knives and swan dives.”
“What do we get if we win?” asked Blackie.
“Award ribbons, and lots of glory for Lenape. What more do you want? You’re pretty young yet, kid—but I hope it won’t be long before you find out that the biggest rewards in life are the ones you don’t get paid for. Money or silver cups or ice-cream don’t begin to compare with the ownership of an alert mind, a strong, clean, healthy body, fine friendships, and a reputation for honor and manliness and courage. Do you know there’s a treasure buried here on the Lenape campus?”
Blackie was aglow on the instant. “Where? Do you know where to dig for it? Is it a pirate treasure? Let me help you hunt for it, Wally!”
The man smiled. “There you go again—always on the lookout for a selfish, personal gain! The treasure I mean isn’t made of Spanish doubloons and stolen jewels; but it’s here, waiting for every boy to find it for himself. If you’ve got the right stuff in you, Blackie, and I think you have, you can take that treasure home with you when you leave camp. It’s a treasure you wouldn’t want to trade for anything else in the world—the treasure of a true Lenape spirit.”
Blackie’s visions of delving in the dead of night for a glittering hoard in a pirate chest vanished. Somewhat downcast, he muttered, “Aw, don’t preach! Just the same, I sure would like to take home a bunch of money that I found up here.”
“Well, stranger things have happened. Guess your mother would be proud if you did.”
“Sure! It would help a lot; we don’t have much money since Dad left us. You see, she runs a little store and sells sewing things and fancy embroidery and stuff like that.”
Wally nodded. “Did you ever stop to think how much she is sacrificing to give you a good time camping up here in the woods?”
“I guess so,” said Blackie uncomfortably. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late to-day—we don’t want to get the booby prize for inspection twice in a row.”
“That’s the spirit!”
That night after supper, when the whistle had shrilled for silence, Happy Face Frayne, who was officer of the day, made announcement of the evening’s program. “We still have lots of daylight left after supper, so we have planned a few short hikes before dark. Then, after that, we’ll gather here in the lodge around the fire and have some songs and stories.”
“Hurray!”
“Mr. Munson will take a group up the mountain road to the Devil’s Potato Patch. Mr. Colby will head a boating expedition to the dam at the end of the lake, while those who want to visit Rattlesnake Joe, the hermit, will report to Dr. Cannon. Those who stay in camp can have a rousing game of volley ball—Long Jim Avery and Lieutenant Eames will choose sides.”
“Hurray!”
“Dismissed!”
“Where you going, you crazy Irishman?” Blackie asked his bosom friend Gallegher when they were outside.
“Me? I’m goin’ to start out with the bunch up the mountain, and then lose myself. You want to come?” He winked significantly.
“What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see, if you come with me. We’ll get away from these babies and have a good time of our own.”
“All right. Hi, Gil!” shouted Blackie, as his patrol-leader passed by. “Where you heading?”
“Up the lake. Say, you remember when we hiked the short way to camp the first night we came up? You remember that house you asked me about? Well, now’s your chance to see it closer. That’s where the hermit lives, and he’s a queer old bird if there ever was one.”
At Gil’s words the picture of that secret, sinister house on the mountainside, as Blackie had first glimpsed it, came back to him.
“That’s right—thanks for reminding me. I’m sorry, Irish—I’ll sneak off with you some other time.”
He slipped away and joined the group around Dr. Cannon, the camp medico, at the lodge steps. There were some fifteen or twenty campers who clamored about the short, sturdy figure of the doctor, deluging him with questions about their destination.
“The old hermit, Rattlesnake Joe, is one of the sights of this part of the country,” he said, quieting them with a gesture. “I don’t need to tell you anything more—you’ll see him for yourselves soon enough. Keep together—forward, march!”
The boys straggled behind him as he led the way around behind the kitchen and the ice-house and on past the Red Cross tent to the road. Blackie marched in company with the Utway twins and a shock-haired “two-striper” nicknamed “Sunfish” because he had once fallen out of a canoe and when he was pulled up on the dock, it was discovered that he had unwittingly trapped a good-sized sunfish in one of the pockets of his sweater.
The hikers turned off to the right where the road turned up the mountain, and headed down a marshy lane bounded with a stone fence on each side. The small, stinging deer-flies swarmed about their heads, and Jerry Utway, one of the twins, showed Blackie how to fasten a handkerchief around his head so that it would flutter and keep the bothersome insects at a distance.
“See that tree?” asked the Sunfish.
Blackie nodded.
