  “Ten!” counted Al Canning. “Van Horn wins with a sweet knockout!” “Yay, Handsome Van, the K. O. Kid!” cried Jerry Utway, hammering his champion upon the back. “Gee, what a beautiful swat that was!” Brick Ryan opened his eyes. His head was still spinning from the force of the blow that had vanquished him. As through a mist he could see the dim faces of the boys about his prostrate form. Among them stood out the triumphant, smiling features of Dirk Van Horn. A hand shook his shoulder, and Jake Utway spoke in his ear. “Are you all right now, Brick? Tough luck. He sure packs a wallop!” Brick tried to grin, and groaned in spite of himself. His jaw still ached mightily where his antagonist’s doubled fist had struck, and his swollen lower lip was bleeding slightly. “I have to hand it to him,” he mumbled, and with Jake’s help clambered unsteadily to his feet. “Gollies, how did he do it? It was as clean a knockout as I ever seen.” “Well, you were asking for it,” observed Slim Yerkes. “I guess I was.” Brick smiled ruefully. “Van Horn, I guess we’ve been gettin’ each other wrong. There may be some things about campin’ that you don’t know, but when it comes to scrappin’——! Say, you beat me square, but I don’t hold any grudge. From now on, let’s forget everything and be friends. What do you say?” He held out his hand in a frank gesture. Dirk looked at the outstretched hand, and his lip curled slightly. “Ryan,” he said deliberately, “I said you were a mucker, and I still think so. Any time you want another boxing lesson, come around. Otherwise, kindly keep to your own affairs and leave me to mine.” He pointedly turned his back, picked up his wet shirt, and stalked off up the path to the lodge. Brick bit his lip, and his hand dropped with an angry gesture to his side; but he said nothing. Jerry Utway left the group and ran after Dirk, catching up with him and walking at a fast pace by his side. “Hey, Van, will you show me some time how you made that knockout? I want to try it out on my brother next time we have a row. Gee, if anybody had told me you could put out Brick Ryan’s lights, I wouldn’t have believed it! Where did you learn how to fight like that?” “My father has seen to it that I had the best boxing lessons that money could buy.” Dirk smiled grimly. “Yesterday Ryan seemed to think that having money wasn’t of much value; but I hope that now he has learned that scientific self-defense is a good thing to acquire. And because my father could pay for those boxing lessons, I don’t have to be bullied by any street-boy that comes along.” “It sure did make Brick sit up and take notice,” chuckled Jerry. “But why didn’t you make up with him afterward?” “It’s not so easy. He hazed me pretty badly last night, and I’m not done with him yet.” “But Brick is a pretty good fellow when you get to know him. Why don’t you——” Jerry broke off, and cocked his ear as bugle-notes rattled down from the porch of the lodge. “Say, we better hurry—there goes Church Call.” He glanced with amusement at the battered features and wet, stained garments of the boy at his side. “Gosh, you sure are a sight! You and Brick Ryan will look like a swell pair, sitting on a bench together at church this morning!” Dirk was quite late for church. He went to the empty tent, washed, and changed his wet clothing for garments more suitable for Sunday service; and the hour of camp worship was more than half over by the time he slipped into a log seat in the woodland chapel overlooking the lake. Brick was down at the front with the rest of the complement of Tent One, but did not turn his head. One or two boys near by looked at Dirk’s marked face curiously, and Jake Utway once caught his eye, winked, and grinned from behind a hymn-book. During the bountiful Sunday dinner in the lodge, Dirk, sitting with his councilor on one side of him and Nig Jackson on the other, intercepted many inquiring glances directed from neighboring tables toward himself and Brick Ryan. The red-headed boy, for his part, ate with his head down, saying nothing. If Sax McNulty had heard of the fight, he gave no sign. When dessert was served, Sax looked whimsically at the plate of ice-cream before him. “Your consciences ought to hurt you slackers,” he observed. “If Lefty hadn’t stuck to his guns, the camp would be missing their ice-cream today, all right. I’ve never had my squad sneak out on a job before. What do you fellows think about it?” Dirk Van Horn felt the leader’s eyes upon him. He flushed and tried to look unconcerned; but the ice-cream, for