  Brick Ryan was bending over a washtub out behind the Lenape lodge when the big, shiny automobile roared up the road into camp. Brick paused in the act of wringing out his best and only flannel shirt, straightened, took one look at the glittering limousine, and whistled. “Whew! Will you look at the golden chariot!” he exclaimed to himself. “Brick, my boy, can it be that a young millionaire is comin’ to Camp Lenape?” He bent his flaming mop of copper-colored hair over the tub once more, but kept a watchful blue eye on the big car, which had now drawn up beside the kitchen wood-pile. From the wheel of the limousine stepped down a man smartly garbed in the uniform of a chauffeur. He swiftly threw open the silver-trimmed rear door, saluted, and offered his arm as the first of the occupants of the car descended. This person was a lady, somewhat stout, with a worried look on her face. Brick saw the flash of many diamonds glitter on her hands as she turned and spoke to those still remaining within the shadowy interior. “Dirk, dearest, here we are! Gracious, what a rough and dusty road it has been! This camp must be in a perfect wilderness! John, you must come with me right away to see the camp director. I simply must explain to him about Dirk’s diet, and I do hope he will see to it that Dirk wears his rubbers and heavy underwear when it rains!” Her husband, an older man with hair gray about the temples, nodded reassuringly as he joined her. “There, there,” he said soothingly, “it will be all right, I’m sure. The director knows his job; he’s quite accustomed to looking after all the boys.” “But you know Dirk has always been so delicate! I declare, I wish we had sent him to Wild Rose Camp again this year—the nurse there was so sympathetic. But you would insist that he be brought to this outlandish place, even when you knew that none of the boys of our social set would think of coming to such an ordinary sort of camp!” “I know, Marcia,” the man replied. “But Dirk is growing up now. I want him to mix with a regular gang of fellows his own age, and do all the things they do. Maybe at first it will seem a bit like roughing it, but he’ll soon get used to it and be into everything with the best of them. Isn’t that right, old man?” “Yes, Papa,” a bored young voice answered from the depths of the back seat. “That’s splendid, dear,” the mother said. “I know you will be a brave lad. Now, your father and I are going to speak to the director about your diet. Benson will help you with your luggage, and you can find out which house you are going to sleep in.” “They sleep in tents here, Mama.” “Tents! You see, John, what sort of place you have chosen! And you know how easily Dirk catches cold! The idea of having the boys sleep in drafty tents! I really must speak to the director at once!” She picked her way delicately down the hill toward the front of the lodge, followed by her apologetic husband. “Gollies!” Brick Ryan muttered to himself, and watched for further developments. They were not long in coming. The chauffeur went around to the heaped luggage-rack of the car, and began unloading its bulky contents. Several shiny suitcases landed on the ground, followed by a leather hat-box, a bag of golf-clubs, two tennis racquets, a gun-case, fishing rods, and finally a large wardrobe trunk, which the man handled with difficulty. Shouldering the latter, the man also disappeared down the hill. Brick scratched his head, stared at the pile of baggage that still remained, and hung a patched pair of khaki pants on the line to dry in the fresh morning air. He wheeled about as the same drawling voice he had heard from within the car came to his ears. “I say, would you mind lending a hand with this luggage?” Brick looked at the speaker with open mouth. He saw a tall, pleasant-looking boy of about his own age, with brown eyes and yellow hair, spick and span in white flannels and straw hat. Brick was so startled by the fact that the stranger wore a stiff white collar and necktie that at first he did not comprehend what the boy had said. “Huh?” “I said,” the newcomer repeated carefully, “that I would like you to help me with all this luggage of mine. That is, if it won’t interfere with your laundering work.” Brick slowly drained the soapy water from the tub, and considered this request. Then he took a second look at the strange lad. “You’re not a cripple, are you?” he asked solicitously. “I beg your pardon?” “What’s the matter with you grabbin’ some of those bags and hikin’ down with ’em yourself?” “You don’t understand,” the other said patiently. “Of course I shall carry my rod and racquets, but I don’t care to lug these heavy bags about myself. Just take them down to my tent like a good chap. I’ll pay you, naturally.” Brick’s Irish temper, never far from the surface, blew up. “Say, Mr. Dirk Astorbilt, or whatever your name is, you’ve got me all wrong! Where did you get the idea that Camp Lenape fellows were a bunch of Pullman porters, standin’ around waitin’ to carry bags for a ten-cent tip? Just because I happen to be washin’ out my duds so I wouldn’t look like a hobo, you must think I’m a bellhop or somethin’. Well, up here, mister, every man totes his own pack, see?” “But—— Do you really mean that you are a fellow-camper, like myself?” the blond boy asked awkwardly. Brick snorted, stuck his hands in his pocket, and stared pugnaciously at the other. “Go climb a