BLACKIE THORNE
AT CAMP LENAPE

CARL SAXON

Author of
“The Mystery at Camp Lenape”

BOOKS, INC.
NEW YORK BOSTON

COPYRIGHT 1940, 1931 BY BOOKS, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For
BILL SIMMONS
companion of tent and trail

CONTENTS

I. [Tent Four] 7 II. [The Councilor] 17 III. [After Taps] 30 IV. [A Hard Case] 39 V. [Treasure] 53 VI. [The Hermit’s House] 59 VII. [Initiation] 69 VIII. [The Snipe Hunt] 81 IX. [A Rainy Day] 97 X. [The Lie] 111 XI. [Kangaroo Court] 123 XII. [The Hut on Black Pond] 135 XIII. [Robbery by Night] 150 XIV. [The Spring-House] 166 XV. [The Last Race] 179 XVI. [The End—and the Beginning] 198

BLACKIE THORNE AT
CAMP LENAPE

CHAPTER I
TENT FOUR

“We’ve been working on the ra-a-ailroad

All the livelong day——”

Two enormous hay-wains, full and running over with a tumbling mass of boys, turned a bend in the narrow country road.

Blackie Thorne was the foremost boy on the first wagon. He clambered up on the narrow seat with so much eagerness to view the camp and the lake that he almost knocked over the stolid farmer who was driving the team. His first view of camp!

There it lay on the wooded slope above the shining lake and the boat dock, a large white lodge with a flag floating lazily above it, and two rows of canvas tents lost among trees to the right but showing clearly against the gray mountains beyond, with their heavy covering of tall pines sticking up like spikes along the skyline. Camp Lenape, where the wonderful things his friends told about had happened. Why, anything might happen in such a marvelous place as the camp which grew nearer every minute as the slow horses plodded their way along the dusty road!

Blackie squirmed with excitement and jerked his arm so that it hit the head of the driving farmer and knocked his wide straw hat down over his eyes.

“Here now, sonny!” spluttered the man, grabbing at his hat and almost falling off the board which served as a seat. “If you’re a-goin’ to get so het up about seein’ this camp-ground of yourn, you better get out and walk!”

“A good idea!” exclaimed a fellow standing just behind Blackie, holding himself up in the jolting wagon by a hand on Blackie’s shoulder. He was Gil Shelton, patrol-leader in Blackie’s troop back in the city, and a “three-striper” who wore on his camp sweater three green chevrons to show that he had been at Lenape for as many seasons. “What do you say, Blackie? If we hop off now, we can follow the trail through the woods and beat the rest into camp.”

The trail led around the end of the lake, down through a meadow dotted with daisies and buttercups, and on again into the deepening shadow of the pines and birches.

They panted as they ran up a short hill, and came out in a little cleared space among the scrub-pines.

“Wait a minute, can’t you?” gasped Blackie. “What’s the use of killing ourselves?”

Gil snorted. “Does that little run make you tired? Wait until you’ve been here at camp a week, and a trot like this will seem so slow you’ll think you’re going backwards.” Nevertheless he stopped and threw himself on the soft ground, and Blackie gratefully followed his example.

“How far are we from camp now?”

“Oh, about a quarter of a mile, I guess. Don’t worry, little one, you’ll get there before dark.” He pointed his grass-stem, toward the hills, where the sun was dropping, a ball of red fire in the west. “The Indian council ring is over that way. We’ll have a pow-wow there to-morrow night, I guess.”

Blackie’s eyes followed in the indicated direction, but his attention was immediately claimed by a fan-shaped formation of gray rocks on the side of the western mountains. His dark eyebrows raised, and he whistled. “Hey, Gil, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That pile of rocks there—are they rocks?”

“That’s a terminal moraine. Now, ask me another.”

“A what?”

“Terminal moraine, dummy.”

“Well, who put it there?”

