Sam had never done much travelling. He had been to Columbus twice and had journeyed around more or less within a fifty-mile radius of Amesville, but penetrating a hundred and twenty-odd miles into the wilds of northern Ohio was something new and not a little exciting. There had never, particularly since his father had died, been much money for railroad tickets and sight-seeing. Sam’s father had been a railroad engineer, and a good one. For many years when Sam was just a little chap Mr. Craig had held the throttle on the big Mogul engine that had pulled the Western Mail through Amesville. Sam didn’t see a great deal of his father in those days, for Mr. Craig “laid-over” in Amesville but twice a week, and the days when he did see him were red-letter days. He had been very fond of his dad, and very proud of him, too; and it had been Sam’s earnest desire to grow up quick and be an engineer too. When, however, in Sam’s twelfth year, Mr. Craig returned home for the last time on a stretcher to live but a few hours, Sam lost that desire. For once the engineer had not been held to blame for an accident; a muddle-headed despatcher had sent the Western Mail crashing into a through freight between sidings; and so the railroad paid a pension to the widow. On this the family had lived until Sam, first, and then Nell, had begun to supplement the pension money with small earnings. Sam had delivered papers, worked in the mill as stock-boy, and tried his hand at several other things, while Nell, having finished school the spring before, was now a public stenographer with a tiny room of her own in Amesville’s new office building, and was a little more than making expenses.

The first thrill of excitement wore off after a half-hour or so, and Sam, tired of watching the view from the car window, picked up the magazine he had bought and settled back to read. The train was not a fast one, and it stopped at a good many stations and seemed disinclined at each to take up its journey again. Nevertheless, it eventually did arrive at East Mendon, and Sam anxiously collected his belongings and alighted. Inquiries elicited the information that the stage started at two o’clock from the other side of the platform, shortly after the arrival of the through express. Consequently Sam had a full two hours and a half to wait. He checked his bag and coat at the station and started out in search of dinner. East Mendon was a small place, hardly more than a full-grown village, and his choice of eating-places was not large. The Commercial Hotel seemed to be the principal hostelry, but Sam knew that if he went there he would have to pay at least seventy-five cents for his meal, and seventy-five cents was about fifty cents more than he cared to spend. At last, on a side street, he came across a small and dingy restaurant which advertised the principal dishes of the day’s menu on a blackboard outside. Sam, his feet spread well apart and his hands in his trousers pockets, studied the list thoughtfully.

“Beef Stew with Dumplings, 15 cents.” “Corn Beef Hash with Bread and Butter, 15 cents.” “Baked White Fish and Fried Potatoes, 20 cents.” “Ribs of Beef with Browned Potatoes, 25 cents.” “Vegatable Soup with Bread and Butter, 10 cents.”

Sam’s eyes twinkled. “Me for that, I guess,” he said to himself. “Vegetable soup with two A’s sounds good. And maybe a cup of good hot coffee and a piece of pie. I’m not awfully hungry, anyhow.”

The “vegatable” soup was good and there was plenty of it, and even if the bread proved so crumbly that he found himself breading the butter instead of buttering the bread, he made out very well. But the good coffee didn’t materialize. There was coffee, and it was hot, but Sam couldn’t pronounce it good. Nor was the pie much better. He suspected the little shock-haired proprietor of having held and cherished that pie for a long, long time!

Afterwards he wandered back to the principal street of the village and bought three very green apples for a nickel and munched them while he tried to find interest in the store windows. But the East Mendon stores were neither large nor flourishing, and their window displays were not at all enthralling. It was still only slightly after twelve-thirty as, having exhausted the entertainments of the village, he went back to the station, got his magazine from his bag, and made himself as comfortable as he could in a corner of the small waiting-room. It was hot and close in there, and smelled of dust and train smoke, but he found a good story in the magazine and was soon lost to everything but the adventures of the hero. That first story was so interesting that, having finished it, he started another, after a cursory glance about the room which was now beginning to fill up. He was halfway through the second story when the express came thundering in with much screeching of brake-shoes. The event promised excitement and so he slipped his magazine in a pocket of his coat, took up his bag, and went out on the platform with the other occupants of the room.

