Two days later The Wigwam was running according to schedule. The rising bugle sounded at seven and breakfast was at half-past. From the time breakfast was over until nine there was work of some sort for all hands. Beds had to be made, dormitories swept and put in order, grounds “policed,” lamps filled, wood piled for the evening’s “camp-fire” and numerous other duties attended to. From nine to eleven the boys did as they liked. A few were being coached in studies by Mr. Haskins and Mr. Gifford, and such work came in the forenoon. Then, too, Steve Brown conducted a class in photography which was well patronised, and once a week Mr. Langham took those who wanted to go for a walk through the woods or along the lake for Nature Study. At eleven there was what the boys called “soak.” Wearing bathing trunks, the boys lined up on the edge of the float and at the word from one of the councillors plunged into the water. Those who could not swim did their “plunging” from the sides of the float where the water was only a couple of feet deep. “Soak” lasted the better part of an hour and all the councillors were on hand in bathing suits to give instruction and prevent accidents. It was the duty of one to sit in a row-boat a little ways off shore and go to the assistance of any bather in difficulties. In fine weather that morning bath was the most enjoyable hour of the day. There were thirty-eight boys at the camp, and when they all got to splashing around and skylarking there was much fun and merriment. Woe to any of them who stood unguardedly near the edge of the float, for someone was certain to sneak up behind and then there’d be a howl and a splash and a chorus of laughter as the victim came thrashing to the surface. And, of course, there were always upsets on the springboard, and some boy was forever discovering a new and ridiculous manner of going down the slide. The councillors interfered very little, and, although real hazing was put down with a firm hand, the youngsters had to stand a good deal of ungentle handling which did them no harm and speedily taught them confidence.

Sam quickly proved himself the best swimmer at camp and to him was delegated the education of the more advanced pupils, a task which he thoroughly enjoyed and went into heart and soul. There were some eight or ten older boys who showed real ability, and one, Tom Crossbush, a youth of nearly sixteen years, who, before the summer was over, learned to duplicate nearly every feat of Sam’s, whether of diving or swimming.

Dinner was at half-past twelve, and, following it, came thirty minutes of siesta when every occupant of the camp, barring Kitty-Bett and Jerry, the chore-boy, was required to lie on his bed and keep absolutely quiet. The boys corrupted the word to “sister” and, most of them, thoroughly disliked that period. At two o’clock came recreation until four-thirty. There were two fairly good tennis courts and a ball-field about a quarter of a mile from camp. There, too, were set up standards for jumping and vaulting, and there was a ring for shot-putting and a stretch of fairly smooth turf used for sprinting. The boys were all required to take up some form of athletic endeavour and those two hours and a half from two to four-thirty constituted the busiest period of the day for Mr. Gifford, Steve Brown, and Sam. Steve instructed in tennis—he was a good player—and helped at anything else he could. Mr. Gifford presided over track and field athletics and Sam was given entire charge of baseball. With very few exceptions all the boys played ball or tried to. Three nines were formed, the members drawn by lot by Mr. Gifford, Steve, and Sam, each of whom acted as manager for his aggregation. Captains were then chosen and practice began. Regular games were played twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and by the end of a fortnight the keenest rivalry had developed and they were having some exciting, if not very scientific contests.

The afternoon bathe, or “plunge,” as it was called, came at half-past four and was over at five. Supper was at five-thirty. The camp-fire was lighted at eight and boys and councillors gathered about it to talk over together the day’s happenings, make plans for the morrow and tell stories, sing songs and, finally, say prayers, and retire to the dormitories at nine. At ten o’clock the big lights were put out and after that quiet was supposed to prevail. Sometimes it didn’t, however, for all sorts of jokes were played in the darkness and quite frequently the councillors, at the end of the hall, would hear stealthy footsteps, muffled laughter, the sound of struggles and, sometimes, the crash of a cot whose wooden legs had been surreptitiously reversed beforehand and now deftly folded up underneath by the aid of a cord pulled, perhaps, from far down the hall. Sam was surprised to find that these larks were seldom interfered with by Mr. Gifford. If too much “rough-house” resulted the latter sent a cautioning, “That will do, fellows! Cut it out now!” travelling through the darkness and the usual result was instant quiet. “All the fun you like so long as it’s harmless” was the rule at The Wigwam.

Being a newcomer, Sam had to undergo some initiating. The second night he was there, after he had settled himself comfortably on his straw mattress and was drowsily watching the stars through the window at the foot of his cot, something at once startling and mysterious occurred. If Sam had been more experienced with boys he would have become suspicious at the almost instant silence which prevailed that night after “lights.” Almost before the boys had exchanged “good night” with the councillors, unmistakable evidences of healthy slumber came from various quarters. Something else that might have warned Sam was the prompt dousing of his reading-light by Mr. Gifford. The previous night that gentleman had burned his lamp until almost midnight, as Sam, the unaccustomed surroundings and the strange bed keeping him wakeful, well knew. But to-night Mr. Gifford had blown out his lamp only a minute or so after ten.

