The blow had made Brick more wary. This time he did not leap in with his head down—too much chance of getting caught off guard again for those tactics! He circled cautiously, trying to find an opening where a thrust would do most good. His anger was rising, too. The breathless watchers looked at his face, and waited awestricken for the terrible moment when the aroused Brick Ryan would wade in and demolish his daring opponent.
Jerry Utway, his eyes ablaze with excitement, jumped up and down, urging his champion with delighted cries. “That’s the boy, Van Horn, old scout! Wade in and tap him one!”
“Shut up, Jerry!” his brother Jake put in. “Let them alone, or there’ll be two fights going on here! Whee, look at that one! Go it, Brick!”
Brick was again in the lists, this time depending upon speed and the violent fury of his attack. It seemed to the onlookers that no one could long withstand the force of his charge; his arms whirled and jabbed, and his face was red with the exertion of his onslaught. Indeed, Van Horn was quickly driven backwards, and more than once a doubled fist made its red mark on his naked chest. But he still kept his feet, and although he was given no chance to take the offensive, he guarded his face skillfully. Yet slowly he gave ground; Brick had maneuvered about until he was above where the other stood, and was driving him down the sloping hillside.
Nig Jackson gave vent to a yell. “He’s got him now! Go it, Brick! Wow, he’s down!”
Al Canning, in his capacity as referee, rushed forward. Dirk was sprawled out upon the uneven ground, crouched on one side. His face was whiter than ever.
“Slipped on some grass,” he mumbled through swollen lips. “I—I’m all right.” Unaided, he staggered to his feet, and looked about in a dazed way. Brick, who had stepped aside when his foe had fallen, now advanced confidently for the final sortie.
“Finish him off, Brick!” yelled Eddie Scolter. Ryan, encouraged by the shouts of the watchers, marched slowly and triumphantly to a stand just beyond arm’s length of where Dirk stood, dazedly shaking the sweat from his eyes.
“Had enough?” Brick taunted. His blows had taken effect in more than one place on Dirk’s face and body, and one shoulder was badly scraped by his fall. But Brick himself did not go unmarked from the fray; his cheek was coloring where a clenched fist had got through his guard, and his right arm was weak from panting effort.
Dirk Van Horn clenched his teeth without answering. For an instant, the watching boys saw a stab of fury flare up in his dark eyes. He set his feet, held his head high, and his arms swung into the guard position.
Brick advanced still one further step. “Had enough, Baby? I won’t ask you again. If you’ll apologize, I won’t hurt you any more today——”
He was too close for his own safety. Dirk grunted as he shot his arm forward in a telling blow straight from the shoulder. His bunched knuckles caught the surprised Brick on the point of the jaw.
A ludicrous look of amazement came over Brick Ryan’s face. For an instant he tottered, grinning stupidly at the staring circle of boys; then, with a soft groan, he slid backward, his knees gave way gently, and he slumped senseless upon the ground.
“Ten!” counted Al Canning. “Van Horn wins with a sweet knockout!”
“Yay, Handsome Van, the K. O. Kid!” cried Jerry Utway, hammering his champion upon the back. “Gee, what a beautiful swat that was!”
Brick Ryan opened his eyes. His head was still spinning from the force of the blow that had vanquished him. As through a mist he could see the dim faces of the boys about his prostrate form. Among them stood out the triumphant, smiling features of Dirk Van Horn.
A hand shook his shoulder, and Jake Utway spoke in his ear. “Are you all right now, Brick? Tough luck. He sure packs a wallop!”
Brick tried to grin, and groaned in spite of himself. His jaw still ached mightily where his antagonist’s doubled fist had struck, and his swollen lower lip was bleeding slightly.
“I have to hand it to him,” he mumbled, and with Jake’s help clambered unsteadily to his feet.
“Gollies, how did he do it? It was as clean a knockout as I ever seen.”
“Well, you were asking for it,” observed Slim Yerkes.
“I guess I was.” Brick smiled ruefully. “Van Horn, I guess we’ve been gettin’ each other wrong. There may be some things about campin’ that you don’t know, but when it comes to scrappin’——! Say, you beat me square, but I don’t hold any grudge. From now on, let’s forget everything and be friends. What do you say?” He held out his hand in a frank gesture.
Dirk looked at the outstretched hand, and his lip curled slightly.
