Breakfast was over by half-past eight the next morning, and the boys and councillors, fortified by plenty of fried bacon, bread and butter, and hot coffee—to say nothing of the remains of the doughnut crop—were ready for the return trip. Spirits were high, for sleep had rested and refreshed them, and, to make life seem still better worth living, the sun was out radiantly, the sky was washed clean of clouds, and a crisp little breeze blew from the distant lake.

It was decided that those wishing to make the return journey on foot might do so, but that Mr. Gifford should cross the lake by boat and return with the launch and a sufficient number of the camp row-boats to accommodate all who preferred to go home that way. Fourteen fellows voted to foot it back to camp by the northern route, and Sam and Steve and Mr. Haskins decided to go with them. So, as soon as breakfast was over they started off leisurely, while Mr. Gifford made his way to the village to secure a boat to make the trip across to The Wigwam. The fellows who were to await his return waved good-bye to the pedestrians and then set about amusing themselves.

That walk back was thoroughly enjoyable. They had three hours and a half to do it in and they could loiter as much as they pleased. The roads were fast drying off under the influence of sun and breeze and there was just enough zest in the morning air to make exercise a pleasure. Muscles soon forgot their stiffness, and by the time the little party of seventeen had left the railroad track and were on the dirt road everyone was very merry. The woods along the way were fragrant with the odour of moist earth and fresh verdure, and every leaf looked crisp and happy after the rain. Birds fluttered and darted, chirped and sang, and when, presently, the party paused at a tiny brook that crossed the road to dip their tin cups in the sparkling water it seemed that even the brook was trying its very best to tell its joy.

There were many pauses and rests. As the sun grew warmer and the breeze lessened a comfortable lassitude took the place of the first eagerness, and the fellows were quite willing to stop on any pretext. Often they had to wait for Mr. Haskins, who, it appeared, was having a most glorious time. He was forever darting off into the woods to look at a tree he didn’t recognise, or an oddly shaped fungus, or to examine some lichen or moss. Invariably he returned with a trophy to exhibit and expatiate on. His pockets were quite filled long before they reached Indian Lake. They didn’t enter the village, but passed it by along the lake. There was a small amusement park there; a boat-landing and some swings and a merry-go-round and a few booths where one could buy soda-water and pop-corn and candy and postcards; and the party managed to spend a quarter of an hour there most profitably for the vendors. They tried the swings and drank soda and bought candy and pop-corn. As few of the fellows had any money with them Mr. Haskins became banker and recorded the debts in the little memorandum book he always carried. Then they went on again, even more leisurely now by reason of the things they had eaten and drank, and so, at a few minutes past noon, came in sight of The Wigwam and were hailed by those who had returned by boat. Perhaps the pedestrians swaggered a little as they drew near. Why not? Had they not proved their superiority to the faint-hearted ones who had had to be carried home? Indeed, yes! And so, gathering at the flag-pole, they raised their voices in three lugubrious groans for “the Mollycoddles!” And Mr. Haskins groaned as loudly as any.

Two days later the tennis tournament started. In order to swell the number of entries, Sam had allowed Steve to persuade him to be his partner in the doubles. Sam had never played tennis but three or four times in his life, but Steve got him out of bed at half-past five on two mornings and tried to teach him the game. The attempt was not greatly successful, however, and Steve and Sam, giving fifteen, were speedily eliminated from the contest. Even Steve’s excellent playing couldn’t quite make up for Sam’s earnest but futile efforts. The boys who watched the two councillors play against George Porter and Ned Welch had difficulty in keeping from laughing at Sam’s wild attempts and awkward blunders. Finally, discovering that Sam, too, thought he was funny, they had their laughs and Sam didn’t mind at all. Millson Charrit, the Indians’ clever shortstop, captured first place in the singles, and Porter and Welch finally won the doubles championship, but not until Joe Groom and Tom Crossbush, giving half-fifteen, had run the last set to 8-all.

Then came the Annual Field Day, with nine events, including a mile and seven-eighths cross-country run. There was broad- and high-jumping, pole-vaulting, sprinting, shot-putting, discus-throwing, and low-hurdling. There were no remarkable records established, although Gerald Jones did better the camp record for the pole-vault. Perhaps the surprise of the afternoon occurred when Billy White, thirteen years old, romped in twenty yards ahead of his nearest competitor in the cross-country run. For that Billy got his name burned on a nice clean pine panel and hung in the “Trophy Room,” by which name a certain section of wall in The Wigwam was known. To be sure, Billy had not bettered the existing record, but he had come within a few strides of equalling it, and, in view of his age, his performance was considered worthy of perpetuation in the annals of camp athletics.

