  Dirk Van Horn wondered if he were going to like Camp Lenape. There seemed to be far too many uncomfortable rules that got in the way when a fellow wanted to have some fun. Then, too, outside of little Joey Fellowes, nobody had seemed duly impressed with his father’s wealth and his luxurious camping outfit. It was clear that this was going to be quite different from Wild Rose Camp, where everyone knew that he was J. T. Van Horn’s only son, and where he and his tutor had shared a cosy cottage with every convenience that money could buy. Dirk sighed; then turned suddenly as a new idea struck him. He’d show these kids what a real sportsman could do! “Joey, old son,” he said, “would you mind clearing up the rest of this stuff? I’m going to take a look around the woods and see what the chances are for a bit of sport.” “What you going to do, Van?” “Oh, just a bit of gunning. That chap Reardon mentioned at lunch that he had scared up some partridge on the mountain this morning. I thought I might get a shot at a few.” Joey Fellowes stood aghast at such daring. “Whe—you mean, shoot them? Say, nobody at Lenape ever does that! We just go out and watch birds and animals and things, and try to study them and take pictures of them. Nobody in camp is supposed to have a gun!” “Humph! What do they come up here in the woods for? Well, here’s one person who isn’t going to overlook a chance if he happens to see one!” “But—but—— Why, Sax McNulty or any of the rest of the councilors would sure bawl you out if they found you with a gun! It’s against the camp rules!” “Bother the old rules! Good heavens, McNulty may change his mind pretty quick if I present him with a nice bag of partridge ready for Tent One to eat for supper.” With deliberate casualness, Dirk slung his gun-case over his shoulder, unearthed from a suitcase a large box of chocolate cake as provisions, and paused at the door of the tent. “Come along if you like, Fellowes.” “No—no thanks,” blurted Joey. “You better report to the Chief before you go.” “I won’t be long,” said Dirk carelessly. “Well, then, ta-ta! If you’ve got most of my things stowed away by the time I come back, I’ll slip you a dollar or two.” With these generous words, Dirk waved an easy farewell, and strode off through the trees, taking care to make a wide circle about the lodge, where some fussy councilor might see him and keep him from his purpose. His plan was simple. He wanted to make Brick Ryan and the rest of the campers realize what a fine fellow was now in their midst. If he could casually stroll into the tent with a dozen partridge in one hand and his shiny new rifle in the other, they would see at a glance that here was a comrade to be reckoned with! He conjured up pleasant pictures of their surprise and admiration, himself the center of the group. Still lost in these happy visions, he crossed a sunny meadow and picked his way over the dusty, rutted country road that led to camp. Here he plunged into thick woods, making straight up the mountainside. It was cool in the leafy forest, and he would have been very well contented save that a swarm of gnats hovered over his hatless head in a buzzing cloud, following wherever he went. His coat was too warm, but he did not want to carry it as his hands were already full, and he wished to be free in case he located the desired covey of partridge. Ahead lay a flat, marshy stretch of ground, where clumps of grass and rotting tree-limbs formed a half-submerged, muddy mass. There was no path going around, and Dirk, balancing his burdens dangerously, jumped from one solid-looking tuft to another. More than once he slipped on the rotting stuff, and floundered ankle-deep in slimy water. Long before he reached the other side, he regretted that he had not changed his city flannels for togs more suited to mountain work. His low sport shoes were caked with ooze and half full of water; his erstwhile spotless white flannels were muddied, streaked with green scum, and a triangular tear on one leg showed where he had come up against a sharp branch. Ruefully he sank to a seat on a decayed oak-trunk and unloosened his wilted linen collar. He would have liked a drink, but he knew that the stagnant pools at his feet were unhealthy, and he settled back, inspected his glistening rifle to see that the magazine was full of .22 caliber cartridges, and then slowly began munching the cake he had brought with him. He had barely eaten half of it, however, when he leaped hastily from his seat with a cry. One arm was afire, beneath the sleeve, with a thousand prickling stings! A simmering stream of large black ants that infested the rotting wood—no doubt attracted by the chance of refreshment in the shape of sweet crumbs of cake—was flowing over his hand and arm, and even beneath the collar of his shirt. In a painful frenzy he dropped the cake and began brushing off the stinging insects, stripping off his coat and shirt. It was several minutes before he could fight free of the crawling horde, and then, grabbing his things, he rushed off up the hillside away from the treacherous lower ground. Even then, he was reminded now and again of his misadventure by a red-hot sting in some part of his tender skin beneath his clothing. So far, his expedition had not been successful. He had not seen any sign of a partridge or any other small game. Even had there been any of the birds in that part of the mountain, his stumbling progress would undoubtedly have given them warning long before he could train his rifle on them. But he kept on up the slope, smashing his way through the thick underbrush and trying not to turn his ankles on the rocky ground underfoot. To his right he saw through the leaves a long scar of gray rock outcropping on the hillside. This promised easier going than the tangled underbrush. Besides, he thought, if he could get high enough, he might be able to look around and see in just which direction lay the camp. His flight from the marsh had twisted him around somehow, and a glance at the sky gave him the feeling that the sun was not where it should rightly be at this time in