  Blackie did not mention to a single soul what he had seen and heard at the hermit’s house the night of the snipe hunt. He wanted nothing more than to forget the terror which had gripped him by the throat as he stood outside the door of the house in the woods. Indeed, when the crystal clear morning came and the busy camp routine began, it was hard to believe that he had witnessed any dark deed the night before. As the days passed, he almost forgot he had ever overheard the two tramps planning robbery and violence upon a harmless old man. The glorious Fourth of July came and went, leaving only burnt fingers and a powder-blackened litter of colored papers on the baseball field as souvenirs of the sparkling and explosive celebration. Wally continued his lessons in the Australian crawl, and also taught the Tent Four group many things about the art of diving. Camp Lenape held a field meet, and Blackie was awarded three ribbons of various colors as trophies of his prowess in running and jumping. Tent Four wiped out its bad record by winning inspection three times in succession. On Friday night each tent group put on an impromptu show or stunt, ranging from a vaudeville act with a trick horse (front part, Gil Shelton; hind legs, Spaghetti Megaro) to an uproarious imitation of a tent full of sleepy-heads turning out for Reveille. Blackie and Gallegher spent much of their time studying to pass their requirements for the honor emblem, and at the Indian council on Monday night they both were summoned before the Chief’s seat and proudly received the coveted badge. Blackie was awake twenty minutes before First Call on Tuesday morning, and passed the time stitching the swastika emblem on the front of his jersey. The sky was dull and leaden; for the first time since he had come to camp there was a smell of rain in the air. When the campers were returning up the hill after the Indian dip the storm broke, bucketing down in torrents; the boys went up to breakfast in raincoats and ponchos, and stood assembled for flag-raising on the long porch of the lodge. “I was going out with the pioneers to help build a signal-tower this morning,” Blackie grumbled over his oatmeal at breakfast, “and here it’s got to go and rain. Gee, what rotten luck!” “Why worry?” asked Ken Haviland; “Rain doesn’t spoil anything here at Lenape. Last year we had so much fun on rainy days that I’ve been wishing for a wet day soon. We’ll have a good time to-day, and don’t forget it.” “What will happen?” “Oh, lots of things. Everybody stays here in the lodge, and we have boxing and wrestling matches, indoor track meets, or signalling contests. Maybe some of the leaders will tell stories. Rainy days are good times to practise for the big show that comes at the end of every section, or to get the dope on map-making, life-saving drill, forestry and merit badges. Some fellows can work in the carpenter shop on handicraft. I remember one wet day last year we had a big mud-marathon around the lodge. Everybody put on old clothes and went through a big obstacle race; we almost laughed ourselves sick.” Haviland’s prophecy was correct; the program for the day was more active and strenuous than for a day of sunshine. The campers put the lodge in order, cleared away a big space in the center, and brought in a tall heap of firewood for the cheerful blaze that was crackling in the stone fireplace. Wally Rawn, who as officer of the day was supervising the program, caught Blackie by the arm as he was helping to lay down some large, padded wrestling mats. “Blackie, will you go in to the Chief’s office and get the O. D. report blank for me?” “You bet, Wally!” Blackie skipped over to a far corner of the lodge, where the Chief had a small room fitted with a desk and cabinet to hold the camp letters and records. The door was slightly ajar, and two voices sounded beyond. The Chief had a visitor. Blackie paused at the door, hesitating to intrude upon the conversation. “Just stopped on my way from Elmville,” came the heavy voice of the visitor. “Couldn’t find out anything about the matter there, and as I was riding back over the mountains I thought I might as well stop on the chance that you might know something about it.” “Mr. Lane, who brings in our provisions, told me what he’d heard in town,” answered the Chief. “That’s all I know. Wednesday night it happened, wasn’t it?” “That’s what the coroner thinks. The body wasn’t found till Friday—nobody goes up there, you know, and the old man lived alone. It was just by luck that one of the neighbors stopped in to see him, and found the body.” “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Sheriff. It’s a terrible thing to have such a murder so near camp. And the old hermit wouldn’t have hurt a fly.” Sheriff! Murder! Blackie clutched the doorpost and almost fell over at the words. The hermit! “Well,” said the sheriff, scraping back his chair as he rose, “if you do hear anything, I live over by Newmiln Center. You can send word to me there. It’s a puzzle, sure enough. As brutal a thing as I ever heard of in all my experience; if