Sam was just on the verge of sinking off into slumber when the blanket—there were no sheets at The Wigwam—suddenly slid off to the floor. Sleepily, he reached down and felt for it, but failed to get hold of it. Wider awake now, he groped again but with no success. There was enough light from the open doorway and the windows to show him the blanket lying under the next cot. Blinking, he put his legs out of bed and reached for it. It wasn’t there! He stared in amazement. He stooped and peered under the cot. The blanket was now between it and the next one. Still too bemused by sleep to suspect a trick, he got up and walked around to the next aisle. The snoring had quite ceased, but Sam failed to notice the fact. Again he leaned down to pick up the blanket and again it wasn’t there!

He realised then he was the victim of a practical joke, but the mechanism still puzzled him. Up and down the dormitory not a figure moved. Intense silence prevailed. With the breeze playing about his bare legs, Sam stood in the passage and deliberated. Finally a slow smile spread over his face and the next instant he had whisked the blanket from the nearest cot and was walking sedately back to his bed! And at that moment shouts went up from all over the dormitory and every boy was sitting up in his cot, wide awake and swaying with laughter. And, as Sam lay down again and drew his stolen blanket over him, he was surprised to hear Mr. Gifford’s laughter mingling heartily with the rest!

The boy whose bed-clothing Sam had taken in reprisal was now dodging from one aisle to the next in wild pursuit of the elusive blanket which, pulled at the end of a cord from the farther end of the hall, led him a merry chase. Meanwhile the boys were calling demurely to Sam: “Cold night, Mr. Craig!” “Anything I can do, sir?” “That was a mean trick, Mr. Craig!” And then Mr. Gifford’s voice from across the passage: “We all have to take it, Craig! All right now?”

“Yes, thanks,” replied Sam. “Anyone who gets this will have to fight for it!”

At which there was more laughter and some applause and at last the dormitory really settled down to slumber and the snores that Sam heard were not feigned. Sam chuckled once or twice before he too dropped off to sleep.

A day or so later he was given an involuntary bath. He was standing on the end of the landing watching Horace Chase try to do the Australian crawl-stroke, when there was a sudden push from behind and in he went, heels over head, and for a moment he and young Chase were inextricably mixed up, for he had landed squarely on that youth. When he came to the surface, sputtering and blinking, he supposed that it had been an accident, but the grinning faces of the boys on the landing told a different tale, as did the smile that played over the countenance of Mr. Haskins, who was on duty in the row-boat. Then Sam grinned too, pulled himself quickly to the landing, and charged the miscreants. Over they went, with shouts and squeals, striking the water every which way and for the next few minutes giving Sam a wide berth. His good-natured acceptance of their jokes won their approval, and, although some few boys at first rather resented being under the authority of a fellow who was only a year or two older than they were, Sam soon found that he had won his place.

Every forenoon at ten o’clock the councillors met in Mr. Langham’s little office and made their reports and talked over with the Chief all matters concerning the conduct of the camp. Now and then, at first very infrequently, it was necessary to discipline some too-spirited youth. But on the whole the boys were well-behaved and little punishment had to be meted out. Usually the council ended in a jovial give-and-take in which even the Chief had to accept his share of joking. Sam found himself a bit too slow at repartee to take much part in these exchanges of banter, but he enjoyed them in his quiet way and was perhaps better liked because he bore himself modestly.

He had plenty to keep him busy, but all the tasks were more like play than work, and the fact that he was out of doors practically every moment of each day, and might as well have been outdoors at night as far as fresh air was concerned, made his duties easy, kept him fit and gave him a most voracious appetite of which he was inclined to be ashamed until he saw that it was no more remarkable than Steve Brown’s or Mr. Gifford’s, or, for that matter, some of the boys themselves! Things certainly tasted good, too. The food was plain but plentiful, and well-cooked. Kitty-Bett disdained coal, and the meats had a wonderful wood-fire flavour that appealed to appetites grown out-o’-doors. Blueberries were in season and wild raspberries were to be had for the picking. Fresh vegetables were brought every day from a neighbouring farm. There was hot meat at noon—steak or roasts—and cold meat for supper. The eggs were freshly-laid, and, whether boiled or made into one of Kitty-Bett’s inimitable omelets, were delicious. And as for Kitty-Bett’s pies and doughnuts and griddle-cakes! Well, words would have quite failed Sam there! The doughnuts—Kitty-Bett called them “fried-cakes”—were in such demand that he had to fry a batch almost every day. Between meals there was always a bowl of them on one of the tables in dining-hall, and there was no one to see whether you took one or a half-dozen.