the afternoon. He altered his course and began scaling the sloping, moss-encrusted rocks. Before he was half-way up the rocks, he began to wish he had not chosen such a steep and rough road. His shoes and trousers were in pitiful shape. Still he scrambled upward in the hot sunshine, dripping perspiration, ascending on hands and knees and trailing his rifle after him. He was glad to see that the rocks ended a few feet above his head in an overhanging bank of earth and matted shrubs. Over the top! He charged the little cliff, seized with his free hand the roots of a sapling oak that grew on the edge, and tried to haul himself up. His first heave loosened the soil; he could feel his hold slipping. He cast a fearful eye backwards; if he fell on those sharp rocks——! A shower of dirt, twigs, and small pebbles rattled down upon his head; with a rending noise, the roots he was gripping parted. Clawing the air helplessly, Dirk fell backwards, and slid painfully a few feet down the smooth rocks. His rifle flew from his hand, described a short circle in the air, and landed with a bruising crash upon his outstretched right leg. Dirk cried out, and rubbed his shin. The sharp blow brought tears of pain into his eyes, and he gritted his teeth. He realized now that it had been a foolish thing to trust his weight to such a sketchy hand-hold. Well, he had suffered for his error! He clutched the rifle, whose wooden stock was badly scarred by the fall, and began crawling across the rocks to the shelter of the brush. Every movement heightened the ache in his leg, which was now throbbing brutally. When he gained the wooded hillside, he rose and tried to walk; but after a few steps he gave up, sat down, and began rubbing his shinbone once more. Dirk was not used to giving up an idea easily, and he hated to think of limping back to camp with torn clothes, and lacking the game he had set out so proudly to get. Here would be a very different return from that he had visualized! But now he began looking about him and puzzling just in which direction lay Camp Lenape. The sound of a bugle call floating up from the lake came to his ears, and faintly he could hear shouting, off to his right, where the woods were thickest. He could not be exactly sure where it came from, but evidently camp was not far away. Of course, he could back-track on his own trail, but that would mean going through the marsh again. There must be a short cut that he could take. He rose and began hobbling through the trees, hoping to find a stream where he could quench his hot thirst. As he went he thought of his mother and father, by this time far on the way back to the city. Dirk Van Horn was just a little homesick. Again came the bugle-call. But this time it sounded from behind him! He wheeled about, listening. Where was camp? He could see nothing through the trees. Perhaps if he could climb high enough, he might catch a glimpse of the flagpole or the tents; but his leg was now swollen and stiff, and useless for climbing. Where was he, anyway? Could it be that he was lost among the mountains? Lost! Dirk began to run unsteadily through the thick brush. His eyes were wild, and the little hammers of panic were beating in his brain. Brick Ryan was slipping into his swimming suit in Tent One when Sax McNulty, followed by a racing pack of boys, appeared at the lower end of the campus. The new recruits had hit camp just in time for afternoon swim period. “Hi, Sax!” the red-headed boy greeted his leader. “You look hot. Just in time for a dip.” The long-faced young man gave him a mournful look. Sax always looked gloomy, even when he was saying his funniest things. “I’m a little sunbeam,” he announced. “I can keep smiling even after piloting twenty little greenhorns up from Elmville. Dusty but smiling. Say, who made my bed so nicely?” “Me and Lefty.” “Good lads.” Sax sank on his bunk and began stripping off his dust-laden garments. “I met two of the new fellows who’ll be with us this section. Nig Jackson was one—you remember him from last year. Another is a new kid, Eddie Scolter, who claims he can play a clarinet. But one fellow didn’t come after all, I guess. The Chief said his name was Van Horn.” “Oh!” grinned Brick, “you mean the Millionaire Baby! Well, don’t worry about him. He got here this mornin’, and has been around all day, big as life and twice as natural.” “Millionaire Baby?” Brick pointed to the scattered array of suitcases, clothes, and other possessions that Joey Fellowes had given up trying to sort out and arrange. Sax McNulty whistled as he looked at Dirk’s heaped outfit. “This all belong to Van Horn?” “Junk enough for ten guys. Wait till you get a look at him.” Sax shook his head. “Can’t have that. Where is he, anyway? He’ll have to stow that stuff before Nig and Eddie and the rest get here.” “Search me,” Brick shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since siesta. He’s probably off tellin’ the little kids what a rich guy his dad is, and how Wild Rose Camp is much sweller than this joint.” The leader pulled on his swimming suit, and looked up thoughtfully. “Don’t tell me he’s the son of Van Horn, the bank president! Don’t tell me that!” “I’m afraid so.” “And he’s going to be here in Tent One this section. Well, well, and a couple more wells! You don’t seem to have taken to him very kindly, Brick.” “He just sort of riled me from the start, I guess.” “Well, he’ll be all right after a couple days here. No quarreling, now! We must all be like little birdies in the nest, Brick—— Hark!” Brick Ryan had heard it too. From the mountainside had come a despairing cry. “Help!” He jumped to his feet, and the two, leader and boy, stared solemnly into each other’s faces. Then McNulty grabbed for a pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes, and began furiously lacing them on his bare feet. “Come along, Brick!” He dived for the door of the tent and up the wooded hillside, his red-headed follower close on his heels. “Somebody in trouble on the mountain! We’ve got to run, old boy—and I mean run!” |
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