“Well, that’s a black birch tree—the kind they make birch beer from. Some time I’ll show you how to tap it and get a drink of the sap—it tastes great. Here, take this twig and chew on it. Doesn’t it taste something like sassafras?”
“Come on—we’ll be back with Elephant Crampton in a minute,” urged Jake, the other of the twins. “Hurry up if you kids want to see the old hermit before dark.”
They increased their pace, and caught up with the vanguard about Dr. Cannon just as the mysterious house came into sight at the end of the lane. Surrounded by the shouting company of the campers, Blackie was not so awed by the place as he had been when, alone with Gil, he had glimpsed it from afar on his first memorable evening in camp. There were the same weathered shingles on the low roof, the same dirty windows and decaying out-houses—but it did not seem so unreal and awful now.
On their approach they were announced by the furious baying and howling of half a dozen hounds that leaped and pulled at their chains beside a rickety kennel by the door. The campers drew back, hoping with all their hearts that none of the dogs would break loose. The door was flung open, and a tall old man stamped out and began quieting the hounds, beating their heads with a stick until they subsided, whimpering. Then he turned and gazed strangely at the group of boys, shading his eyes against the slanting rays of sunset.
“Wal, now,” he said after a minute, “if it ain’t the Doctor and the camp-ground boys. How be ye, Doc?” He extended a dirty and claw-like hand. Blackie was near enough to notice that the finger-nails were all about half an inch long, broken, ragged, and encrusted with mold.
Indeed, as Blackie watched him shake hands with Dr. Cannon and step back to lounge in the doorway, he seemed a far from attractive personality. He was probably sixty years old, with a tall, stoop-shouldered body. He leaned slouchily against the rough doorpost, and the blackened fingers of one hand nervously combed a ragged and greasy beard that was streaked with gray. The same tangled gray prevailed in the straggling hair that crawled from beneath his battered felt hat, and in the discouraged mustache that drooped to mingle with the beard. The hermit’s eyes were bleared by sitting beside a smoky fire, and were overhung by bushy brows. Now and then, as he talked, he would profanely quiet the hounds at his feet, who, it must be admitted, were far more intelligent and far cleaner than their master.
“Glad ye’ve come, boys,” he drawled. “Allus glad to see boys here. Glad to see anybody. I been livin’ all alone here five year now come fall, sence my boy Jase left me to go over and cut ties in Pike County. Good boy, Jase was, but him and me couldn’t get along right well together. Say, Doc, when ye get back to camp-ground ye kin give Ellick and the Chief my regards fer sendin’ up that sack of flour last week. Shore did enj’y it.”
“We thought you might,” said the doctor. “These boys wanted to take a little hike to-night, and I brought them up to call on you.”
“Thet’s fine—allus glad to see boys. Well, boys, guess ye want to see my old thunderbolt, don’t ye? I allus show all the boys that thunderbolt——” He entered his house and with a long knife pried up a flat flagstone, one of those forming the hearth before his fireplace. Blackie saw him kneeling in a shaft of sunlight beside the cold embers, and watched until he drew forth from its hiding-place what seemed to be a long, thin, slate-colored piece of stone or iron. The hermit brought it out and passed it around for all to see. It was pitted and twisted, like a short iron bar that had been exposed to rough use and rust for years.
“Thet’s my thunderbolt,” the hermit explained. “Ten year ago come August we had a whackin’ big storm—black clouds piled high over the hills here till it looked like midnight. All of a sudden, bang! comes a big blast of lightnin’, and hit thet old oak tree out thar—it was a big tree then, but it’s only a stump now. After the storm was all over I come out thar and saw this stuck right in the middle of the tree—had to cut it out with my old ax. Look at it close, young fellers—ye don’t get a chance to see a reg’lar thunderbolt every day.”
The boys hurriedly passed the famous object from hand to hand, for it was suddenly growing dark and the doctor had announced that it was time to leave. Blackie was not at all regretful to leave the neighborhood of that ruined house, which became more unfriendly as the long shadows of the pines barred and striped its mouldering walls.
“How long has he lived here?” he asked Dr. Cannon as they hiked on the return journey at a rapid pace.
“All his life, I guess,” was the reply. “He makes a poor living, cutting railroad ties and raising a few pigs and chickens—just enough to scrape along on. It just shows you what a life of ignorance and dirt can do to a man.”
“Was that a true story about his thunderbolt?”
“There aren’t really any bolts thrown down during a thunderstorm. That thing he had may be what is called a belemnite, or maybe just a piece of meteoric iron he found, and made up the story about it afterward.”