“Say,” exclaimed Gil with disgust, “if you listened to the scoutmaster’s talks instead of skylarking around at troop meetings and stealing Fat Crampton’s hat, you’d learn not to be so ignorant. A terminal moraine is a pile of rocks brought down by a glacier in the days when all the part of the world north of here was covered with ice. You’ve heard of the Glacial Age, haven’t you? Well, when the ice moved down from the North Pole it pushed a lot of rocks ahead of it, right over the ground. Now, when old Mr. Glacier got this far, he heard the five o’clock whistle blow or something, so he dropped that pile of rocks he was carrying, and started to melt. When we hike up there, you can see markings on the rocks where they got scratched being pulled along over the ground.” Gil finished his lecture by throwing away his chewed grass-stem and carefully pulling another.

Blackie rose and held up his hand to shade his squinting eyes while he peered at the slide of boulders which, according to Gil’s story, had been brought there in such a dramatic manner.

“All right, I believe you,” he said; but he continued to stare.

Half-hidden among the pines and mountain maples, clinging to the side of the mountain at the end of a thin line of road that ran above, Blackie saw the faded clapboards and weathered roof of a house. There was not a sign of life about it. The sinking sun, nearing its last stand above the Lenape ridge, was reflected in all its bloodiness in two upstairs windows of that dark and ominous dwelling; the afterglow swirled and glinted with the color of molten copper. A little breeze blew up from the lake, a breeze not too warm for late June; and Blackie shivered slightly as it struck his back. He didn’t know why, but the sight of that dead, hidden house scared him—just a little. He thought it looked like a skull, lost among the trees. There must be some mystery about a house like that.

“Gil!”

“Well, what is it now, youngster?”

“Does anybody live in that old house up there?”

“Sure. That’s where old Rattlesnake Joe lives. Some people around here call him the hermit. You can go up and see him some time. Now, have you got your breath back? If we don’t get going pretty soon, the gang will be in ahead of us, and we’ll be out of luck for getting a good bunk.”

The two boys trotted on along the trail at a fast pace. Blackie would have liked to ask some more questions about the hermit who lived alone in the woods in that mysterious house, but he was afraid that Gil would taunt him about being a greenhorn, so he saved his breath for running. The trail soon broke surprisingly into the campus, and they were among white tents where several of their comrades, already arrived in camp by the same short-cut around the lake, were busily spreading out their blankets on the two-decked canvas bunks that lined the tent walls.

“The tent assignments must be already posted,” muttered Gil. “Hurry up to the lodge!”

Blackie ran with him through the little tent-village, but when he reached the flagpole before the spreading lodge he halted as the lake and the far shore spread out before his view.

“Jee-miny!” he whistled. He could see the roof of the boat dock below, around which were moored about a dozen broad-beamed steel rowboats.

Gil Shelton came tearing by, laden with blanket and duffle that he had collected from the pile of baggage on the lodge porch.

“Say, Blackie,” he called, “you better get on the job! You’re assigned to Tent Four, down there. Grab your stuff and hurry down. The first one in the tent gets his choice of bunks.”

Several boys, the advance guard of the hay-wagons, came streaming down to the campus from the road behind the lodge. Blackie climbed the steps to the lodge porch and in the welter of luggage there discovered a familiar-looking sea-bag with his initials painted on it in black. Seizing this dunnage, he ran stumbling to Tent Four, his new home in the woods.

Tent Four lay at the end of the row of tents topmost on the hilly campus. Before it lay a cleared space dotted by huckleberry bushes and a few shading pines. The tent was floored and painted a battleship gray, and eight canvas bunks lined the walls, running the length of the tent and making two tiers. A tall boy was already swiftly and smoothly making up a bed in one of the lower bunks. He nodded to Blackie but did not pause in his work.

Gil Shelton shouted across from Tent Three, next door. His bunk was already made. With the deftness of an experienced camper, he was setting each thing in its correct place—shoes and hats in a line under the bed, coats and sweaters on the rope swung between the two tent-poles, pajamas under his pillow, and the remainder of his kit in one of the pine-wood lockers that ran down the middle of the tent.