tent-rope!” he exclaimed rudely, and swaggered off down the hill toward the grove of pine trees that shadowed the white canvas dwellings of the Lenape campers. In the shade beside the flagpole, he sat down on a log to cool off. With a blue bandana handkerchief he mopped his freckled brow and snub nose. A pine-scented breeze fluttered down the mountainside at his back and ruffled his unruly red hair. Perhaps he had been a little too hasty in taking affront at the new boy’s request. He sniffed the air, and its fragrance soon made him forget the unpleasant encounter with the strange boy in white flannels. For the thousandth time, he gazed over the spreading campus of Lenape, and peace descended on his fiery soul. Before his eyes, under the limpid blue sky of August, between the mountains and the little lake, lay Camp Lenape, summer home of a hundred lively boys and the dozen councilors who guided their many outdoor activities. Over his head, on the long porch of the lodge, he could hear the uplifted voices of Jake and Jerry Utway; the twins were skylarking about, followed by the laughter of “Happy Face” Frayne, the genial assistant director. Beyond, from the kitchen, came a clatter of pans and a snatch of song as Ellick, the chef, and his dusky minions prepared lunch. Brick looked down the steep hill to the boat dock, where a rowboat full of boys with fish-poles was just coming in from a trip to the south end of Lake Lenape. He yawned sleepily, and stretched. From the rows of tents to his left someone shouted his name. A group of campers trailed through the bushes in the wake of Mr. Carrigan, the camp naturalist. Among the boys who were thus returning from a nature-study hike were Blackie Thorne, Soapy Mullins, and Lefty Reardon, the latter of whom had called out. “Hi, Ryan!” Lefty repeated. “Come on down to the tent, you loafer, and clean up for inspection!” “Right away!” Brick answered lazily, but did not stir. He hated to break the spell of contentment that lay over him. Brick Ryan loved Camp Lenape. It meant everything to him, the camp life, and for three summers now he had whooped with delight when the time came to leave the hot city streets behind and make for the Lenape hills for two months of busy, carefree sport in the green out-of-doors. Here, among his camper friends and the wise leaders like the Chief and Happy Face and Lieutenant Eames and Mr. Carrigan, he could do to his heart’s content the things he loved—swim and fish and get up shows and take long hikes through the mountains—— And this year, for the first time, he would be allowed to go on the Long Trail—— The blare of Ted Fellowes’ bugle, sounding Recall, broke forth over his head. He rose, stretched, and sauntered down to Tent One, his new quarters for the next two-week period. Every fortnight during the season was moving day for Lenape; then some of the boys who could not stay the entire summer would leave, and other boys would come up from the city to take their places. At this time, too, the tent assignments were shifted about so that each camper could get to know, and live as tent-mates with, a wide variety of other boys. Brick, who had that morning been given a bunk in the tent nearest the lodge, presided over by “Sax” McNulty, the comical leader who directed camp dramatics, wondered idly what sort of gang his new tent-mates would turn out to be. As he entered the tent, Lefty Reardon looked up as he was spreading his blankets neatly over his canvas bunk. “Well, it’s about time you were on the job,” he grinned. “What you been doing, Brick? Picking daisies? How about doing a little fancy work with a broom?” “All right, Mr. Tent Aide,” Brick answered good-humoredly, and set about making his own bed. “What have you guys been doin’ all mornin’—lookin’ for filly-loo birds up in the tall timber?” “Mr. Carrigan showed us some partridge. That’s better than loafin’ in the sun. Say, have any of the pups hit camp yet?” This was Lefty’s belittling way of referring to new boys, tenderfeet who were that day coming to camp for the first time. Brick groaned. “Don’t remind me—I’d almost forgot about it! Gollies, I was just exchangin’ sweet words with one of the juiciest specimens that you’ve ever seen! Mr. Chauncy Montmorency, the Dude from Swellville! Such a pretty boy, too!” Lefty grunted. “What’s he like?” “You’d have to see it to believe it. Mama and Papa and the shover all come along in the family limmyzine to see that little Algy gets here without getting his tootsies wet! ‘And I sye, me good feller,’” he mimicked, “‘would you be kind enough to carry me bags down to the ho-tel?’” Lefty’s jaw gaped. “Gee, he sure must be a green one!” “Wait till you see him! He’s the Millionaire Baby, and no mistake! I pity the poor guys that get in his tent——” Brick Ryan broke off suddenly as a shadow fell over his shoulder. He looked up, and gasped. At the door of the tent stood a blond young fellow in white flannels. A few paces away a chauffeur in uniform stood respectfully, laden with shiny suitcases and sporting goods. “Oh, there you are again,” the lad said breezily. “Sorry to trouble you, but is this Tent One? If it is, I believe I shall have the pleasure of sharing it with you chaps. My name is Dirk Van Horn, and the camp director has assigned me to stay here. I hope that we shall all be very happy and friendly tent-mates!” |
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