“Ryan,” he said deliberately, “I said you were a mucker, and I still think so. Any time you want another boxing lesson, come around. Otherwise, kindly keep to your own affairs and leave me to mine.” He pointedly turned his back, picked up his wet shirt, and stalked off up the path to the lodge.
Brick bit his lip, and his hand dropped with an angry gesture to his side; but he said nothing. Jerry Utway left the group and ran after Dirk, catching up with him and walking at a fast pace by his side.
“Hey, Van, will you show me some time how you made that knockout? I want to try it out on my brother next time we have a row. Gee, if anybody had told me you could put out Brick Ryan’s lights, I wouldn’t have believed it! Where did you learn how to fight like that?”
“My father has seen to it that I had the best boxing lessons that money could buy.” Dirk smiled grimly. “Yesterday Ryan seemed to think that having money wasn’t of much value; but I hope that now he has learned that scientific self-defense is a good thing to acquire. And because my father could pay for those boxing lessons, I don’t have to be bullied by any street-boy that comes along.”
“It sure did make Brick sit up and take notice,” chuckled Jerry. “But why didn’t you make up with him afterward?”
“It’s not so easy. He hazed me pretty badly last night, and I’m not done with him yet.”
“But Brick is a pretty good fellow when you get to know him. Why don’t you——” Jerry broke off, and cocked his ear as bugle-notes rattled down from the porch of the lodge. “Say, we better hurry—there goes Church Call.” He glanced with amusement at the battered features and wet, stained garments of the boy at his side. “Gosh, you sure are a sight! You and Brick Ryan will look like a swell pair, sitting on a bench together at church this morning!”
Dirk was quite late for church. He went to the empty tent, washed, and changed his wet clothing for garments more suitable for Sunday service; and the hour of camp worship was more than half over by the time he slipped into a log seat in the woodland chapel overlooking the lake. Brick was down at the front with the rest of the complement of Tent One, but did not turn his head. One or two boys near by looked at Dirk’s marked face curiously, and Jake Utway once caught his eye, winked, and grinned from behind a hymn-book.
During the bountiful Sunday dinner in the lodge, Dirk, sitting with his councilor on one side of him and Nig Jackson on the other, intercepted many inquiring glances directed from neighboring tables toward himself and Brick Ryan. The red-headed boy, for his part, ate with his head down, saying nothing. If Sax McNulty had heard of the fight, he gave no sign.
When dessert was served, Sax looked whimsically at the plate of ice-cream before him.
“Your consciences ought to hurt you slackers,” he observed. “If Lefty hadn’t stuck to his guns, the camp would be missing their ice-cream today, all right. I’ve never had my squad sneak out on a job before. What do you fellows think about it?”
Dirk Van Horn felt the leader’s eyes upon him. He flushed and tried to look unconcerned; but the ice-cream, for some reason, stuck in his throat, and he soon pushed the plate away, to melt into a shapeless mass.
When the time came for announcements, Dr. Cannon, who was officer of the day, awarded the pennant for highest points in inspection to Wally Rawn’s tent; then, with a grin, marched over to the Tent One table and, amid the good-natured jeers of the assembled campers, presented a different sort of emblem. It was a big tin oil-can, across which was printed in white letters: “Booby.”
“Tent One wins the Goof Loving Cup,” the doctor announced with a flourish, “for being lowest in honor points for today. And the first shall be last!”
“What’s that for, Sax?” Eddie Scolter asked, pointing to the strange object.
“It means we have to hang that up on our tent-pole in full sight, so everybody in camp can see we’re a bunch of dubs,” explained the leader, with a glance around the table. “And that’s just what we’ve been today. Van Horn, you may have the privilege of carrying this little token down to the tent.”
Dirk opened his mouth to protest, but the whistle sounded just then, and the campers leaped to their feet and began pouring out the doors. Picking up the loathed booby-can, Dirk started walking down toward the tent. He had not gone far when he felt a hand on his arm, and he looked up, frowning, to see Sax McNulty’s serious face.
“I didn’t say anything at the table just now,” began the leader, “but of course you know you’re to blame for most of our demerits today. I’m afraid you’re not getting off to a very good start at Lenape, Van.”
“Why blame me for everything?”