“The bottom bunks are the best, Blackie! If you pick a top one, the fellow under you gets you up in the morning by the airplane method!”

Blackie began unpacking his duffle, slowly and clumsily. He laid out his blankets on a lower bunk as advised, and tried two or three times to make his result somewhat resemble Gil’s bed; but when he had finished, it still looked bumpy and not too soft. Then he sat on his sea-bag and looked about him helplessly.

The tall fellow, who had not spoken until now, looked up and smiled shyly.

“Stuck? Well, follow what I do, and you’ll soon get cleared up. This the first time you’ve been to camp?”

It was the first time Blackie had ever been away from home, but he hated to admit it.

“Yeah. How do they put their stuff at this camp?” He said it as if he had visited all the other camps in the world before he had happened to drop in on this insignificant little one.

Two other boys now rushed down, and made haste to stake out their claims to lower bunks.

“Can’t have that one,” warned the tall, quiet boy to one of them who had put his bag on the lower bunk nearest the lodge. “That belongs to the councilor. And a councilor needs a lower bunk because he may have to turn out quick in the middle of the night if he’s needed.”

“Who is the councilor?” asked the other.

“Mr. Rawn—Wally. He’s the fellow that has charge of the swimming. Well, I’m going up to the lodge. He promised to let me be the waiter for the first two days, because I know all about it.” He departed in the direction of the lodge.

Blackie sat on his bunk and looked around. Everyone was busily engaged in making up the first night’s bed, and shouts and singing came from all quarters as the busy campers shook down in their new homes. From the lodge porch came the brazen blare of First Call sounded by the camp bugler.

A pine bough brushed against the tent, laden with cones. It occurred to Blackie that it would be a good idea to take a few and stick them in between someone’s blankets. He lifted off a few that looked to be the most prickly and crossing the tent, pulled down the blankets of the tall lad who had gone to the lodge. The two other boys had now been joined by a third; but none of them were watching, for they were hurriedly preparing for supper, and evidently thought the bunk was his own.

Blackie shoved the pine-cones down between the blankets, and looked around to see if anyone had watched him. Someone had. A shadow fell across the front of the tent, a tall and muscular figure stood over him, and a deep voice demanded, “Do you always sleep with pine-cones in your bed?”

CHAPTER II
THE COUNCILOR

Blackie hesitated.

“Yes, sir, I always do that when I’m camping. It makes it seem more as if I was really in the woods,” he said.

The tall man—he must have been six feet two, and stockily built—looked down at Blackie and frowned. He was big enough to have picked up the boy and used him for a baseball.

“I wouldn’t lie if I were you,” he drawled. “It’s a bad habit for a young lad to acquire. That bunk belongs to Ken Haviland, my aide. By the time he’s ready to crawl in to-night, he’ll be plenty tired from a long day on the job. Don’t you think he’s entitled to a good sleep?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, since we are to be tent-mates, we ought to get acquainted.” He grinned broadly, and held out his hand. “I’m Wally Rawn. What’s your name?”

“Blackie. Blackie Thorne.”

The man grinned as he took the boy’s hand in a firm grip and surveyed the bright black eyes, the shining black hair.

“Not a bad name, at that. What’s your mother call you?”

“She calls me Blackie, too. My regular name is Ambrose.”

“I won’t tell a soul. Blackie you are and Blackie you shall be. Now, Blackie, I’m going to offer you a chance to show what sort of a spirit you have for helping to make the Tent Four boys known all over camp. I have, after much thought, decided to paint our tent-poles with pink and green stripes. That ought to start the rest of camp thinking about us. Now, please run up to the kitchen and ask the chef to send you down here with a bucket of striped paint—pink and green.”

Blackie was off like a flash, but his leader called him back.