It seemed at first glance that everyone was getting out of the express and Sam had to flatten himself against the station wall to keep from being trod on. To his momentary surprise, most of the arrivals appeared to be boys; there must, he thought, be a hundred of them! Then it dawned on him that he was getting his first look at his future charges. When, presently, the express went on again and the crowd on the platform had sorted itself out, he saw that the hundred boys really numbered only about thirty or forty. In age they seemed between twelve and fifteen, and they were of all sorts; short boys and tall boys, fat boys and thin boys, quiet boys and noisy boys. Each had his bag beside him and most of them were pestering the baggage-man about their trunks. Suddenly into the mÊlÉe about that exasperated official pushed a broad-shouldered, capable-looking man of twenty-two or three years. He had a sun-browned face and wore a straw hat with a yellow-and-blue band around it.

“Now then, fellows!” Sam heard him say briskly. “Every one across to the other platform, please. I’ll take charge of your checks.”

In a minute order grew out of chaos and the boys, yielding their trunk checks, went off around the station. Sam followed. Two stage-coaches and four three-seated carriages were backed up to the platform and the boys were scrambling for outside seats on the coaches. Suit-cases and bags were being piled on the roofs, and pandemonium again reigned until, as before, the man with the yellow-and-blue hat-band appeared and took charge. “That’s enough on top now! Pile inside, you chaps. That’ll do. The rest of you get into the hacks. Room for one more here, though. You going to Indian Lake?”

This to Sam, who was waiting for a chance to find a seat. Sam assented and squeezed into a rear seat of one of the stages, aware of the other’s puzzled regard. Evidently the man with the coloured hat-band thought Sam a bit old to be going to The Wigwam, and Sam wondered what Mr. Langham would think! He was quite certain that this was not Mr. Langham. First, because the coloured hat-band chap was keeping a sharp eye on a huge suit-case marked “A. A. G.,” and, second, because it stood to reason that Mr. Langham was a much older man.

Possibly the boys, too, thought Sam rather too mature to be one of them, for they favoured him with many curious glances as he squeezed into his seat. He still retained his valise and, as there was no place on the floor for it, he had to take it in his lap and drape his raincoat over it. That battered, old-fashioned bag occasioned more than one amused look and whispered comment.

After they were all seated a long wait ensued. A big wagon was backed up to the platform and the baggage-man and the drivers began the loading of the trunks. There were a lot of them, but fortunately many were of the small steamer variety. Sam, whose entire wardrobe was contained between the bulging sides of his valise, wondered at those trunks. Finally the last one was aboard, restless youths who had slipped from their places scuttled back to them, the man with the hat-band seated himself beside the driver of one of the carriages and, with a cheer, the procession of vehicles set out.

Sam had never ridden in an old-style stage-coach before and he found the experience more novel than comfortable. The body swayed amazingly on its leather springs, and when, presently, they were on the rough country road, bumped up and down most erratically. Sam held tight to his bag, braced his feet against the floor, and watched the landscape unfold. Most of the way the road was bordered with woods, although occasionally there was a clearing and, now and then, a small farm. The road wound and turned up hill and down and the horses kept at an even trot. The more adventurous spirits on top of the coaches cheered and shouted and sang, but Sam’s companions inside were more subdued. He sat next a small boy of perhaps thirteen, who looked rather depressed and homesick. Sam tried conversation with him, but it was not a success. After a half-hour or so a louder cheer than usual came from outside, and Sam, looking ahead, saw a blue, sun-lit lake below them, lying in the green bowl of the wooded hills. Then it was lost to sight again and they began the descent, the brakes scraping hard against the big wheels as the coach swayed and bumped. Five minutes later they had arrived.

Sam descended before a large many-windowed wooden building, hardly more than a shed in appearance. A wide uncovered porch ran across the front of it. The building was so new that only the roof had weathered. Beyond it was a second of similar size and appearance, and beyond that, again, on slightly higher ground, was a smaller structure. The buildings faced the lake, the shore of which was some fifty yards distant. Behind the clearing the forest of birch and maples and oaks, with an occasional pine or hemlock, gave enticing glimpses of shadowed paths, but about the camp were few trees left standing, and of these, one had been shorn of its branches and bore, floating lazily from its tip, a white flag with a blue pyramid, doubtless intended to represent an Indian wigwam. There was little breeze to-day and the sun beat down hotly, and Sam looked longingly into the dim recess seen beyond the wide, open door of the nearer building.