Fortunately, for a whole two weeks the weather was fair; pretty hot in the middle of the day, but cool enough at night to make at least one thickness of blanket acceptable. Life at The Wigwam was very pleasant, and to this effect Sam wrote home to his mother and sister, and, later, to Tom Pollock. Sam felt very grateful to Tom for having told him of the situation, and said so in the letter which he penned one Sunday afternoon, seated under the trees by the shore of the lake. Among other things, Sam wrote: “You were right about the railway fare. Mr. Langham asked me how much it was and he is going to pay it back to me at the end of the month. I told him he needn’t, but he said it was the custom and everybody got his travelling expenses, even Kitty-Bett, who is the cook and a wonder. I just wish, Tom, you could taste some of his blueberry pie. The shirts you sold me are fine, but I haven’t worn the sweater yet. The weather has been very warm and no rain yet. Have you started the nine again? Please write and tell me the news.”

Tom replied very promptly and told all the happenings. The Blues were getting together again and Buster Healey was to catch for them. Sid was to play first base. They hadn’t arranged for many games yet, but Lynton had promised to play them a week from next Saturday. Tom was glad Sam liked the camp, and he and Sid meant to run up some time in August and see it.

Meanwhile Sam learned to handle a pair of oars with skill and a canoe paddle less dexterously. There were fish in the lake and Sam was a devoted disciple of Walton. His usual companion on his fishing trips was Tom Crossbush. Tom pretended to be enthusiastic about the sport, but I think his liking for Sam was the real reason for his participation in the excursions down the lake. At all events, his enthusiasm soon wore off after his line was dropped and most of the fish that were caught came up on Sam’s hook. Once or twice Steve Brown went along, but Steve didn’t pretend to know much about the gentle art and as often as not sat for long stretches with, as he said, “nothing on his hook but water.” Nevertheless, it was Steve who, later on in August, by some miracle hauled in the biggest black bass in the history of the camp. It weighed just four pounds and six ounces and Steve was so delighted that he sent it away to be mounted. Mr. Langham, who, could he have done so, would have been on the lake every day holding a bass rod, threw up his hands in disgust when he saw Steve’s capture. “Beginner’s luck!” he grumbled. “I’ve fished in that lake twenty times and never got better than a two-pounder! What bait did you have?”

“Just a worm, sir,” answered Steve innocently.

“A worm! You mean an angle-worm?” sputtered the Chief.

Steve assented, and Sam, laughing, said: “He won’t use hellgamites, Chief. He says they’re too ugly!”

“A garden worm!” exclaimed Mr. Langham. “Great jumping Jupiter! Don’t you know you don’t catch bass with angle-worms, you ignoramus?”

“Sorry,” replied Steve, grinning. “I caught this one that way, though.”

“I wouldn’t boast of it, then,” grunted the Chief. “You insulted the fish’s intelligence! Four pounds and six ounces!” Mr. Langham subsided, shaking his head and viewing the fish enviously.

Bass didn’t always bite, however, and perch were the usual catch. But four or five fair-sized perch make a palatable addition to the supper or breakfast menu, and the Chief’s table, at the lower end of which Sam had his place, was not infrequently graced with it.

Once every week there was a picnic, and on those occasions Sam’s prowess with hook and line was in demand. Sad to relate, however, it was at such times that his luck failed him, and very seldom did the picnickers’ vision of crisply fried perch materialise. That fact never spoiled the fun, though, and the weekly picnic was a favourite event. The boys piled into row-boats and canoes, after the small launch had been filled, and, at the end of tow-lines, were taken up or down or across Indian Lake to one of the numerous sites. Fellows who could be thoroughly trusted in canoes were allowed to paddle, but most of them floated along in the wake of the little launch which, with half a dozen boats holding her back, barely managed to make six miles an hour. Sam suspected that one reason picnics were so popular was because there was no “sister” on such days. To be sure, after luncheon was eaten, a luncheon skilfully prepared by Kitty-Bett, the boys were supposed to lie down and keep quiet for the usual half-hour, but the rule was not rigidly enforced and the boys found many ways of amusing themselves without actually moving around. By half-past two they were generally back at the playing-field, for even a picnic doesn’t take the place of a ball game!

Sam’s team was called the Mascots, Mr. Gifford’s the Indians, and Steve Brown’s the Brownies. The councillors sometimes played, but more often confined themselves to coaching. If they did take a hand in a game they went into the outfield so that the boys might play in the coveted infield positions. Mr. Gifford’s team was showing up best at the end of the first fortnight and had won two games. Sam’s charges had won one and lost one and the Brownies had lost both of their contests. In fairness to the last named nines, though, it should be explained that the Indians were fortunate in the possession of the only first-class pitcher in camp, one George Porter, a slight, wiry chap of fifteen who had a good curve and a fast straight ball and could mix them up cunningly. Even Sam, who was considered a very dependable batsman back in Amesville, had more than once failed to hit young Porter safely. Aside from pitchers, however, the three teams were evenly matched and when, the Saturday following the receipt of Tom Pollock’s letter, the Mascots and the Indians met for their third game, the entire camp was moved to a high pitch of excitement.