“Well, I don’t, exactly. The other fellows should have known better than to drop their duty and help you launch your canoe this morning—but you’ll have to admit you were the main cause of it. Then, Wally Rawn told me about your fool stunt at the lake. Also, and moreover, when the inspection staff came around this noon, our tent was cluttered up with your things strewn all over the place, wet clothes dumped on the floor—plenty demerits. You’ll have to learn not to do the first thing that enters your head, Van Horn—you’ll have to think of the other fellow, and consider what will be for the good of the camp and your own gang. I haven’t mentioned anything about your fight with Ryan, but——”
“He started that!” retorted Dirk.
“I won’t interfere there,” promised McNulty gently. “Ryan is a decent chap, and so are you; and I know that after a couple of days you will get along together fine. Try to get his point of view. We’ve got a fine bunch of fellows in Tent One this time, and as soon as we get to pulling together, we’re going to show Lenape some speed! I didn’t mean to make you listen to another sermon today,” he ended wryly, “and I don’t expect you to learn everything about camping in a few hours. Come to me next time you feel the urge to do something startling, and I’ll try to put you wise first.”
Dirk smarted under the words, but held back the bitter reply that rose to his lips. He slammed the booby-can on a nail sticking into the front tent-pole, and retired sulkily to his untidy bunk. The other boys, with the exception of the two who were doing the dishes, were stretched about, taking a restful siesta after their bountiful dinner. Across from Dirk sat Brick Ryan, busied as usual over his life-saving manual, and apparently unaware that there was anybody named Van Horn within a thousand miles of him. For the first time, Dirk noticed that Brick wore a curious insignia stitched to the front of his jersey. It was outlined in green and white, and showed a large L superimposed upon a swastika. Dirk’s eyes passed to Lefty Reardon. Lefty also wore the green L.
Dirk decided that the camp monogram would look most attractive on one of his sweaters. He jumped up, and hurried back to the lodge before the small camp store closed.
On the porch of the lodge, a short string of boys stood before the window, waiting their turn to make small purchases of candy, peanuts, and gum. Dirk joined the end of the line. When he came abreast of the window, he issued his demand.
“I want one of those camp letters to put on my sweater.”
Long Jim Avery, the lanky councilor charged with the duty of looking after the camp supplies, leaned far over the counter and looked at the boy with astonishment.
“You want what?” he asked with widening eyes.
“Oh, you know what I mean, sir—one of those green and white things with an L on them. I want to buy one.”
The boy in back of Dirk snickered. Long Jim gulped.
“Somebody’s trying to play a joke on you, Van Horn. Why, I thought even a new boy knew that you can’t buy an honor emblem!”
Dirk flushed. “But—some of the chaps have them. Where do you get them, then?”
“My, my! You can’t buy one—you have to earn it, and then it’s awarded to you at Council Ring. That’s a good one! Why, before you have the right to wear an honor emblem, you have to pass a lot of tests—you have to know a bunch of trees and birds and flowers and rocks and stars, and how to swim and handle a boat, and hike and cook and build woodcraft objects, and—oh, lots of things! Here, I’ll get you a card with all the requirements printed on it, and when you pass a test, the leader who passes you will put his initials down. Campers have a chance to pass the tests all the time. If I can help you learn some of the things, come around.”
“Never mind,” stammered Dirk miserably, backing away. “I didn’t know—— I guess I don’t want to start in right now.”
He stumbled off down the steps. They were making fun of him again! The boys would spread the story around—how he had tried to buy an honor emblem at the store—and soon the whole camp would be laughing at his latest fool stunt! No matter what he started to do at Lenape, it always turned out to be the wrong thing! Now McNulty would have more of his comments to make!
Dirk was feeling very sorry for himself. Tears of helpless rage welled into his eyes, and he did not see that someone was standing in front of him until he heard his name called in a mysterious whisper.
“Psst! Van Horn! Say, I want to see you a second!”
Dirk looked up. The speaker was a runty-looking boy with a large nose and close-set black eyes. He took Dirk’s arm with a familiar gesture, and patted him on the back.
“Say, I want to tell you. I heard about how you licked Red Ryan. Gee, that was swell! I wish I’d seen you do it!”
“How did you know about it?” asked Dirk.
“Why, everybody in camp knows about it! You’re a hero, that’s what you are! A real tough fighter, you must be! There are lots of guys in this camp that don’t like Ryan, and are glad he got it good at last! Say, we don’t want anybody to notice I’m talkin’ to you, see? Come on, duck in here and I’ll tell you somethin’ real important!”
“What do you want? Why can’t you tell me here?”
“It’s too secret, see? Quick—slide in here.”