it was robbers that did it, they surely didn’t find anything.” “I hope you catch them,” said the Chief fervently. “And I’m sorry I can’t give you any clue. Good day!” Blackie just had time to collect his thoughts and run away from the door before he might be discovered listening. He dashed off and joined the group about the wrestling-mats, covertly watching the man who came out of the office. The sheriff was a heavy-set, black-mustached man in spurred and muddied riding-boots and glistening slicker. He stamped across to the back door and, while Blackie watched at a window, mounted a waiting horse and cantered off down the muddy road through the downpour. The watching boy heaved a sigh of relief; he had escaped being caught and questioned. The two tramps must have tried to force the hermit to tell what he knew. The old man, of course, possessed neither a treasure nor the secret of a silver mine, and in the struggle he had somehow been—killed. Murder! What an ugly-sounding word it was! Blackie shivered. He wanted to forget; but he knew that never in this world would he lose the memory of that sullen, threatening house and the racking scream that had issued from it on that fatal Wednesday night. He looked about him. The rainy-morning program in the lodge was already in full swing. In front of the fireplace Lieutenant Eames had roped off a square space and was giving boxing instruction to an interested group. Two older boys, their fists hidden in bulging padded gloves, were clumsily sparring together under a rapid stream of cautions and advice from the lieutenant and a perfect hail of cheers and urgings from the howling bunch of spectators. “Put your body behind it!” counseled the West Pointer. “Place your blows where they’ll do the most good—don’t thrash around wildly. There—not bad! Don’t run away, Pete; stand up to him and defend yourself with the gloves. Whoa!” The two boys, smarting under a few well-placed blows, were mixing it in earnest, their fists whirling rapidly but with little damaging effect. “That’s enough—you can’t fight best when you lose your tempers. Now, who’s next?” “Match me with somebody!” urged Chink Towner. “It’s my turn now, Lieutenant!” “Whom do you want to take on, Chink?” The onlookers chorused a suggestion. “Blackie! Blackie Thorne! Here he is now! Take him on, Chink!” “How about it, Blackie?” asked the lieutenant. “Want to try a round or two with Chink?” Blackie’s scare was still too close to him to want to think about anything else, but he resolved not to display the white feather before the group. He could not refuse. “Aw, sure, I’m not afraid of him. Give me the gloves!” Jerry Utway volunteered to serve as his second, and jumped to help him. Jake Utway, not to be outdone by his twin brother, took Chink’s corner and laced on his gloves. The news of the bout spread around the lodge from group to group, until quite a number of campers crowded about the ring. Ellick, the chef, drifted in from the kitchen, and agreed to judge the contest. Tent Three rallied to support Chink, their champion, and the Tent Four boys patted Blackie on the back and whispered words of advice or encouragement. Wally Rawn came over while Blackie was stripping to shorts and tennis shoes. “You shouldn’t be matched with Towner,” he said. “He’s got a longer reach than you have, and knows more about boxing than you do.” “I can’t back out now. I’m not scared of him anyway,” Blackie muttered, but his heart was racing and he had a chilly feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Well, remember to keep your guard up all the time, and don’t lose your head. Another thing—don’t set your body stiff until you’re ready to hit; if you’re relaxed a blow doesn’t hurt so much. But don’t let him take you off balance, or you’ll find yourself chewing the floor.” Bewildered by the shouting and the hasty advice, Blackie found himself in the center of the ring. The lieutenant was introducing the contenders. “In this corner, Battling Towner, the Chinese challenger; to my right, Kid Blackie, the Bloodthirsty Bantam. Shake hands, gentlemen! First round—time!” The two boys closed in upon each other warily, exchanged a few watchful feints and passes. Chink led with his left; Blackie sprang out of the way, and swung harmlessly at the air. “Get into him, Thorne!” squealed Jerry Utway. “This ain’t a pillow-fight! Hit him!” Chink feinted with his left and aimed a blow with his right that caught Blackie on the arm, whirling him half around. He caught his balance, leaped forward, and closed in a clinch so tight that neither boy got in any blows before they were separated. They parted; there followed a few seconds of brisk sparring; then Chink, with lightning footwork, dodged under Blackie’s guard and planted a thudding glove upon his face. Blackie was knocked backwards; he shut his eyes and crouched with his gloves over his face and his arms tight to his chest. The spectators shouted, cheering for Chink. “First blood for the Chinese lightweight!” “Yay, Tent Three!” “Get into him, Blackie!” Blackie set his teeth. The blow had