“While you’re up there, Blackie, you can also ask him to lend you a bunk-stretcher. I find that my feet stick out over the edge of my berth, and I don’t want to wake up in the morning and find the birds roosting on my toes. A left-handed bunk-stretcher—my bunk is on the left-hand side.”

“Yes, Mr. Rawn.”

“Call me Wally. Now, off with you!”

Blackie bounded up the short hill to the side door of the kitchen. Through the screen came the tantalizing fragrance of something good; supper was on the way, evidently, and Ellick, that good-hearted king of the kitchen, was at his busiest. Blackie pushed open the door and ran in with an important look on his dark face. He was greeted by Leggy, a skinny, coffee-colored individual whose thin shanks, although they seemed to have no end, did no more than reach the ground. He waved a long-handled spoon, and made a swing with it at Blackie’s head.

“Outside, white boy!” he cried. “Kitchen ain’t no place for little boys at de supper-call.”

“I got a message for the chef—very important. Let me in!”

“Hol’ on dere!” came Ellick’s voice from the far corner of the room. “You ain’t de boy what is lookin’ for de striped paint, is you?”

“Yes, I am, chef.”

“Well, if dat don’t beat all!” exclaimed the surprised cook. “We is just out of striped paint. If I wasn’t busily pre-incapacitated by carving dis yere ham for dinner, now, I would shorely help you-all out. A left-handed bunk-stretcher wouldn’t do as well, would it, now?”

“Say, that was the other thing I was sent for!”

“Who-all sent you?”

“Wally Rawn—he’s my leader.”

“Oh, that Wally boy! It must shore be important then. If I could only dis-extricate myself from carvin’ dis yere ham, now——Let me see. De bestest thing to do under de concircumstances is for you-all to go down to de boat dock and petitionate de person in charge to give you de keys to de campus. And, whiles you’m down there, you-all might bring up a cargo what’s waitin’ for some smart young boy to fetch me. Ask him pussonally from me to deliver unto you-all de shipment of fence-post holes and de Royal Official Back-Scratcher.”

“You bet, chef—keys to the campus, fencepost holes and the Royal Official Back-Scratcher.”

“I thanks you. What might be you-all name?”

“Blackie.”

“Hmm. I decalculate from dat name dat you are repartial to doughnuts.” There was a sweet, sugary smell in the warm kitchen air.

“Doughnuts? You said it, chef!”

“Catch!”

The grinning Ellick deftly caught up a doughnut from a bowl beside him, and tossed it in the air. Blackie got under it like a veteran fielder, and sped out the door. The gangling Leggy aimed a parting swing at him with the long-tailed spoon, and missed.

On the parade ground, Blackie paused in his headlong lakeward course at the sight of Gil Shelton, hair combed, face shining from a recent scrubbing, and spotless for supper. “Hey, Blackie, where you heading? After fence-post holes?”

“Yep—how did you know? And striped paint and a left-handed bunk-stretcher and——”

Gil started in great surprise. “Don’t tell me,” he exclaimed, “that they picked you to bring the Royal Official Back-Scratcher?”

“They sure have.”

“That’s a great honor, my son. In fact, only the newest and greenest boys are ever picked for it. Say, Blackie, I didn’t think you’d fall for that old stuff. Did you ever see a fence-post hole? Does striped paint come in cans?”

Blackie paused and thought for the first time.

“Well, Gil, it was my leader Wally who sent me. He told me not to tell lies, too, so I thought it was all right.”

“Say, did you ever hear of Santa Claus? Why, for a week now the little, new, green, smart, bright city boys will be looking all over the place for striped paint and the key to the lake. And you fell for it the first thing!”

Gil’s laughter was so deep that Blackie was glad to get back to the shelter of his tent.

Wally greeted him. “So you didn’t find it, eh? Well, that’s all right—don’t be discouraged. You can help me out in another way. Just run down to the dock, will you, and ask if anyone down there has seen the key to the lake?”