Dirk, fearing some new pitfall, followed suspiciously; but the mysterious manner of the big-nosed little fellow impressed him in spite of himself, and he allowed himself to be drawn under the shadow of the overhanging porch of the lodge. Here several small rooms had been built—a dark-room for the convenience of the camp photographers, and a larger compartment in which were stored trunks, suitcases, old tents, and the like. Through the door of the latter room he followed his guide, who shut that door carefully and then sat on a pile of lumber.
“Don’t talk too loud, see?” he warned Dirk. “We don’t want nobody to guess what we’re after.”
“Well, what are you after anyway?” Dirk asked impatiently. “Who are you, and why are you acting so mysterious about everything?”
“My name’s Blum,” the other whispered hoarsely. “‘Dumb’ Blum, the guys call me, but that’s only a nickname—I’m not so dumb as most people think. Now, listen. You’ve got it in for Brick Ryan, haven’t you?”
“Well, we haven’t got along together so far. But what has that to do with you?”
“You’ll see! And you don’t like Sax McNulty any too well, do you? He bawled you out pretty heavy a little while ago, didn’t he?”
“How did you know?”
“I know lots of things!” the other chuckled. “Some people in this camp are not treatin’ you right, Van! But me and some other guys can see what a swell feller you are, and we’re ready to help you.”
“Help me to do what?”
“Revenge! That’s what! How would you like it if you could get back at everybody that ever does anything to you around here? Brick Ryan, for instance—if somethin’ pretty terrible happened to him, nobody would guess who done it; but you could laugh up your sleeve all the time!”
Dirk looked puzzled. “What are you driving at?”
A malicious laugh answered him.
“I got a gang. We do pretty well what we like around this camp, and if anybody don’t like it—even leaders, or even the Chief himself—why, they’re good and sorry for it! We have meetings in the middle of the night, and we sign the oath with our own blood, and swear that if anybody hurts any one of us, why, we get revenge! We go under the secret name of the Red Hand Revengers, and we want you to join with us, see?”
It didn’t seem a bad idea, the way Blum put it. The Red Hand Revengers, with their mysterious meetings in the dead of night, their oaths of blood brotherhood, and their secret signs and deeds of vengeance against those who thwarted them, sounded most exciting. Even before the leader of this mystic society had finished speaking, Dirk Van Horn had made up his mind.
“I’ll join!” he declared. “What do I have to do?”
“Oh, you won’t need to be initiated,” Blum assured him. “We’ll have our first meeting tonight after taps, and you can meet the rest of the guys. We all wear masks over our faces, and have secret names. My Revenger name is——Swear on your heart and liver you won’t tell anybody?”
“Yes, I swear.”
“Well, I’m known as the Headless Green Dragon, see? When you send me a secret note, always draw a picture of a headless dragon, and I’ll know it’s for me. If you want to, you can be the Silent Dagger, or anything like that——I know! How about Iron Gauntlet, on account of the way you knocked out Brick?”
“All right. That sounds splendid. And I’ll bring a watermelon to the meeting tonight. My father brought it up to give to the other fellows in the tent, but they don’t deserve it. And listen——”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll write home and have my mother send up a big box of cake and candy and stuff, just for the Revengers!” said Dirk. “And when they let me use my canoe, we’ll all go out in it, and——”
“No!” objected Blum. “Don’t forget we mustn’t be seen together! When I want to get in touch with you, I’ll leave a note under your pillow. Now, we’ll have to separate pretty quick. I’ll get you when everybody is asleep tonight, and we’ll have our first meeting. You stay here a couple minutes after I leave, so nobody will guess what we’re up to. And right today, Iron Gauntlet, old revenger, we’ll start putting the Red Curse on that varlet Brick Ryan!”
Blum, master of the sinister Red Hand, tip-toed to the door.
“So long, Headless Green Dragon!” Dirk whispered after him.
That night Brick Ryan returned from Indian Council Ring to find the first of his troubles upon him. The campers had been summoned to their quarters after an evening spent about the four-square fire of friendship, and by the light of the tent lantern, the inhabitants of Tent One were undressing for the night. Brick Ryan slipped into his pajamas and turned down his blankets, ready to jump in. An angry cry escaped him.
“What’s the matter, Brick?” asked Lefty Reardon sleepily.
“Somebody’s hashed my bunk, that’s what!” the Irish boy exclaimed. “Look there, will you? The whole bed is stuck full of cockleburrs! I can’t sleep in it!”