On the return trip Jerry Utway discovered a patch of gooseberries. He and his brother and Blackie and Sunfish clustered about and found a few berries that had ripened.
“Well, Blackie,” said Sunfish, talking with his mouth full, “guess you won’t feel so lively to-morrow night.”
“Why? What’s going to happen?”
“Stuck-Ups.”
“What’s that?”
The two-striper put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers mysteriously. “You’ll see,” he said meaningly. “They initiate all the new campers then. Big secret society; everybody tries to join, but they don’t always stand the tortures.”
“Do they have real good tortures at this camp?” asked Jake. “We joined up at Camp Coutrell last year, so we don’t have to get initiated here. Oh, boy! We were black and blue for a week afterwards!”
“What do they do to a guy?” asked Blackie.
“You’ll find out. The Grand Mogul makes the neophytes—the new guys—do all sorts of things and go through all kinds of tortures.”
“I won’t do it,” announced Blackie, with a sudden sinking of the heart.
“Oh, you’ll have to, if you want to be one of the society. After you get in, it’s lots of fun helping to initiate the ones that join after you do. And some day, maybe you can work up to be one of the officers, like the Exalted Overseers of the Rabble or the Supreme Potent Inquisitors or the Sublunary Administers of the Last Rites.”
“That sounds fine, but I don’t want to be black and blue for a week. Can’t you get in without being tortured?”
“Oh, no!” said Sunfish. “A guy has to go through perils and trials before he ever amounts to anything in the world. Come on—we’ll be the last ones in camp as it is.”
The four hastened after that. A few hundred yards from camp they came upon Fat Crampton, weary but still determined, and cheered him with the news that the tents were not far away. Through the trees was borne the rollicking chorus of the singers gathered about the fireplace in the lodge, united in good fellowship and roaring out the lilting words of the Lenape marching song:
“Oh, I’ve travelled the world from shore to shoreAnd sailed on every sea,But there ain’t no spot in the whole darned lotLike old Camp Le-na-pe!”
“Oh, I’ve travelled the world from shore to shore
And sailed on every sea,
But there ain’t no spot in the whole darned lot
Like old Camp Le-na-pe!”
The coming initiation ceremony of the Stuck-Up Society was the chief subject of conversation during Tuesday. Many were the direful hints and bloodthirsty tales that the new campers heard from the lips of seasoned Lenape boys, who, of course, were all members of the society and who were all occupied in getting out their regalia and ceremonial weapons in preparation for the big night.
Immediately after the supper dishes were washed, the lodge was cleared of all except the dozen members of the society who had been chosen to arrange the mess-hall as the Throne Room. Blackie, sitting on the steps in front of his tent, could hear a prodigious thumping and running and hurly-burly inside the lodge, but could see nothing, because blankets had been hung over all the windows and the door was guarded. He was gravely watching Slater, who had been initiated the year before. The red-headed boy was putting the finishing touches on a war-club he had just made, meanwhile whistling the Funeral March in a dolorous key.
“How’s that?” he asked, whirling the formidable club by its thong. “When you’re a member, you can bear one of these at initiations too.”
“Say, how do you make one of those clubs?” asked Blackie.
“First you find a nice little white birch tree. You dig it up and cut it off about two feet above the roots; then you peel it around the base and sharpen the roots. Then you can cut your mark and decorations and designs on the bark, like this. If you soak it in water soon after it’s cut, it gives it this nice, red, bloody color.”
“All loyal Stuck-Ups come to the Throne Room!” came a call through the megaphone on the lodge porch.
“So long,” said Slater. “I’ve got to go up now. I’ll see you later. Take my advice and don’t get fresh with the Grand Mogul, or it’ll be all the worse for you.”
He departed, swinging his club with gusto. Blackie left to join the group of new campers who were gathered under the big black-cherry tree by the baseball field to await the summons to their doom. There were about forty of them; among them he found many he knew, mostly boys who had never spent a season at Lenape. Lefkowitz, Guppy, Fat Crampton, and Gallegher were those from Tent Four who, beside himself, were to prepare to undergo the awful ordeal. They sat about nervously on the stone fence, trying to reassure themselves by bold talk and a great deal of forced laughter.