some reason, stuck in his throat, and he soon pushed the plate away, to melt into a shapeless mass. When the time came for announcements, Dr. Cannon, who was officer of the day, awarded the pennant for highest points in inspection to Wally Rawn’s tent; then, with a grin, marched over to the Tent One table and, amid the good-natured jeers of the assembled campers, presented a different sort of emblem. It was a big tin oil-can, across which was printed in white letters: “Booby.” “Tent One wins the Goof Loving Cup,” the doctor announced with a flourish, “for being lowest in honor points for today. And the first shall be last!” “What’s that for, Sax?” Eddie Scolter asked, pointing to the strange object. “It means we have to hang that up on our tent-pole in full sight, so everybody in camp can see we’re a bunch of dubs,” explained the leader, with a glance around the table. “And that’s just what we’ve been today. Van Horn, you may have the privilege of carrying this little token down to the tent.” Dirk opened his mouth to protest, but the whistle sounded just then, and the campers leaped to their feet and began pouring out the doors. Picking up the loathed booby-can, Dirk started walking down toward the tent. He had not gone far when he felt a hand on his arm, and he looked up, frowning, to see Sax McNulty’s serious face. “I didn’t say anything at the table just now,” began the leader, “but of course you know you’re to blame for most of our demerits today. I’m afraid you’re not getting off to a very good start at Lenape, Van.” “Why blame me for everything?” “Well, I don’t, exactly. The other fellows should have known better than to drop their duty and help you launch your canoe this morning—but you’ll have to admit you were the main cause of it. Then, Wally Rawn told me about your fool stunt at the lake. Also, and moreover, when the inspection staff came around this noon, our tent was cluttered up with your things strewn all over the place, wet clothes dumped on the floor—plenty demerits. You’ll have to learn not to do the first thing that enters your head, Van Horn—you’ll have to think of the other fellow, and consider what will be for the good of the camp and your own gang. I haven’t mentioned anything about your fight with Ryan, but——” “He started that!” retorted Dirk. “I won’t interfere there,” promised McNulty gently. “Ryan is a decent chap, and so are you; and I know that after a couple of days you will get along together fine. Try to get his point of view. We’ve got a fine bunch of fellows in Tent One this time, and as soon as we get to pulling together, we’re going to show Lenape some speed! I didn’t mean to make you listen to another sermon today,” he ended wryly, “and I don’t expect you to learn everything about camping in a few hours. Come to me next time you feel the urge to do something startling, and I’ll try to put you wise first.” Dirk smarted under the words, but held back the bitter reply that rose to his lips. He slammed the booby-can on a nail sticking into the front tent-pole, and retired sulkily to his untidy bunk. The other boys, with the exception of the two who were doing the dishes, were stretched about, taking a restful siesta after their bountiful dinner. Across from Dirk sat Brick Ryan, busied as usual over his life-saving manual, and apparently unaware that there was anybody named Van Horn within a thousand miles of him. For the first time, Dirk noticed that Brick wore a curious insignia stitched to the front of his jersey. It was outlined in green and white, and showed a large L superimposed upon a swastika. Dirk’s eyes passed to Lefty Reardon. Lefty also wore the green L. Dirk decided that the camp monogram would look most attractive on one of his sweaters. He jumped up, and hurried back to the lodge before the small camp store closed. On the porch of the lodge, a short string of boys stood before the window, waiting their turn to make small purchases of candy, peanuts, and gum. Dirk joined the end of the line. When he came abreast of the window, he issued his demand. “I want one of those camp letters to put on my sweater.” Long Jim Avery, the lanky councilor charged with the duty of looking after the camp supplies, leaned far over the counter and looked at the boy with astonishment. “You want what?” he asked with widening eyes. “Oh, you know what I mean, sir—one of those green and white things with an L on them. I want to buy one.” The boy in back of Dirk snickered. Long Jim gulped. “Somebody’s trying to play a joke on you, Van