  The campers from Iron Lake departed northwards about five o’clock in holiday mood, singing their camp song as they hiked, more than contented to have won the close-fought victory in the water. Some of the Lenape tribe accompanied them a mile or two on the road, and were forced to swallow a lot of good-natured chaffing about their defeat, which they felt keenly. Blackie did not go with them. He had helped Ken Haviland ashore, and seen him carried off toward the hospital tent and the ministrations of Dr. Cannon; and then he returned to Tent Four and dressed in a clean outfit. He was agreeably tired, but the swim had braced him immensely, and he was comfortable in body for the first time since he had run away. His mind was far from easy, however, as he answered the bugle’s summons and stood Retreat ceremony with the tent groups. He was still in coventry; not a boy spoke to him, and many were the black looks cast in his direction. It was the same at supper. Wally presided over a quiet table that night. Gallegher sat gloomily next to the vacant chair that belonged to Ken Haviland. Fat Crampton, with his usual good humor, was attacking his food with gusto, rather pleased with himself for winning a first place in the diving; Guppy and Lefkowitz chattered together now and then; but Slater could not forget how easily Lenape might have held the championship had things been a little different. Once Guppy turned to Slater and said, “Gee, that fellow Dunning wasn’t any slouch of a swimmer, was he?” “He was pretty good, all right—but he would have been beaten in that last race if a certain guy—I won’t mention any names—wasn’t yellow. It would have won us the meet, too.” Slater looked meaningly at Blackie, who flushed and gazed down at his plate, biting his lip to keep back a bitter retort. After the dessert, Wally leaned over to Blackie. “The Chief wants to see you in his office, son,” he said, “right after supper. He’s got a friend of yours in there with him now.” “All right, Wally.” Blackie knew who that friend of his was; a saddled horse was tethered outside that could belong to no one but Sheriff Manders. When the dismissal signal was given, he went over to the office door with a pounding heart, and entered at the Chief’s cheery invitation. The Chief nodded as he saw Blackie. “Come in, Thorne. You’ve met Sheriff Manders, I hear. He’s ridden over to get your affadavit against the two men who attacked Rattlesnake Joe. Just tell him slowly everything that happened, and don’t keep anything back.” The sheriff had paper and pen before him, and with a gentle kindliness asked Blackie many questions, writing down the boy’s answers in a round, careless hand. The Chief said no word, but listened with increasing attention as the tale of Blackie’s adventures was unfolded. When the officer pronounced himself satisfied, he looked over at the Chief with a quizzical air. “Kind of a lot of trouble for a kid his size to get into, eh? Well, you’ve helped the state to prosecute a pair of brutal criminals, young Thorne, and I think I may venture to say that——” The Chief cut in on his speech. “We won’t talk about that now, Mr. Manders, if you don’t mind.” “Just as you say. Well, I’ll be going now. Thank you both. ’Night!” He stamped out of the office. Blackie made no move to leave, but cleared his throat huskily. He had the most distasteful task in the world before him, the job of admitting that he was a coward who had sought to shield himself from punishment behind a lie. “Chief, I—I want to tell you something.” “Go ahead, Blackie.” The Chief’s face betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking. “They say that confession is good for the soul.” “I lied to you the other night. I was with Gallegher when he broke the camp rule against smoking, and I smoked too. I’m sorry I lied, and I’m willing to take my punishment.” “You know what that means?” “Yes, sir.” “All right. You can go now.” The Chief nodded that the affair was ended for the present, and Blackie left the little office. He had done it. A great load was lifted from his heart; he had confessed like a man, and things were understood between the Chief and himself. However painful might be the outcome, at least he had cleared away the black stain on his conscience. A busy crew of stage-hands was arranging the lodge in the semblance of a theater, for that night was to be given the musical show, “Coo-Coo,” in which Sax McNulty and an imposing troupe of camp talent were to perform for the amusement of the campers, a few visitors from the city, and some neighboring farmers. As Blackie passed out to the porch, it was just growing dusk. From the lake he could hear laughter and shouts of gaiety; in spite of the afternoon’s defeat it was to be a night of merriment. Chinese lanterns gleamed from the dock, which was crowded with campers dressed in masquerade regalia; boat-loads of boys in costumes ranging from African wild-man to pirate were rowing about amidst song and fun-making, watching a canoe-tilting contest, at the end of which one crew or another would be pushed over with a long bamboo pole and precipitated into the water. Blackie turned away and headed for the hospital tent. There was