Meanwhile the Indians continued to pin defeats on their baseball rivals, although their games with the Mascots were never certain victories until the last man was out. The Mascots gave Mr. Gifford’s team several warm brushes, and occasionally won a contest, but three times out of five George Porter’s pitching decided the day. The Brownies, ever hopeful, went down to defeat regularly and cheerfully. That is not quite true, though, for the Brownies did win two games that summer, beating both the Mascots and the Indians.

It was shortly after the Field Day and well along toward the last of August that Sam received, one morning, a letter from Tom Pollock. Tom wrote that he and Sid Morris were coming up to pay a visit if Sam could find a place for them to sleep, either at camp or nearby. In some perplexity Sam consulted Mr. Langham.

“No trouble about it, Sam,” was the reply. “We’ve got extra cots and plenty of room to set them up. And there’s always something to eat. We’re very glad to have visitors. Wish we had more of them. Tell your friends to come as guests of The Wigwam for as long as they like to stay.”

Sam thanked the Chief gratefully and hurried off to send a reply, and four days later Sam and Steve walked over to Indian Lake and met the visitors on the arrival of the eleven-twenty train, which to-day rambled in at a quarter to twelve. They came back in an ancient vehicle obtained from the local livery stable, laughed and chattered all the way, and descended in front of The Wigwam a few minutes late for dinner. Each of the visitors carried a suit-case and Sidney Morris also had with him a large bundle wrapped in blue paper, which, when Sam could no longer restrain his curiosity, Sid informed him, contained two four-pound boxes of mixed chocolates.

“For the crowd, you know,” explained Sid. “Kids are usually crazy about candy. I remember last summer at the lake I’d have given ten dollars a pound for the stuff lots of times. You’d better take charge of it, Sam, and ladle it out to them after dinner.”

“We almost missed the train while he went after that,” said Tom Pollock. “We had to run all the way from Budlong’s to the station.”

“It was fine of you,” said Sam, “and the fellows will be tickled to death.”

“Sickened to death, you mean,” chuckled Steve Brown.

The new arrivals caused much interest in camp, and after siesta—Tom and Sidney, being warned of that period of enforced quiet, wandered off into the woods—they were duly presented to most of the older chaps. The candy was fairly distributed, one big box going to The Wigwam and one to The Tepee, and made a great hit. For the next hour or two Sidney was easily the most popular fellow in camp! The Brownies and Indians held practice that afternoon—they were to meet on the morrow—and Tom and Sidney volunteered for service, Tom with the Indians and Sid with Steve’s team. Tom’s fame as a pitcher soon got about and some of the boys asked Sam if he wouldn’t get Tom to pitch a little for them. So, after practice was over, Sam donned a mask and protector and Tom walked to the box.

“All right, fellows!” called Sam, after Tom had slammed a dozen balls over in the warming-up process. “Who wants to knock the first home run?”

Rather sheepishly, Joe Groom picked out a bat and stood up at the plate. Steve Brown smilingly offered to umpire.

“Don’t knock him out of the box, Joe,” counselled someone. “I want a hit myself.”

“That’s right, Joe. Be easy with him. A three-bagger will do!”

Sam stooped and held three fingers against his mitt, Tom wound up, stepped forward easily, and the ball travelled to the plate. Joe, frowning intently, swung. The ball thumped into Sam’s mitt.

“Strike!” droned Steve, and the audience chuckled. Joe grinned and tapped his bat on the plate.

“A peach of a drop,” muttered George Porter admiringly.

“All right, Tom!” called Sam, thoroughly enjoying himself. “One more, now, just like it!” But only two fingers lay against the mitt this time and when the ball broke it curved cannily to the left, and Joe, backing away from it, heard again Mr. Brown’s fateful, “Strike—two!” A howl went up from the watchers, who now began to cluster behind Mr. Brown in their desire to watch the breaks.