stunned him for a minute, but it had the effect of making him forget the crowd, forget everything but the crouched figure of the boy before him—his antagonist. The faces of the watchers and the referee seemed to show through an unreal haze. He struck out at Towner, and landed on his body; but Chink retaliated with another crushing blow upon the nose. A numb feeling settled upon Blackie’s senses; his limbs seemed to be yards long, the gloves to weigh tons. What was he doing out here in front of the crowd, jumping around breathlessly and being struck again and again? Even Chink’s face came to him half hidden by a dreamy mist. He fought and fought, yet Chink never seemed to be touched; he darted about, apparently placing his fists where he pleased. A gong sounded; hands reached out and pulled Blackie to his chair. He felt a splash of cold water on his face; Jerry Utway was rubbing his arms with a towel. “Round one—won by Mistah Chink!” came Ellick’s voice. Again Blackie was aware that the gong had sounded, and once more he was facing Towner. The other boy was breathing heavily, but was apparently as light on his feet and as ready with his hands as ever. “After him, Blackie—the best defense is an attack!” It was Wally’s voice, coming coolly to him from beyond the ring. Blackie caught his breath and plunged with whirling arms after the shadowy form of his opponent. Chink closed in for an exchange of body blows and another clinch, in which Blackie got the worst end of it. Towner was depending mostly upon blows to the face, concentrating all his attack upon the nose and mouth, placing shrewd hits on these places one after another. Blackie had the feeling that he was fighting against a ghostly figure, an antagonist as elusive and intangible as smoke. He began hitting out blindly, thoughtlessly, raging and hating Towner with all his might. A red flag seemed to drop before his eyes, and he charged with his fists hammering like pistons, careless of the rain of blows that fell upon his unprotected head. He was seeing red, running wild, losing all his skill and direction in a mad, senseless rush. Through the clamor of the crowd came Wally’s low counsel again. “Keep your head, Blackie! Self-control!” The mist began to clear. He felt a jolting, sharp blow on the chin, was aware that Chink was off to one side and that in his blind charge he was nowhere near his antagonist. He fell back, protecting his face; then, suddenly, he whirled and struck out with his right arm extended. His glove seemed to plunge forward of its own accord and land with a smack on Chink’s face. The other boy fell back with an amazed look in his eyes. “Time! End of de bout—no decision!” cried Ellick. There were shouts of protest; the campers wanted a fight to a finish. Ellick only shook his head and nodded in the direction of Blackie’s corner. Blackie saw his comrades staring at him strangely. “He tapped you one on the nose, all right,” said Jerry, giving him a cup of water. Blackie looked with surprise at his hand, still encased in a leather glove. The casing was stained with a few darkening crimson drops. “What of it? I can still lick him! I’m just getting started!” Lieutenant Eames crossed over to them with one arm on Chink’s shoulder. “Sure, you’re not whipped by a long sight, Thorne,” he said. “But we can match up you two again some other time. Now, you two boys have been swatting each other all around the ring enough to satisfy anybody. Another thing, Blackie—I can see that you don’t know the first thing about scientific self-defense, but you have two things that are most essential to a good boxer. You have good muscular control, and you keep your wits about you all the time. If you want to spend some time with me, I think after a few lessons I can make a pretty fair boxer out of you.” “Say, will you, Lieutenant? I’d sure like that!” He relinquished his gloves to another boy, and a third match began, while Wild Willie Sanders and Soapy Mullins began a wrestling bout. The group split up and drifted away, while Blackie slipped into his clothes. His nose had stopped bleeding, and he was feeling a glow of happiness that came from the words of the boxing instructor. He felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up and saw Wally. “Well, you took a beating to-day, all right!” “Chink didn’t lick me,” frowned Blackie. “They stopped us because he tapped me on the nose.” “He hammered you all over the ring; I said you were no match for him. Chink Towner did give you a beating; but I was watching another fight at the same time.” “Gee, you talk funny sometimes, Wally. What fight do you mean?” “You were fighting against your own self, Blackie, when you were there in the ring. And you won that fight. I saw you. For a minute you got mad, lost your control; then you got hold of yourself and began to use your head. It was a good thing for you to go against a fighter better than yourself; you learned to take your medicine and keep your temper. And they’re both good things for a young lad to know.” |
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