“Gee, that’s too bad,” said his friend sympathetically. “Here, I’ll help you pull ’em out. Sax will be back in a few minutes—why don’t you tell him about it? What a dirty trick to play on a fellow!”
“If I knew who did it, I sure wouldn’t have to tell a leader about it!” said Brick through clenched teeth. He looked about in the dull light at the faces of his mates. All of them looked innocent; Dirk Van Horn looked suspiciously so, and there was a faint trace of a smile on his good-looking features. Could Van Horn have——? But the heartless trick must have been done during Council, and Dirk had been sitting in his place every moment of the time.
“Somebody must have it in for you, Brick,” commented Lefty as the two bent over the blankets and began pulling out the prickly burrs with which they were covered. “Gee, this is going to be a long, slow job. Who do you suppose hates you so much that he’d do a mean thing like this to you?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Brick. “But I’m sure going to find out, and when I do, you can bet he’ll get paid back for his low, sneaking work!”
Brick slept but poorly that night, for it had been impossible to remove all the sharp, pin-like burrs with which his blankets had been coated. He tossed and turned, and kept finding new spines that had penetrated through the woolen mass to irritate him. Muttering to himself, he at last drifted off to sleep. Later, he awoke for a moment, and looked across the tent, where some unseen person was crawling back into his bunk; but he thought nothing of it, and in the morning had forgotten all about it.
The morning was cloudy, and a cool wind swept down from the northeast. When Brick piled out of his uncomfortable bedclothes at Reveille, he thrust his feet into his shoes, as usual. But the state of those shoes was far from usual. Brick let out a yell of rage. His shoes were brim-full of icy water, and the strings were knotted a dozen times. He had to hurry to setting-up drill barefoot over the rough ground; and to crown it all, his bathrobe was missing, and he shivered in the raw breeze until he caught sight of the garment hung in a pine tree far below the parade ground. And he found that when he went to brush his teeth before breakfast, his tooth-paste tube had been stuffed with soap; but he did not find out until his mouth was burning with the choking stuff, and he was frothing and blowing sudsy bubbles, much to the delight of two small boys who scrubbed away beside him. He washed out his mouth, but the vile taste remained until long after the morning meal.
Brick began to wonder if he were bewitched. What was the meaning of this series of afflictions? He could find no trace of whoever had committed these acts. If it was Dirk Van Horn, he covered it up pretty well. Besides, why should Van Horn resort to such stealthy tricks, the acts of a cowardly soul? Van Horn had fought him the day before, and won fairly; why should he now begin a campaign of cockleburrs, watered shoes, and soapy tooth-paste?
The bewildered Brick spoke to his friend Lefty about it when the two were walking up from morning swim.
“And when I got back after breakfast, I found a big hoptoad in my clothes locker,” he concluded, “and nobody was around but a little kid from Tent Seven. Who do you suppose it can be, Lefty? How long will it go on? I swear, I’m about ready to soak somebody in the nose if I catch him getting into my things. Am I haunted, or what?”
“You are,” agreed Lefty promptly. “You’re haunted by some sneaking coward who is trying to get your goat. Van Horn fought you fair yesterday, didn’t he?” he went on in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Sure. I didn’t mind that. But the Millionaire Baby, although he has some crazy ideas, wouldn’t stoop to those tricks, I guess.”
“If he did, he wouldn’t stand a show of getting on the baseball team, Shawnee game or no Shawnee game,” said Lefty. “As long as I’m captain, we’ll have only square-shooters playing for Lenape. You comin’ down for practice this afternoon, eh?”
“You bet, if my glove hasn’t been stolen by that time. I swear, Lefty, I’m gettin’ so I’m scared to turn around, for fear somebody will swipe my pants when I’m not lookin’! But, say, do you think this Van Horn guy is really baseball material?”
Lefty shrugged. “We’ll try him out. Goodness knows we can’t pass up any promising players, when we only have today and tomorrow to get ready for the Shawnee game. I hear Shawnee has got back Hook Bollard and Widelle this year, and that catcher of theirs—what’s his name?—that made three runs last time we played them. If Lenape wants to take the best end of the score on Wednesday, we’ve got to show some steam!”