“Right over now, Tom!” Sam held his hands wide and Tom nodded, wiped one palm on his trousers, poised the ball and shot it forward. Joe declared that he never saw it from the time it left the pitcher’s hand until he looked around and saw it in Sam’s mitten. “Talk about your fast ones!” he marvelled. “Say, honest, fellows, that ball travelled!”

“He’s out!” called Steve, and there was a rush to take his place. George Meldrum secured it, and after him Tom Crossbush, and then a dozen others tried their fortunes. But not a hit resulted. In-shoot and out, slow ball and fast, drop and floater, high ball and low, succeeded each other, Sam changing the pace in a thoroughly bewildering manner and Tom answering every signal. Finally Steve Brown tried his luck and, after slamming ineffectually twice, managed to roll the ball a dozen yards toward third base. Then Mr. Gifford, egged on by the boys, had his inning and, when Tom had fooled him on two low ones at which he made no offer, caught a fast one and sent it arching into right field, so winning much applause.

“Foul!” declared Steve Brown.

“What!” demanded Mr. Gifford.

“Foul!”

“Robber!” shrieked the batter, imitating an infuriated player and brandishing his bat over Steve’s head. “You’re a bum umpire!”

“The bench for youse,” growled Steve. “Off the field!”

“How much are they payin’ yer?”

“That’ll be about all,” returned Steve, with much dignity. “You’re fined ten dollars.”

Mr. Gifford, disgustedly hurling his bat to the ground and then kicking it out of the way, stalked off, muttering, to the delight of the fellows. On the way back to the camp Tom was surrounded by a guard of admiring youths who begged him to show them how to pitch that drop or that floater. Sidney was no longer the hero.

The visitors had a good time every minute. They joined the boys in the water at “plunge,” ate ravenously of everything set before them at supper, declaring themselves “strong for those doughnuts,” and entered into everything that came along with genuine enthusiasm. Tom conducted a class in pitching after supper until it was too dark to see the ball. Later, at camp-fire, Mr. Langham called on the guests for entertainment. Tom begged off, but Sidney, who appeared to be in the most boisterous spirits, declared that if someone had a concertina he would chant them a ditty. He finally compromised on a banjo, however, and when he had picked at it a moment, broke out into a monotonous tune to which he supplied words as follows:

Sidney ended with a final strum of the banjo and the audience set up a wild howl of laughter and applause and loudly demanded more. But Sid declared that that was the only song he knew. “Besides,” he said, stretching out and pillowing his head on Tom’s knees, “I’m too full of doughnuts to sing. Somebody else try it.”

“I don’t think any of us could improvise as well as that,” replied the Chief, with a laugh. “I call that pretty clever, fellows.”

“Not bad,” said Tom judicially, “but he got the last line wrong, Mr. Langham. That wasn’t the way I taught it to him.”

“You!” grunted Sidney scathingly, “you couldn’t find a rhyme for ‘lemon’!”

“There isn’t any,” piped up young Chase.

“Oh, yes, there is,” said Tom.

“What?” Sidney demanded.

“The rhyme for ‘lemon’ is ‘Sidney,’” was the sweet response. After they got through chuckling at that bit of wit they sang songs until it was time for prayer.

It wasn’t until the boys had retired to the dormitories that Sam had an opportunity to hear the home news from Tom and Sidney. The three sat on the porch of The Tepee and talked until it was nearly time for “lights” and Sam heard all the gossip of Amesville. It wouldn’t greatly interest, us, but Sam found it most absorbing and asked many questions and began to feel a little bit homesick withal. At ten they went to bed, Sidney and Tom being accommodated with cots sandwiched in between Sam’s and Harry Codman’s, an arrangement that allowed them to lie very close together and whisper cautiously long after they should have been silent.

Tom and Sidney remained until the second day and then, cheered to the echo by the campers, climbed into that same “ancient thing” that Sid had so eloquently sung of and, accompanied by Sam, drove back to the station. Sam felt a bit forlorn after the train had whisked them away and he walked back to camp rather wishing that he too was on his way to Amesville. But that feeling didn’t last long, not long enough, in fact, to prevent him from eating a very hearty dinner!

The day following Mr. Langham made a trip to Columbus. He was away only one night, returning the next afternoon with many packages, most of which represented commissions from the boys. He also brought back a piece of news which he divulged that evening at camp-fire. The nights were getting rather cool now and sweaters and blankets were appreciated, and the fire was bigger and hotter.