“Not on your life, Wally,” grinned Blackie. “Send one of the new fellows down, can’t you?”

The camp bugler, Ted Fellowes, sounded Assembly Call at that moment, and there was no time for further talk before supper. After the Retreat ceremony and the lowering of the flag, the boys attacked the supper that had been prepared in the depths of the kitchen. Blackie had never found a meal that tasted quite so good.

He met the remainder of the boys of Tent Four at the table. Ken Haviland, the tent aide, was busily serving as waiter at one end; he had to run again and again to the serving window for additional platters of ham, potatoes, and turnips, mountains of bread and oceans of milk. Blackie didn’t envy him his job.

Wally had evidently met all the boys in his group. He paused and, between mouthfuls, addressed them.

“There’s one thing that’s worrying me, gentlemen of the famous Tent Four group. There are only seven of us, and there should be eight, counting myself. One of our number has not turned up. I shall call our imposing roll. Haviland!”

“Here, sir.” Ken seized his serving tray and dashed off in pursuit of dessert.

“Thorne! Here, I see. Slater!”

“Here, sir!” answered a freckle-faced boy with burning red hair.

“Guppy!”

Blackie looked with interest at the boy with such a beautiful name. He was a little chap of about eleven, at the end of one row.

“Lefkowitz!”

“Present!” came a squeaky voice from across the table.

“Gallegher!”

“Here!” He was a sunburnt, black-haired chap with a scar across his forehead, shaped like a V.

“Crampton! No answer. It is the notorious Mr. Crampton who is missing. Has anybody here ever heard tell of the gentleman?”

“That must be Fat,” said Blackie. “We saw him down at the end of the lake before we hiked up. He was in the wagon then.”

“Maybe that’s the fat fellow we dumped off the wagon coming along the road back of camp,” volunteered Slater. “We told him that walking was the best way to reduce his figger, and dumped him out.”

“To our fat friend’s rescue, then, tent-mates!” cried Wally, drinking down the last of a glass of milk. “As soon as the Chief makes his announcements, we shall be in the saddle and off for the hunt!”

A whistle sounded, and quiet fell on the groups. The Chief was about to speak. He rose, an imposing figure of a man, quiet, dignified, and with a voice full of calm command. He was dressed in camper’s togs, and wore the green “L” on his sweater.

“All I have to say is this, fellows. We are all up here for a good time—the best time ever. Now, I want to mention a few things that will help the new camper to get along and make himself at home. Don’t expose yourselves to the sun too much until you get a coat of tan gradually; you won’t blister then. Don’t cut up or mark the trees on the campus of which we are so proud. Don’t have any firearms in your tents; none of any kind are permitted here at camp, and if you have any, bring them up to the lodge and I will look after them for you. And finally, I only need mention the rule we have about boys who smoke. Now, those are all the ‘don’t’s’ I’m going to mention. In an hour there will be a grand jubilee campfire below the baseball diamond, where I will introduce you to the councilors, who will then have something to say to you. All set for the best camp season ever! Everybody happy?”

“Yay!” The resounding, united call of the campers reverberated among the lodge rafters.

“Let the lions roar!”

“Rao-a-ow!” A pack of well-fed lions never sent up such a tremendous roaring to the Sahara moon.

“Dismissed!”

Tent Four remained a little island in the swirling rush of campers that broke up after the meal.

“Are you with me, gang?” shouted Wally. “Onward to the rescue of our wandering brother!” He made for the back door, pushing through the crowd like a fullback carrying the ball to victory, followed by his eager team of tent-mates. Tent Four was on the round-up.

No sooner had they reached the road behind camp than the leader began giving directions, curtly and with precision. “Spread out, fellows, and we’ll cover a path on each side of the road. Keep in touch with my whistle—I’ll be in the center. Shout for Crampton at intervals, and we’ll soon have him back in the fold——What’s that?”

A low moan was heard behind him, just off the road.