When the announcements were made at lunch, Lefty Reardon rose and read a list of names of the campers who had been chosen to form the team that would defend Lenape’s honor on the baseball diamond on the following Wednesday. On that day, the whole of Lenape would trek northward to the shores of Iron Lake for a visit to their rival, Camp Shawnee. The crowning event of the day would be a ball game between the two camp teams, thus renewing a yearly custom of friendly sportsmanship. Lenape had been badly beaten the season before, and among the campers there was much talk of the coming encounter, and predictions that this time they would pay back the old score with a rousing victory.
Dirk Van Horn noted with disappointment that his name was not among those called; but no sooner had Lefty seated himself than he turned to Dirk and said: “Say, Van, I hear you’re supposed to be a fielder. If you want to come down to the diamond with the rest of the team, we’ll try you out and see if we can find a place for you.”
“Sure, try out!” urged Sax McNulty. “You were on your prep school team, weren’t you, Van?”
Dirk nodded. “I’ll come down, sir.” He had spent the morning lolling in his bunk with a book of stories, and had disregarded Wally Rawn’s offer to teach him to swim. Neither had he made any move to join in the many other activities of the camp routine. But baseball was different, he felt; he knew and liked that sport best of all, and had little doubt that with his school training, he could hold a position on a scratch team such as he thought the Lenape squad to be.
When the bugle sounded recall, Dirk, resplendent in a brand-new baseball suit and bearing a well-oiled glove under his arm, sauntered down to the field and reported to Captain Reardon, who with Kipper Dabney was warming up a few curves. Lefty slammed a sizzling drop into Gil Shelton’s padded mitt, and turned to Dirk with a nod.
“You can get out there with the bunch and get under a few of those fungoes that Mullins is knocking,” he directed, “and show us what you can do. Later on, we’ll have batting practice and you’ll have a chance to prove you can hit.”
Dirk, with a confident smile, trotted out into the tall grass behind third base, and for half an hour, in company with Ollie Steffins, Blackie Thorne, and a youngster named Tompkins, he fielded lofty flies and grounders from Soapy Mullins’ resounding bat. Now and then he glanced at the other members of the squad. The infielders were tossing the ball back and forth with easy skill, and Brick Ryan, hovering over first base, missed few of the shots that came near his post.
When the players were warmed up sufficiently, they lined up one after another to face the delivery of Captain Lefty and his relief pitcher, Dabney. At last it came Dirk’s turn. He selected a bat and approached the plate with a cocky grin. Lefty, noting his short grip, thought to teach this arrogant newcomer a little lesson, and slipped over a neat inshoot that took him up short.
“Strike!” called out Lieutenant Eames, whose service on the West Point team qualified him as volunteer umpire.
Dirk did not lengthen his grip; but when Lefty sought to repeat his trick, he was ready for it. As the whirling ball neared the plate, Dirk stepped back a pace and his levelled bat met the horsehide smartly. A clean single flew through the infield well inside the lines and through the fingers of Ken Haveland, who was covering the domain of shortstop. The few scattered spectators set up a quick shout of approval.
When the period of practice was over, Lefty announced that there would be a short game with a team of leaders the following afternoon; and the players strolled in twos and threes back to their tents to prepare for swim. Lefty, on his way to the lodge burdened with bats and other equipment, found Brick Ryan sitting on a bench under a huge black cherry tree at the gate.
“Why so thoughtful?” Lefty hailed him. “And by the way, where were you for batting practice? You slipped off without telling me.”
“I had an idea,” responded his friend grimly.
“I see—and it gave you a headache.”
“No, it gave somebody else an ache, but not in the head. I put a stop to all these shenanigans that have been raisin’ cain with my belongin’s—at least, I put a stop to them for a while, anyway. I sneaked up on Tent One durin’ battin’ practice. Not a soul was around, except that nasty little Toby brat from Tent Eight. Do you know, I caught him in the very act of dumpin’ a pail of water right on my bed!”
“No!”
“Yes. I spanked him, Lefty.”
“But what would he do that for? What’s he got against you?”
“Not a thing that I know of. It’s a mystery.”
Lefty threw back his head and laughed. “Better not let young Sherlock Jones hear about it,” he advised. “He’ll pester around with clues until he’s dizzy. Well, I’m glad Van Horn didn’t have anything to do with it. He was down at the field all the while.”
“Well, he’s stretchin’ his bunk right now, readin’ bedtime stories. How did he look in there today?”
“Not bad. He’s a better fielder than Terry Tompkins, that’s sure. And he’s fairly brainy with a bat. Tomorrow we can see what he can do against the councilors.”