“Here they come!” shouted one boy after a while, and instantly there was silence. All eyes were turned to watch the approach of the Outer Guard, which consisted of four older boys marching toward them in formation. Each one of them wore nothing but a towel caught about his hips and knotted on the side, and fantastic peaked hats some three feet high that had been made by wetting an ordinary felt hat and pulling it over the end of a baseball bat until the crown had stretched to a high point. The faces and bodies of the Guard were barbarically daubed and streaked with colored grease-paint, and each bore over his shoulder a broad-bladed canoe paddle.
They solemnly halted beside the secretly trembling neophytes, and “Kipper” Dabney, who was in charge, spoke in hollow tones: “Line up by the alphabet—those with names beginning with A are in front. You are all about to undergo the dread inquisition of the Omnipotent Stuck-Up Society. Meditate upon your benighted souls, and ponder how best you can serve the spirit of Lenape!”
He counted off the first four boys in the line, and marched them away to the lodge porch. Blackie saw Dabney give a secret knock and a password; the portals of the Throne Room unclosed; there was a flourish of trumpets, and then an ominous silence that lasted until the Outer Guard again came to take four more aspirants to the great hall of the society.
Four by four, Blackie Thorne saw his fellows vanish into the echoing Throne Room. He was almost at the end of the line, and did not know whether to be pleased or sorry that he would be one of the last to be initiated; but Fat Crampton went with the second bunch, and both Guppy and Gallegher with the fourth. Blackie was surprised to see the latter, about twenty minutes after he had entered, ejected somewhat roughly through the door and escorted down the steps by two stalwart guards.
“What’s the matter?” he called. “What did they do to you, Irish?”
“Aw, they booted me out of their old society!” mumbled Gallegher. “They let that little squirt Guppy stay in, though. Guess I didn’t bow down and lick their boots enough to suit ’em.”
“Key down, you!” ordered one of the guards. “You have been told to go to your tent. You, Thorne, get back in line and wait your turn.”
Blackie returned to his place, wondering at this new development. Gallegher had failed to pass the trials for some reason; evidently the Stuck-Ups did not accept everybody. But he figured that he was at least as clever as Nightshirt Guppy and could stand any test they might put to him.
At last there were only three neophytes left under the cherry-tree—Blackie, a younger boy named “Peanut” Westover, and Slim Yerkes. Peanut had grown more and more timid as the minutes passed, and at last ventured to address the others in quavering tones.
“Do—do you think they’re going to hurt us much?”
“Maybe,” said Blackie. “Who cares if they do?”
“I sneaked my pillow out here with me,” confessed the boy, “and stuffed it in the seat of my trousers. Some of the kids said they paddle you something awful.”
“Well, we’re in for it now,” said Yerkes, pointing. “Here come the guards for us.”
The three neophytes were surrounded by the serious-faced paddle-bearers and marched up the steps to the porch. Blackie assumed a careless expression to conceal his inward misgivings, and whistled with as much bravado as he could muster.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Kipper Dabney whispered a password through the keyhole, the door swung open, and they were marched inside. Two boys with sashes about their waists, whom Blackie recognized as Ted Fellowes and his younger brother, put pennant-hung bugles to their lips and blew a clarion call that set the rafters ringing. The huge room was dark except for a space in front of the empty fireplace, where a row of lanterns shed a yellow glare which, however, did not reveal the faces of three men who sat, robed in blankets, upon a high dais made of benches piled one upon the other. About the circle the grotesquely-costumed members of the society sat in grim silence, nursing their war-clubs and looking with threatening anticipation at the three newcomers.
From the darkness came the gruesome chords of the Funeral March, played on the concealed piano; and down an aisle in the center of the seated initiates proceeded the guarded trio. Peanut Westover was shivering with fear, and his knees were knocking together at every step. With a roll of drums they arrived before the dais, and were lined up facing the almost indistinguishable robed figures of the Grand Master and his two potentates.
“Three more rash neophytes who would dare the wrath of the honorable Stuck-Up Society,” announced Kipper in a sepulchral voice, and with a deep salaam he stepped back and left the three candidates together in the middle of the lighted space. Blackie could feel everyone’s eyes upon him, and he had a tingling, shaky feeling somewhere inside; but he resolved that not one of them should think for a minute that he was afraid.
The Grand Mogul upon his throne said nothing, but surveyed the three boys before him with tantalizing deliberateness. Finally he spoke.
“You have signified your desire to enroll your unworthy names upon the laurel-crowned roster of the honorable Stuck-Up Society. In order to win to the gates of Glory you must first slay the Dragon of Selfishness, defeat the Giant of Fear and arm yourselves with the Helmet of Knowledge, the Spear of Courage, and the Sword of Justice. Are you ready to make the trial?”