“Help! Help!”

Wally bounded off in the direction from whence it came. His muscular legs cleared the low bushes like so many hurdles.

“Behind that big tree!” shouted Gallegher. The six boys dashed off after their leader, and found him staring down at a mournful figure sitting with his back to the trunk of a tall pine. It was Fat Crampton. His bulging cheeks bore the trails of tear-marks; he sat hunched amid the wreckage of his knapsack and accouterment, with the most woebegone look in the world.

“I’m lost in the woods,” he moaned. “I’ve been walking around for hours!”

“Why, you poor nut,” said Blackie, “if you had walked two steps further you would have tripped over the camp!”

Fat transferred his doleful gaze. “Oh, Blackie, is it really you? Say, I’m scared. I heard a bunch of lions off in the woods a minute ago, and I thought they were going to get me.”

“Lions, nothing!” The whole tent broke into a storm of laughter. “That was us! Rao-a-ow! Look out for us, Fat—we’re lions!”

“Come on, lion-hunter,” said Wally, “come on and get a meal of raw meat. I think the chef will have saved something for you.” He lifted the rotund lad on his shoulder and set off toward the kitchen, with Fat helplessly waving his arms from his lofty perch. The rest of the boys ran with them, roaring terribly and making quips at the wanderer’s expense.

Little Guppy ran beside Wally, looking up at the leader.

“I’ll make up Fat’s bunk,” he offered, “if he’ll tell me where his blankets are.”

“That’s the spirit! Keep it up, and you’ll make a great aide some day, Gup!”

By the time the fat boy was fed, the bugle sounded Assembly for the campfire. It was now dark, and the campers found their ways down through the baseball diamond to a field above the lake shore, where a group of three or four leaders were standing beside a high pyre of logs and branches, talking to the Chief. They were Mr. Frayne, the burly assistant director whom everyone, even the smallest boys, familiarly called “Happy Face” because of the smile he always wore; “Sax” McNulty, the mournful-looking comedian and saxophone artist who had charge of the shows and stunt-nights; and Lieutenant Eames, the West Pointer. The other leaders were to be found among the crowd of boys settling around the piled fire.

In the glow of somebody’s flashlight Blackie caught sight of Gil Shelton’s face in the crowd. Gil saw him, also, and shouted over: “Hi, Blackie! How’s the guardian of the Royal Official Back-Scratcher?”

“Aw, forget it, Gil. Say, what are they going to do now?”

“Light the fire, of course. Then I guess we’ll have a song or two, and the Chief will introduce all the leaders, and somebody will tell a story, and then we’ll burn all the little new greenhorns at the stake.”

Blackie laughed as much as the joke required, and snuggled down next to Wally, in the midst of the Tent Four group. The fire was lighted, and the glow was reflected in the faces of the happy throng of campers who gathered around the first campfire of the season. The boys of Tent Four, already bound together by loyalty to their leader, were content to lie and listen to the calm voice of their Chief, as a spout of flaring sparks rose from the flames to challenge the distant glitter of the stars.

CHAPTER III
AFTER TAPS

The musical echo of Tattoo came from the bugle, and a hush fell upon Tent Four. The campfire still smouldered in the field by the lake, but the campers had passed to their tents at the Call to Quarters, and were now making ready to turn in for the night.

Blackie squatted on his bunk and stared at the faces that were half-illuminated by the solitary lantern that hung on the tent-pole. Mindful of the pine-cones that were still in Ken Haviland’s bed, he was lying low and watching for developments.

The aide had already stripped, and was climbing into a swathing suit of pajamas. Above him jutted the head of Lefkowitz, already between blankets but still full of interest in proceedings.

“I can’t find my nightgown,” wailed little Guppy at the other end of the tent.

“It should be under your pillow,” said Wally. He stretched his broad arms and yawned prodigiously, making a noise like an enraged walrus. “You ought to have pajamas anyway.”