“Fellows,” announced Mr. Langham, “coming up in the train this morning I ran into a man I used to know at college, a chap named Scovill. We got to talking about things, old times and old acquaintances, you know, just as you fellows do, I dare say——”

Chuckles from the circle.

“—and it turned out that Mr. Scovill has a boys’ camp, much like this, I suppose, though a bit older and larger, at a place called Mount Placid, just across the line in the next state. Seems they play baseball at his camp—Camp Placid, he calls it—and he thinks he’s got the best summer-camp ball team around this part of the world. I told him”—Mr. Langham laughed softly—“I told him he might have a pretty fair team, but I knew of a better one. He asked where it was and what it was called, and I said it was located at Indian Lake and was called The Wigwam Baseball Team.”

Fervid applause from his hearers.

“Well, to make a long story short, fellows, he issued a challenge to us. ‘You bring your team up to Placid,’ he said, ‘and play us. We’ve got plenty of room and can look after you overnight and give you some real food.’ I thanked him and told him I’d talk it over when I got back and let him know. We looked up trains and found that we could leave here early in the morning, on that seven-forty-five express, and get to Mount Placid at about eleven. We’d have to stay over there until the next forenoon at about ten-thirty. The one objection is just this. If we are to try conclusions with those folks we’ve got to make up a team of our best players, councillors included—the Placid team has four councillors on it, he tells me—and then get in a week or so of practice. If we do that it’s going to interfere badly with our ‘long hike,’ which is set for September fourth. If we postpone the hike we interfere with Visitors’ Day, the ninth. And we don’t want to do that, because that date is set down in the camp-booklet and parents and friends are doubtless arranging to come then, and if we change the date there’ll be a lot of confusion. Now, I’ve been wondering how it would do if we all went to Mount Placid, the whole kit and kaboodle of us——”

Interruption of enthusiastic cheering.

“—saw the game and then hiked back from there. We’d have seventy-odd miles to do and could take four days to do it in if necessary. It wouldn’t be any trick to ship our things to Mount Placid by express a day or two ahead. There’d be the matter of railway fares, of course, and perhaps some of you wouldn’t feel like paying out so much money.” Mr. Langham paused questioningly.

“Nobody’d mind, sir,” someone shouted. “We’ll all go, Chief!”

“Well, that would be the only drawback, I guess. We’ll think it over and talk about it again to-morrow night.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said Steve Brown, “but wouldn’t it be better to settle it now? If we’re going to play those fellows we’ll need a lot of practice. We ought to make up our team to-morrow and get busy. Every day would count, I guess.”

“That’s right, Chief,” confirmed Mr. Gifford. “Why not find out now whether they are any of the fellows who would rather not go to the expense of the trip?”

“Then you like the idea, fellows?”

“Yes, sir!” “You bet we do!” “We’ll trim those chaps, sir!”

“All right, then. Now, are there any of you who can’t afford the trip, or who don’t want to spend that much money? One way and another, it will probably cost each of you nearly four dollars.”

Silence prevailed. There were whispers finally, but no dissenting voice until Gerald Jones piped up with: “I haven’t got that much, sir, and my folks are away from home and I don’t know where to get at them, sir, but if you’d lend me about two dollars, sir——”

Amidst laughter Mr. Langham agreed to supply the deficiency for Jones and for any other boy whose funds were unequal to the demand, and enthusiasm reigned. Out of the babel that ensued Mr. Haskins was heard to inquire mildly when it was planned to make the trip. The Chief considered.

“This is Thursday,” he said finally. “If we say a week from to-day for the game we will have five days for practice. Would that be sufficient, Andy?”

Mr. Gifford thought it would.

“Very well, then. I’ll write Scovill to-morrow that we’ll be with him next Thursday loaded for bear. We’ll stay at his camp Thursday night and start the hike the next day. To-morrow we’ll get the map and work it out. I’ll leave the matter of forming the team to you, Andy. But you and Steve and Sam had better count on playing, I think. I dare say they’ve got a pretty good team up there and we don’t want them to beat us too badly.”

“With five afternoons of practice,” replied Mr. Gifford confidently, “we can turn out a nine that will put the ‘acid’ in ‘Placid’!”

And above the laughter Mr. Haskins was heard soberly and earnestly agreeing.