With the arrival of the foremost stage three men came down the steps. One was a short, stocky gentleman, brisk and alert, who wore knickerbockers and golf stockings and a soft white shirt, and whose round face seemed at first glance to be all brown Vandyke beard and rubber-rimmed Mandarin spectacles. He was followed by two younger men, one not much more than a boy and the other somewhere about thirty. Unlike the older man, they each wore camp costume; flannel trousers belted over a blue sleeveless shirt, and brown “sneakers.” It was the short man in knickerbockers who now took command. One by one, the arrivals were shaken by the hand and passed on to the older of the two councillors, who, in turn, directed them to one or the other of the larger buildings. The short man knew many of the boys by name and greeted them warmly, and these, addressing him as “Chief,” seemed equally pleased at the meeting. If he did not know the name of a boy, he asked it and, on being told, said briskly, “Oh, yes! Well, Jones, I’m glad to know you. Mr. Haskins, this is Jones. Just look after him, please.” And so Jones or Smith, or whatever his name might be, shook hands again and was finally sent trudging on into one or the other of the dormitories.

Sam stood aside and waited until the boys had been distributed. Then, formulating a little speech of introduction, he moved toward where the short man and the man with the coloured hat-band were shaking hands. But his speech was not required. “Well, Craig, so you found us, eh?” asked the short man, with a smile and a firm clasp of the hand. “Very glad to see you. My name is Langham. Mr. Gifford I suppose you know.”

The man with the coloured hat-band explained, however, that they had not met. “I saw you at the station,” he said, “but I wasn’t sure that you were one of us. Very stupid of me. Well, let’s go and get into some comfortable togs. I suppose Craig is in The Tepee, Chief?”

“Yes. If Haskins is there, ask him to come out and show the men about the trunks, please. By the way, I thought we’d better get them into the water about four.”

Sam was surprised until he realized that “them” meant the boys and not the trunks. He followed Mr. Gifford to the further dormitory, climbed a flight of four steps, crossed the unroofed porch, and entered through a wide doorway. For a moment the sudden change from the sunlight to the dimmer light inside confused him. Presently, though, he was examining his new home with interest.

The building was of a width that accommodated two rows of cots, one at each side, and left a wide passage between. At the farther end of the passage a second door stood wide open, framing a picture of green leaves in shadow and sunlight. On each side of the long room were many square openings, which did duty as windows. They were not sashed, but were provided with wooden shutters which opened inward and hooked back against the walls. In all the time that Sam was there the shutters were closed but once, and then only on one side of the dormitory. There were twelve cots in one row and eight in the other. Midway on the side holding the fewer cots was a big rough-stone fireplace, and in front of it a table and chairs. At the foot of each cot was a shallow closet with hooks for garments below and some shelves above. Three large kerosene lamps hung from the roof.

Sam’s cot was the first one inside the door on the left. Mr. Gifford’s was opposite. At the head of each was a small stand holding a hand-lamp, and Mr. Gifford explained that the councillors were permitted to keep these burning after the dormitory lights were out. Sam followed the example of Mr. Gifford and the boys and changed into camp uniform, stowing the rest of his belongings in the tiny closet. Many of the youngsters were already scampering about in their new costumes.

“The Chief tells me you’re going to help me with athletics,” said Mr. Gifford from across the passage as he dragged on a pair of faded grey flannel trousers. “What’s your line?”

“Line?” asked Sam.

“I mean what do you go in for principally?”

“Oh! Baseball principally.”

“That’s good. We play a good deal of it. The fellows seem to get more fun out of it than anything else, except, maybe, swimming. You swim, of course?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll have a talk this evening and map things out. Now, if you’re ready, we’ll go out and have a look around, and see what’s to be done. There’s usually a good deal to attend to the first day.”

Satisfying himself that their assistance was not needed in the distribution of trunks, Mr. Gifford took Sam about the camp. They looked in at the other dormitory, known as The Wigwam, which was not materially different from The Tepee; and then visited the third building.

“This,” said Mr. Gifford, “is the dining-hall. The fellows call it the Grubbery. There are four tables, you see. The Chief sits at the head of this one and the rest of us fellows take the others. That doesn’t leave one for you, though, does it? Guess the Chief will put you at the foot of his. The fellows take turns at setting the tables and clearing them. We have a splendid cook and plenty of good things to eat. You won’t go hungry, Craig. Speaking of that——”

Mr. Gifford led the way across the hall and through a swinging door into a kitchen. Sam followed and was introduced to the cook, one Cady Betts, a tall, fair-complexioned French-Canadian whom the boys, as Sam discovered later, called “Kitty-Bett.”