“I put it under the pillow, sir, as Ken told me to. I had an extra one, but that’s gone too. And I promised Mother I wouldn’t sleep in my—my underthings, sir.”

“Well, they’ll probably turn up. For to-night you can have an extra pair of my pajamas. I think the pants would be enough for you, though—you’re not exactly a giant.” Wally produced a pair of outing-flannel pants, stuffed the small Guppy into the legs of them, tied the cord about his neck, and stowed him away between the blankets like a sack of potatoes.

Ken was turning down the covers. Blackie watched him feel the blankets all over, and to the joker’s disappointment, the aide touched several suspicious bumps and resuscitated the hidden pine-cones. He tossed them into the night, and winked at Blackie.

“My camp experience has taught me to always feel my bed before I turn in,” he grinned. “Some chaps have a funny sense of humor.” He hopped in and sprawled out luxuriously.

Now that his trap had failed, Blackie bethought him of turning in also. Slater, who had been outside gazing at the stars, stepped into the tent.

“Lots of meteorites falling to-night, sir,” he observed. “Venus is full, too, I think; she’s especially bright in the west.” He set about his preparations for bed.

Gallegher made a spring and landed in his bunk, just over Blackie’s head. A creaking from another upper bunk across the way announced that Fat Crampton had at last been able to climb to his lofty berth.

“Make it fast, Blackie,” warned the leader. “You don’t want to be the last one in.”

Blackie was soon arrayed in the popular evening clothes for the well-dressed camper, and looked longingly at his inviting bunk. He slipped between the warm blankets, and stretched out. Umm—this was the life!

But hold on! Something had him by the leg—something else was biting him on the foot! Ouch! He yelled and rolled over the side, to come to the floor in a whirling pile of boy, blankets, and—pine-cones!

Gallegher snickered above him.

“The oldest trick there is!” he chuckled. “These new guys will fall for anything!”

The crestfallen Blackie struggled upright, and in the dull lamplight began to make his bed anew.

“That will be all the demonstrations of playfulness for to-night, gentlemen,” observed Wally, sitting on the edge of his bunk. “You are all tired, and need your sleep—I, may it be observed, need mine also. How anybody has the pep left to skylark around the first night of camp—or any other night—is beyond me. As soon as Taps sounds, Tent Four will be as still as the grave. The silence, as the book-writers always have it, will be broken only by the measured breathing of the slumbering woodsmen and the far call of a fillyloo bird across the waste. Key down, now.”

He reached for his kit and drew out a book. “I’m talking seriously now. We are all up here at Lenape to have the best time ever. It’s my job as councilor to see that we do. And that’s what I want to make you fellows understand. I’ll help you in any way I can to keep you good campers and to make Lenape proud of you. If at any time you have anything on your mind, bring it to me and we’ll talk it out. Now, I’m going to read you one of the finest things that a camper ever listened to.”

He opened the Bible in his hand and read by the flickering light, in a clear and sincere voice: “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard. Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath He set a tabernacle for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it: and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof. The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.”

Softly and sweetly, as if from afar, came the first comforting notes of Taps, the finest of music to a tired camper. Wally doused the lantern, and the glory of the stars came into the quiet tent.

“Good-night, fellows,” said Wally quietly. “Happy dreams!”

Blackie lay quite still in his tumbled bed, thinking about the stars. Firmament—that was a word that meant the same as heaven, but not so nice-sounding. The stars were bright, all right.

Gallegher must have put those cones into his bed, when he had been chasing bunk-stretchers—it must have been Gallegher, because he had laughed so hard when Blackie fell out. Well, so much the worse for Mr. Gallegher! He was sleeping right above Blackie, and in the morning, Mr. Gallegher would be surprised. He reached up one foot, tentatively, to see how the airplane method would work in helping Gallegher to rise. The temptation came, and he pushed upward with both feet, hard.