little happiness in his heart, and he did not wish to be reminded of the gaiety of others. Ken Haviland was sitting up in bed when he arrived, and invited him in with a voice that showed he had quite recovered from the mishap of the swimming race. “Sit down here on the bed, Blackie,” he said. “The Doc filled me up with hot water and ginger, and I’m as well as ever, only he won’t let me get up. It’s too bad, because I feel fine, and don’t want to miss the big show.” “That’s great, Ken.” “What’s the matter? You look about as happy as a corpse.” “Aw, the guys in the tent are still jumping on me because I didn’t win the last race. Slater called me yellow at supper, and all the others thought I was, too.” “Did they? Well, soon as I get out of here, I’ll fix that! Wait till they hear what really happened; they’ll be sorry they didn’t have better sense. By the way, I’m passing around the word that the Kangaroo Court decision is all off, and we’ve forgotten all about it. I’m sorry for what I’ve been thinking of you all along.” “I deserved it, Ken. I’ve been just a fresh kid ever since I hit camp—I see it all now. I—I guess the gang will be glad to see me go back to the city to-morrow.” Ken leaned forward, and put his hand on Blackie’s shoulder. “Don’t you think it! You’ve only been here two weeks, but you’ve done a lot for Lenape. I don’t know what the Chief thinks, but as soon as Doc Cannon lets me out of here, the bunch is going to find out what kind of a hero you really are!” “The Chief knows,” said Blackie dully. “He’s going to square up with me in the morning.” Blackie left the tent thinking of what the morning would be sure to bring, and in a dejected mood went down to Tent Four. It was dark and deserted; the whole camp was now assembled in the lodge, from which came down to him the lively strains of music from the camp orchestra, the overture of the show. The happiness of the campers only emphasized his pangs of loneliness, and he slowly donned pajamas and climbed into his bunk. The strain of the day soon proved too much for him, and lulled by the music, he drifted off to sleep, from which he did not waken when his tent-mates tumbled into their bunks when Call to Quarters sounded at eleven o’clock. Blackie woke in the misty dawn the next morning, and softly, so as not to wake his slumbering tent-mates, dressed in his city clothes and began packing his blankets and stuffing his camping-kit into his sea-bag. To-day he would leave Lenape, leave the lake and the hills and go back to the hot city. Well, that was the only thing to do. He was in bad with the boys and the Chief, he told himself; he had failed in almost everything he had attempted to do. After two weeks of the Lenape life, he was not any better a camper than when he first landed in Tent Four. True, he had won his honor emblem, but that was sure to be stripped from him. He wore it on his jersey still, buttoned under his coat; but he knew that he had no better right to wear it than Gallegher had, as everyone would soon discover. Reveille blew before he had finished his packing, and he continued making ready for departure while the pajama crew went down for Indian dip. He noticed that about a dozen other boys, who were also leaving at the end of the first section, were also getting into their unaccustomed travelling clothes and stowing their camp things into suitcases and bags. By the time Assembly sounded, Blackie was ready to leave for the station at a moment’s notice. He lined up with his comrades before the flagpole. All during the ceremony of flag salute and while the buglers were trumpeting Call to Colors, his nervousness increased. He dreaded what was coming; it was worse than a trip to the dentist. The Chief was sure to speak this morning. In a few moments he would be disgraced before all the campers. He looked toward the end of the line hastily. Little Pete Lister was standing there with his drum strapped about his neck. “Attention!” came the Chief’s command. He stood with dignified sternness before them, and the files straightened. “Blackie Thorne, five paces forward!” There was a stir among the campers as Blackie marched forward with chin up, arms at his side, and a set face. They, too, guessed what was coming now. “I wish I hadn’t said he was yellow yesterday,” whispered Slater behind his hand. “That kid’s got nerve!” “He sure has!” responded Gallegher. “I know what he feels like now, and believe me, it’s no joke! But it was all my fault—I really dragged him into it.” “Silence in the ranks! Blackie Thorne, you have admitted to me that you have been guilty of conduct unbecoming to a Lenape camper, and have signified your willingness to abide by whatever punishment is inflicted. Is that right?” Blackie flushed, but looked his Chief straight in the eye. “Yes, sir.” “You will here, in the sight of all your comrades, be stripped of the honor emblem which has been made unworthy by your act.” Blackie braced himself, waiting; the Chief stepped forward with the blade of a knife gleaming in his hand. Now it was coming! He felt the Chief pulling away his coat and cutting the stitches of the green and white badge. The clattering tattoo from Lister’s drum was in his ears. The Chief stepped backward, putting away the knife. Now it was all over. Blackie made a move to return to his place in line. “Stay where you are, Thorne!” The campers started with surprise; they had not anticipated this. Blackie waited, expecting some further reprimand. “I still have another duty to do,” announced the Chief evenly. “But first I want to tell a story which some of you may have read in a book by Victor Hugo, a book called ‘Ninety-Three.’ It tells there of an incident which happened on board a French warship. Through the carelessness of the chief gunner, one of the huge cannons on the deck broke away from its chains, and pitched about by the rough sea, rolled from one end of the ship to the other like a monstrous metal battering-ram on wheels, killing many sailors who could not get out of its way, smashing the other cannons that were to defend the ship from the enemy, and battering the timbers until the vessel was in danger of sinking. It seemed impossible for the brutal rushes of the gun to be checked; but one man, armed only with a handspike and a rope, jumped down on the deck and struggled to halt its mad career. It was the chief gunner, the man who was to blame for the deadly danger to the ship and her crew; and after a superhuman battle in which he nearly lost his life, he succeeded in overturning the cannon and lashing it so that it could do no further harm.” The Chief paused a moment. Blackie was listening in a daze, wondering what this tale could have to do with him. “When all was safe again,” continued the Chief, “the gunner was brought to be judged by the general who commanded the ship. The general first pinned upon the gunner’s jacket the cross of St. Louis, the medal for military merit, as an award for his bravery in capturing the cannon. He then ordered the man to be shot because his negligence had endangered the ship. The gunner was executed with the cross of honor on his breast, rewarded for his courage and punished for failing in his duty.” Again the Chief paused; the boys looked at each other wonderingly. “Sooner or later all of us get our just rewards for what we make of ourselves, as that wise general knew. Blackie Thorne broke a camp rule, told a lie to escape punishment, and ran away from camp rather than face the consequences of his act. But when you hear what other deeds he has done, you may agree that he has wiped out some of the counts against him. Yesterday he threw away the glory of winning the swimming meet for his camp in order to go to the assistance of a stricken tent-mate, a boy whom he disliked; and afterwards he did not mention anything about his reason for dropping out of the race, fearing to be a poor sportsman. The winning of even a contest against Shawnee is, in my opinion, nothing to be compared with the display of bravery shown by Blackie in the water yesterday afternoon.” A cheer rose from the campers, involuntarily bursting forth from their lips. Excitement ran high. Blackie listened, abashed by this sudden turn of favor. “Blackie was again put to the test when he encountered a pair of dangerous criminals who were wanted by the law. With courage and discernment, he captured those men at great risk to himself. Now, although he did not know about it, there was a reward offered for the person who led to the arrest of these malefactors, and last night the sheriff brought over to me a check for three thousand dollars, which I am now presenting to Blackie Thorne.” The Chief was unable to speak further; his words were drowned in a torrent of cheers that made the mountains echo. Somehow the command to march was given, and the hungry horde stamped off to breakfast, still shouting Blackie’s name to the skies. Blackie stood bewildered, clutching the check in his hand. Three thousand dollars! Wally, who had left the line, put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and looked down into his face. “How do you like being rich, Blackie?” he laughed. “Does it feel funny at first?” “It sure does!” exclaimed Blackie. “Say, when I think how happy my mother will be when I tell her I can buy lots of things we couldn’t have before, I——” “Don’t trouble to explain. By the way, when the Chief told me about this check last night, I sent a telegram off to your mother asking her if you could stay for the rest of the season if she didn’t have to pay any more money. I didn’t break the news about your reward to her—you can do that yourself—but just a little while ago I got a wire from her, and she agrees that you can stay at Lenape clear up to September! Six weeks more of camp for you, Blackie—how does that sound?” “Great!” There was a lump in the boy’s throat as he looked out over the campus he had come to love. Six weeks more of free, out-door comradeship with Wally and the Chief and the whole gang of good fellows! “Say, Wally, remember how you told me one day that there was a treasure around here?” He looked down at the check in his hand. “I didn’t believe you then, but I do now.” “Blackie,” his councilor assured him solemnly, “you found that treasure right in your own heart—the rich treasure of true Lenape spirit!” THE END |
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