Lefty picked up his equipment and started on. He had only gone a few paces when Brick, who had not moved, called after him in a low voice:
“Say, my son, what do you guess is the meanin’ of R.H.R.?”
Lefty considered. “Why, it might be Red-Hot Rhubarb, or Right-Handed Rattlesnake, or anything. Why do you ask?”
“Nothin’,” muttered Brick. “But maybe tonight I’ll find out, and if I do, Lefty me boy, I’ll tell you all about it!”
Six masked figures sat with their heads together in the starlight of the deserted Council Ring. It was late. Two hours gone, Camp Lenape had retired to a rest welcome and well-earned. But here in this lonely spot, their presence unknown to their fellows and councilors, the mysterious six plotted mischief. In the shadow of the tall stone seat of the Chief, on the north side of the ring, they crouched, listening to the graveyard tones of their undersized leader.
“Brother Revengers, we will now have a report from the Stealthy Stabber. He’s goin’ to tell us all about the Ryan Curse affair, see? Speak up, Stabber!”
“He walloped me!” spoke up a shrill voice, more whimpering than bloodthirsty, and the little fellow rubbed himself tenderly at the painful memory.
“And served you right, too!” put in a third Revenger. “I didn’t know you were going as far as you did. I think it was a bunch of cowardly tricks—soaping up his tooth-paste and trying to soak his blankets with a pail of water—and if I had known, I wouldn’t have let it happen!”
“Aw, say, Iron Gauntlet, old fellow,” whined the leader; “you ain’t goin’ to back out like that, are you? Why, Stabber and Red Rover and the rest of us only did all this stuff to help you out!”
“I don’t need that sort of help, thank you,” replied Iron Gauntlet, settling back in his place. “It was mean, and from now on I want to tell you that I——”
“What’s that?” cried a small lad to his right, starting up in his place and listening fearfully. The leader laughed sneeringly.
“Don’t get scared, kid. Ain’t the Headless Green Dragon here to protect you? That was only an owl hootin’. Gee, you guys are sure a bunch of babies. A fine gang of Revengers you turned out to be!”
“But it sounded pretty terrible, Dumb,” muttered the lad, shivering. “I don’t like it here in the woods—it’s too spooky! Suppose a bear or something came after us!”
Dumb Blum laughed again. “No bears around here. And even if there was, I guess they wouldn’t bother me! Now, we got to figure what to do next. If Iron Gauntlet here thinks we ought to lay off Brick Ryan for a while, why, there’s lot of other varlets around camp we could torture—— Ooh! Look there!”
The bold master of the dread secret society pointed a shaking hand. His small followers fell back, several of them squealing with terror.
Dirk Van Horn looked in the direction at which Blum was fearfully pointing. Above the stone dais of the Chief before them rose a horrible shapeless form, gleaming with unearthly fire. Slowly, as they watched, rooted to the spot, the monster stirred, the folds of its skin glowing with a pale green luminescence, and uttered at the horrified boys a sepulchral bellow!
“It’s—it’s the Green Dragon!” babbled the Stealthy Stabber, with chattering teeth.
Even as he spoke, the gaping mouth of the creature yawned open. A fizzing spurt of yellow sparks darted from the cavity. With a blinding flash, a ball of crimson fire shot out at them, throwing a bloody glow over the scene. The horror was coming after them, belching flame and smoke!
Another ball of fire, this time a deathlike blue in color, burst in their midst. Without a further glance, the terrified youngsters took to their heels and ran through the underbrush, stumbling, falling, crying out as they fled from that ghastly spot. Far in the van was the doughty Blum, almost out of his head with fear, racing as though that glowing green devil was right at his heels!
Dirk Van Horn had risen to his feet, and had backed away from the oncoming monster. He could flee no further; his legs were weak with fright; his back was braced against the towering totem-pole of the Lenape tribe; and his teeth were clenched to keep himself from crying out. Straight toward him shambled the glowing shape, showering many-colored sparks as it came!
He stared petrified. The dragon paused in the center of the ring, shot forth a final rain of sparks, and collapsed to the ground, its phosphorescent hide thrown back. From within its folds rose a high-pitched, mocking laugh that was harder for Dirk to bear than the blood-curdling groans it had formerly given forth.
That laugh! Dirk drew out his forgotten flashlight, and snapped the button. A ray of light shot out, and revealed Brick Ryan, rolling on the ground in a tempest of mirth, clutching in one hand a smoking thick tube of paper. At his side lay the cast-off skin of the “dragon” that had put to rout the brave band of Red Revengers.