Zoom! Gallegher flew into the air and came down to the floor with a wild yell. The experiment was a success. Tent Four was instantly alert.

Lefkowitz snickered. Slater moaned dolefully. Little Guppy said, “What’s that?”

Gallegher lay tumbled on the floor among his blankets. He had bruised his elbow against a locker, and it made him mean-tempered.

“Damn you!” he cried. “I’ll get even——”

Through the dark came the calm voice of Wally. “You seem to have been around a bunch of pretty foul-mouthed fellows, Gallegher. Gentlemen, and especially Lenape gentlemen, don’t talk that way. Chain gang for you Monday morning.”

“I don’t care!” shouted Gallegher. “I’d say it again if he did that to me. If Blackie was a gentleman, he wouldn’t have given me that airplane ride. It’s his fault as much as mine. Why don’t you give him the chain gang, too?”

“Blackie!”

“Yes, sir.” Blackie, chuckling happily to himself at the thought of the row he had raised, sat up and leaned on one arm.

“Didn’t I ask you and the other fellows to key down after Taps?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Take your blankets and go sleep on the ground by the flagpole to-night.”

“But why? I didn’t do a thing but get back at him for sticking pine-cones in my bunk!”

“On your way. When you can behave decently, you can sleep with the rest of us again.”

Sullenly, and making as much noise about it as he dared, Blackie put on his slippers and gathered up his pillow and blankets over his arm. The night air was cool, and he shivered slightly in his pajamas. A pine tree’s branch brushed the canvas tent-roof above his head, and somewhere off up the mountain a dog howled dismally. It didn’t look too inviting out on the darkened campus by the flagpole; but he didn’t want to appear a coward and whine to get out of going.

“Good-night, you guys,” he said with bravado and stalked out of the rear of the tent. As he passed the bunk across from the leader’s, on his way out, Slater stuffed something among Blackie’s blankets with a whispered caution.

“Keep it out of sight—you’ve got the chance to get to the flagpole!”

Blackie nodded and went out on the path. The stars were like bright candles against a blue-green silk dome, and somehow their twinkling was not so pleasant now. He passed a line of tents, some quiet, one or two filled with low snickers and cackles and the usual disturbance of the first night under canvas. The white lodge showed pale and strange in the starlight; the campus was somehow changed from what it had been in bright day. He stumbled across to the base of the flagpole and began spreading out his bed on the hard ground. He cleared away one or two stones, and beat down the high grass as best he could, and tried to rearrange his blankets into comfortable shape.

His next care was to examine the bundle that Slater had passed to him. As he had guessed, it was the missing nightgown that Guppy had bewailed at bedtime. He chuckled, thinking of the scheme that Slater had suggested.

He looked around; the coast was clear. The flagpole was only a few steps away. He jumped up, unfastened the halyards, and knotting a sleeve to each end of the rope, hauled away. Then, almost too sleepy to care where he lay, he crawled into his twisted bed and was dead to the world in half a minute, smiling to think that when the morning sun rose over Camp Lenape, it would reveal that the campers had slept under a fluttering ensign that was nothing more than little Guppy’s pink nightgown.

CHAPTER IV
A HARD CASE

Blackie was wakened somewhat rudely the next morning. A sloshing glass of cold water landed on his face, and he jumped up half-awake to find Gil Shelton standing over him in the fresh sunlight with the empty glass in his hand.

“Rise and shine!” called the patrol-leader. “First Call will sound in about a minute. Gee, you must have been sawing wood not to hear the noise the gang has been making ever since four o’clock this morning! Most of the tenderfeet woke up early and have been horsing around. I couldn’t sleep, so Chink Towner and Spaghetti Megaro and I got permission to hike down to the cottage and back. Look at the big frog we found by the brook!”

He held up a monstrous bullfrog by the hind legs, so close to Blackie’s face that he jumped backwards in alarm, while Gil’s two companions laughed.

“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!”

CHAPTER V
TREASURE

“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.”