Horn. Why, I thought even a new boy knew that you can’t buy an honor emblem!” Dirk flushed. “But—some of the chaps have them. Where do you get them, then?” “My, my! You can’t buy one—you have to earn it, and then it’s awarded to you at Council Ring. That’s a good one! Why, before you have the right to wear an honor emblem, you have to pass a lot of tests—you have to know a bunch of trees and birds and flowers and rocks and stars, and how to swim and handle a boat, and hike and cook and build woodcraft objects, and—oh, lots of things! Here, I’ll get you a card with all the requirements printed on it, and when you pass a test, the leader who passes you will put his initials down. Campers have a chance to pass the tests all the time. If I can help you learn some of the things, come around.” “Never mind,” stammered Dirk miserably, backing away. “I didn’t know—— I guess I don’t want to start in right now.” He stumbled off down the steps. They were making fun of him again! The boys would spread the story around—how he had tried to buy an honor emblem at the store—and soon the whole camp would be laughing at his latest fool stunt! No matter what he started to do at Lenape, it always turned out to be the wrong thing! Now McNulty would have more of his comments to make! Dirk was feeling very sorry for himself. Tears of helpless rage welled into his eyes, and he did not see that someone was standing in front of him until he heard his name called in a mysterious whisper. “Psst! Van Horn! Say, I want to see you a second!” Dirk looked up. The speaker was a runty-looking boy with a large nose and close-set black eyes. He took Dirk’s arm with a familiar gesture, and patted him on the back. “Say, I want to tell you. I heard about how you licked Red Ryan. Gee, that was swell! I wish I’d seen you do it!” “How did you know about it?” asked Dirk. “Why, everybody in camp knows about it! You’re a hero, that’s what you are! A real tough fighter, you must be! There are lots of guys in this camp that don’t like Ryan, and are glad he got it good at last! Say, we don’t want anybody to notice I’m talkin’ to you, see? Come on, duck in here and I’ll tell you somethin’ real important!” “What do you want? Why can’t you tell me here?” “It’s too secret, see? Quick—slide in here.” Dirk, fearing some new pitfall, followed suspiciously; but the mysterious manner of the big-nosed little fellow impressed him in spite of himself, and he allowed himself to be drawn under the shadow of the overhanging porch of the lodge. Here several small rooms had been built—a dark-room for the convenience of the camp photographers, and a larger compartment in which were stored trunks, suitcases, old tents, and the like. Through the door of the latter room he followed his guide, who shut that door carefully and then sat on a pile of lumber. “Don’t talk too loud, see?” he warned Dirk. “We don’t want nobody to guess what we’re after.” “Well, what are you after anyway?” Dirk asked impatiently. “Who are you, and why are you acting so mysterious about everything?” “My name’s Blum,” the other whispered hoarsely. “‘Dumb’ Blum, the guys call me, but that’s only a nickname—I’m not so dumb as most people think. Now, listen. You’ve got it in for Brick Ryan, haven’t you?” “Well, we haven’t got along together so far. But what has that to do with you?” “You’ll see! And you don’t like Sax McNulty any too well, do you? He bawled you out pretty heavy a little while ago, didn’t he?” “How did you know?” “I know lots of things!” the other chuckled. “Some people in this camp are not treatin’ you right, Van! But me and some other guys can see what a swell feller you are, and we’re ready to help you.” “Help me to do what?” “Revenge! That’s what! How would you like it if you could get back at everybody that ever does anything to you around here? Brick Ryan, for instance—if somethin’ pretty terrible happened to him, nobody would guess who done it; but you could laugh up your sleeve all the time!” Dirk looked puzzled. “What are you driving at?” A malicious laugh answered him. “I got a gang. We do pretty well what we like around this camp, and if anybody don’t like it—even leaders, or even the Chief himself—why, they’re good and sorry for it! We have meetings in the middle of the night, and we sign the oath with our own blood, and swear that if anybody hurts any one of us, why, we get revenge! We go under the secret name of the Red Hand Revengers, and we want you to join with us, see?” |
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