Dripping and grinning the two warriors were pulled into row-boats and taken ashore, where Mr. Gifford, referee of the tournament, announced the match a draw. There was a senior diving contest, won by Tom Crossbush, and a junior contest for the younger youths. And there were several other swimming races of varying distances. And, finally, a special race of an eighth of a mile, more or less, between Sam and Steve Brown, in which Sam allowed his competitor something like fifty yards and beat him out handily. There were no prizes given, but Steve Brown recorded the events and the names of the winners with a hot poker on a wooden panel and the panel was hung in The Wigwam. The ball games went on twice each week and the Indians, thanks to George Porter’s pitching, distanced their rivals without much trouble. It The councillors usually played only in practice, but once or twice, by common agreement, they took part in a game. When they did the fielders were busy. Mr. Gifford was the slugging kind of a batter and in one game drove out three home Much applause then from the audience of non-combatants and from the bench where the Brownies were congregated. Much laughter, too, and not a little “ragging” of the Indians. Out near second Mr. Gifford shook a threatening fist at Steve as the latter arose and patted the dust from his flannel trousers. Disconsolately and a bit sheepishly, the Indians returned to their places. At the plate, Jimmy Benson stooped to pick up his mask. In the pitcher’s box George Porter, ball He didn’t even hurry. There was a shout of alarm from the third baseman and Porter turned to see the councillor halfway to the plate. Porter raised his arm to throw, but there was Benson, intensely agitated but helpless, struggling with his mask. And so Steve crossed the home-plate at a slow lope and turned smilingly toward the bench. The ball reached the plate a moment later and rolled against the backstop. The Indians were not allowed to forget that incident for many days. In another contest, when Sam was playing left field for his team and Mr. Gifford was with the Indians, there was a batting contest that was worth seeing. Sam was something of a heavy hitter himself, and he didn’t find George Porter very difficult. Sam and Mr. Gifford, then, vied with each other and kept the opposing outfields very busy indeed. Mr. Gifford got no home runs that time, but he made a record of two doubles and three singles, and his doubles might have gone for triples if the Mascots’ outfielders hadn’t been playing well back. Sam got one three-bagger, There came a rainy spell in the middle of the month, that made baseball out of the question for several days and the boys began to show signs of fidgeting. There wasn’t much they could do to work off their surplus animation when it rained. Not that the rain kept many of them indoors, for it didn’t; but knocking about in wet boats and canoes soon palled, tennis was impracticable, and there seemed to remain no outdoor amusement. By the fourth day the fellows had begun to get into mischief in sheer boredom and Mr. Langham realised that something must be done; that some outlet must be provided for the stored-up energy. The councillors talked it over in the office that morning. The rain still pelted down and the buildings were damp and cheerless in spite of the fires that flared all day in the big chimney-places. Sam, who had put on his raincoat and had his pockets bulging with bait-box and fishing tackle, hoped “I suppose,” said Mr. Langham, “we couldn’t get up any sort of an athletic meet, Brown?” “No, sir; everything’s flooded at the field. The pits are mud-holes.” “Well, we ought to get them busy at something, fellows. They’ll be getting into trouble if we don’t. I thought I detected a strong odour of cigarettes under the window yesterday.” Mr. Haskins nodded. “Three or four of the older boys were in the trunk cellar. I—er—I went down there, but failed to apprehend them.” The Chief tried not to smile. They all knew that Mr. Haskins had undoubtedly warned the boys of his approach and carefully waited until they had hidden all incriminating evidence before he had confronted them. Mr. Langham coughed and looked out the dripping window. “We mustn’t have smoking, Haskins,” he said gravely. “No, sir. If you’d like the names——” “No, no,” responded the Chief hurriedly. “If Apparently no one had. At least none spoke for a moment. Then Mr. Gifford said doubtfully: “We might let them go over to the village for the afternoon, sir.” The village lay across and down the lake some two miles, a tiny hamlet boasting of three or four stores, a blacksmith shop, and a station, from which an occasional train rambled away to the north on an unimportant branch line. Mr. Haskins smiled. “There isn’t much for them to do over there,” he said. “They might buy root-beer and candy and make themselves sick, but that’s about all.” “What we want is something they can go at hard,” said Mr. Langham, frowning over the problem. “Something that’ll leave them healthily tired out.” Another silence followed and then Sam asked: “Would it do them any harm to sleep out of doors, sir?” “Sleep out of doors? Why, on wet ground, yes, “I was thinking that we might have a hike, sir.” “A hike,” repeated the Chief thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Craig. You see——” “That’s what they need, Chief,” said Mr. Gifford. “What’s your idea, Sam?” “Well, I thought we might select a place say five or six miles away, divide the fellows into two parties and set out with blankets and grub and see which party could get there first. There might be some sort of prize or reward. Of course, it would mean sleeping outdoors——” “But if the parties started out together it would just be a race, wouldn’t it?” objected Mr. Gifford. “Pretty strenuous, I’m afraid, Sam.” “I thought we could set out different ways, perhaps. We could see that the fellows didn’t overdo it. The idea would be to get there first, but in good condition. That would mean resting along the way, taking the easiest routes, and so on. It’s just a suggestion. And I don’t know anything about the country around here. Maybe it wouldn’t do.” “I say,” exclaimed Steve Brown, “isn’t there a picnic-ground or something of that sort over at Miles, Chief? Seems to me I remember a big open building near the railway.” “Yes, a park they used to hold Chautauquas in. You mean we could sleep there, eh? Not a bad idea. In fact, the scheme sounds good. What do you think?” “Excellent,” voted Mr. Haskins. “And I’d like it myself first-rate. My legs certainly need stretching.” “We’d have to take blankets and eats, wouldn’t we?” asked Steve. “And some cooking things, too, I suppose. Or we might find some place to feed over there.” “It would be more fun for the boys if we cooked our own grub,” said Mr. Gifford. “Let’s do it, Chief!” “Well, by Jove, we will! And I’ll go along. Now let’s figure on rations and luggage.” And that is how the Marathon Picnic, as the boys called it, came about. Shortly after dinner—siesta being disregarded that day—the boys congregated in The Wigwam and the plan, of which they had already caught an inkling, was explained |