Always Brick Ryan! Dirk sank limply to a seat, and put his head in his hands. The shock had been greater than he thought.
Brick, still chuckling, rose and came toward him. “Gollies! Did you see those bold lads run for it! They won’t stop until they’re safe in bed with the covers pulled over their heads! And nothin’ after them but F. X. A. Ryan wrapped up in an old piece of canvas rubbed with phosphorus!”
“But that terrible fire—those lights——” murmured Dirk. “Why—how——”
Brick burst into another peal of laughter. “Just a little old Roman candle left over from the Fourth of July! And in case you want to know how I found out what was up, I discovered a bit of a note under your pillow this afternoon, tellin’ all about your fine meetin’ and how you were goin’ to fix Ryan for keeps. But when Ryan came himself to see these brave laddies, they scooted like the pack of rabbits they are! Revengers! Huh! Dumb Blum and his gang of babies may be all right for sneakin’ around and messin’ up a fellow’s things, but they sure aren’t very happy out here in the woods at night!”
Dirk lifted his head wearily. “I wanted to speak to you about that, Ryan. I didn’t know they were going to fill your shoes with water and steal your things, or I wouldn’t have stood for it. Those were coward’s tricks; and I want you to know I’m sorry.”
“Bein’ sorry won’t help you much. Maybe I believe you, and maybe I don’t; but anyways, you were out here with that bunch, cookin’ up trouble, and you sure looked pretty cheap. Blum was tryin’ to get you to do his dirty work, and he’s such a coward himself he has to pull this secret society stuff and make little kids that don’t know any better follow him around like he was somebody, the nasty little brat. So that’s the kind of a friend you pick, huh?”
Dirk sighed. “I said I was in the wrong, Ryan, and I apologized. I’m sorry I got mixed up in this affair. What else can I say?”
“You’ve said enough, as far as I’m concerned. Now, unless we both get back to Tent One pretty quick, you and I will be spendin’ tomorrow on the wood-pile. Those scared kids have probably wakened up the whole camp.”
Dirk nodded, rising to his feet. “But before we go, Ryan, tell me just one thing. I—I guess I’m not the right sort of chap to get along here at Lenape. I try to do the right thing, but I always seem to end up in trouble. Tell me, what is the matter with me?”
Brick, taken aback at the other’s frankness, looked at the ground. “I’m no preacher,” he mumbled slowly. “When—when I first came to Lenape, I guess I was just as bad as you, and a lot worse. And maybe my trouble was the same as yours. I was always thinkin’ first of Brick Ryan, and never stoppin’ to wonder how it struck the other fellow. Then one of the leaders got me to see that I could get most fun out of campin’ by doin’ things for Lenape instead of bein’ selfish and tryin’ to show how smart a guy F. X. A. Ryan was. I—I guess that’s what they mean when they talk of camp spirit,” he ended lamely; “thinkin’ about the good of the crowd instead of just showin’ off for your own benefit. Now, let’s get along!”
“You mean—— Say!” cried Dirk with glowing eyes, “I’d like to do something for the camp! No, I don’t mean asking my father for some money and buying stuff for everybody to use. I mean, well—if we won that baseball game Wednesday, I guess it would be a thing to be proud of! Ryan, I’m going to play as I never played before—for the honor of the camp!”
“That would be a starter,” Brick admitted. “Now, for gosh sakes, let’s get out of here!”
The two made their way back to their bunks without mishap, and turned in to take a much-needed sleep. However, before he shut his eyes for good, Dirk pondered over the events of the night; and he decided that he would not forget the advice that his red-haired tent-mate had offered him in the Council Ring.
Next morning, as Dirk was racing down to Indian Dip in the sparkling lake along with the rest of the newly-risen campers, he found Dumb Blum at his side.
“Say, what happened last night, anyway?” asked the erstwhile leader of the Revengers. “Did that thing catch you, or what? What was it, Van?” he asked with Wide eyes.
“It was Brick Ryan,” Dirk replied; and ignoring the other’s cry of amazement, went on: “He made me realize what a silly thing we were doing, having a secret society and all that foolishness. Listen, Blum; I think you’re a coward, and if I find out that you and your friends are having any more meetings of your absurd R.H.R., I promise I’ll make you regret it.”
He clenched his fist, and Blum, his jaw dropping, backed off hastily.