“Cady,” said Mr. Gifford, “we’re starved. Got anything to eat?”

The cook, who had been stocking the shelves with the supplies which had reached camp a little while before, smiled doubtfully.

“There is nothing cook,” he said in his careful English, “but there is crackers and cheeses. Maybe you like them?”

Mr. Gifford declared that he did and, assisted moderately by Sam, consumed a large quantity of each, sitting on the kitchen table and chatting the while with “Kitty-Bett.” The latter, Sam learned by listening, came from Michigan and in winter cooked for a big lumber company. He had a pair of the mildest, softest blue eyes Sam had ever seen in a man, and a pleasant smile, but one had only to watch him handle the cans and bags and jugs for a minute to see that he was as deft and quick as he was amiable. Presently Mr. Gifford conducted Sam back through the dining-hall again, pointing out the mail box which hung just inside the doorway. All the doors at the camp were double and swung outward, and, as Sam found in the course of time, were seldom ever closed. Eating in the dining-hall was much like eating out of doors, for, besides the big doorway and a shuttered opening at the front, the two sides of the building from three feet above the floor to the eaves opened out and up, admitting light and air and, it must be confessed, not a few flies!

There was an ice-house behind the kitchen, with a storage space in front for meats and eggs and milk and vegetables, a place whose temperature was most grateful after the warmth outside. From there they walked down to the landing. Here lay quite a flotilla of row-boats and canoes, which a tow-headed youth named Jerry—if he had another name Sam never learned it—was engaged in painting and varnishing. Jerry was a sort of general factotum; carried the mail across the lake once a day in the little naphtha launch, which had not yet been slid out of the small boat-house nearby, washed dishes after meals, pared potatoes, ran errands, and performed a dozen other duties. Mr. Gifford shook hands with Jerry and formally presented Sam. Jerry observed, with a shy smile, that he was “pleased to meet you, sir.”

On the float, which was quite large, there was a springboard and a slide; also a covered box which held oars and oar-locks and canoe paddles, and had a life-belt hung at one end. There was not much of a beach there, for shore and lake met sharply. There was, however, Mr. Gifford explained, a fairly good stretch of sand further along, near the ball-field, which the older boys were allowed to go in from occasionally.

“About the first thing a boy has to do when he gets here,” said Mr. Gifford, “is learn to swim. We put them all into the water twice a day, and those who want to may duck before breakfast. It generally takes only about a month to get the most backward youngsters to a point where they can keep afloat. They usually do their best to learn quickly because we don’t allow them in the boats until they have; and it seems to be every boy’s ambition to spend half his life in a canoe! I suppose you can manage a boat, Craig?”

“I can row a little; not very well, I guess. I’ve never been in a canoe, though.”

“We’ll have to remedy that. It won’t take you long to learn. Well, I guess we’ve seen about all there is. What do you think of the place?”

“It’s very—interesting,” replied Sam. “I never was at a camp before.”

“Really?” Mr. Gifford was silent for a minute or two while they walked back toward the dormitories. Then: “If you don’t mind my asking, Craig, how old are you?” he inquired.

Sam told him and he nodded. “You look older than that,” he said. “Better let the boys think you are older. They’ll mind you better, I guess. You haven’t met Haskins and Brown yet, have you? Let’s find them.”

They were with Mr. Langham in the little partitioned-off room at the front of The Wigwam, which the Director used both as office and bedroom. Mr. Haskins was, next to the Director, the oldest of the five who, with the arrival of Mr. Gifford and Sam, crowded the small office to its capacity. He was rather serious-looking, wore thick-lensed glasses and was slightly bald. He was an instructor at Burton College, which institution was well represented at The Wigwam, since Mr. Langham, too, was a member of the Burton faculty and Mr. Gifford was a post-graduate student there. Young Brown, a merry-faced boy of twenty, and Sam were the only ones not connected with Burton. Steve Brown was a sophomore at Western Reserve, and, like Sam, was a newcomer at the camp. After introductions were over Mr. Langham went over the daily schedule with the others—Sam found that his official title was junior councillor—and explained their duties. It seemed to Sam that The Wigwam was to be a very busy place and that time was not at all likely to hang heavily on his hands!