  It didn’t seem a bad idea, the way Blum put it. The Red Hand Revengers, with their mysterious meetings in the dead of night, their oaths of blood brotherhood, and their secret signs and deeds of vengeance against those who thwarted them, sounded most exciting. Even before the leader of this mystic society had finished speaking, Dirk Van Horn had made up his mind. “I’ll join!” he declared. “What do I have to do?” “Oh, you won’t need to be initiated,” Blum assured him. “We’ll have our first meeting tonight after taps, and you can meet the rest of the guys. We all wear masks over our faces, and have secret names. My Revenger name is——Swear on your heart and liver you won’t tell anybody?” “Yes, I swear.” “Well, I’m known as the Headless Green Dragon, see? When you send me a secret note, always draw a picture of a headless dragon, and I’ll know it’s for me. If you want to, you can be the Silent Dagger, or anything like that——I know! How about Iron Gauntlet, on account of the way you knocked out Brick?” “All right. That sounds splendid. And I’ll bring a watermelon to the meeting tonight. My father brought it up to give to the other fellows in the tent, but they don’t deserve it. And listen——” “Yeah?” “I’ll write home and have my mother send up a big box of cake and candy and stuff, just for the Revengers!” said Dirk. “And when they let me use my canoe, we’ll all go out in it, and——” “No!” objected Blum. “Don’t forget we mustn’t be seen together! When I want to get in touch with you, I’ll leave a note under your pillow. Now, we’ll have to separate pretty quick. I’ll get you when everybody is asleep tonight, and we’ll have our first meeting. You stay here a couple minutes after I leave, so nobody will guess what we’re up to. And right today, Iron Gauntlet, old revenger, we’ll start putting the Red Curse on that varlet Brick Ryan!” Blum, master of the sinister Red Hand, tip-toed to the door. “So long, Headless Green Dragon!” Dirk whispered after him. That night Brick Ryan returned from Indian Council Ring to find the first of his troubles upon him. The campers had been summoned to their quarters after an evening spent about the four-square fire of friendship, and by the light of the tent lantern, the inhabitants of Tent One were undressing for the night. Brick Ryan slipped into his pajamas and turned down his blankets, ready to jump in. An angry cry escaped him. “What’s the matter, Brick?” asked Lefty Reardon sleepily. “Somebody’s hashed my bunk, that’s what!” the Irish boy exclaimed. “Look there, will you? The whole bed is stuck full of cockleburrs! I can’t sleep in it!” “Gee, that’s too bad,” said his friend sympathetically. “Here, I’ll help you pull ’em out. Sax will be back in a few minutes—why don’t you tell him about it? What a dirty trick to play on a fellow!” “If I knew who did it, I sure wouldn’t have to tell a leader about it!” said Brick through clenched teeth. He looked about in the dull light at the faces of his mates. All of them looked innocent; Dirk Van Horn looked suspiciously so, and there was a faint trace of a smile on his good-looking features. Could Van Horn have——? But the heartless trick must have been done during Council, and Dirk had been sitting in his place every moment of the time. “Somebody must have it in for you, Brick,” commented Lefty as the two bent over the blankets and began pulling out the prickly burrs with which they were covered. “Gee, this is going to be a long, slow job. Who do you suppose hates you so much that he’d do a mean thing like this to you?” “I don’t know,” admitted Brick. “But I’m sure going to find out, and when I do, you can bet he’ll get paid back for his low, sneaking work!” Brick slept but poorly that night, for it had been impossible to remove all the sharp, pin-like burrs with which his blankets had been coated. He tossed and turned, and kept finding new spines that had penetrated through the woolen mass to irritate him. Muttering to himself, he at last drifted off to sleep. Later, he awoke for a moment, and looked across the tent, where some unseen person was crawling back into his bunk; but he thought nothing of it, and in the morning had forgotten all about it. The morning was cloudy, and a cool wind swept down from the northeast. When Brick piled out of his uncomfortable bedclothes at Reveille, he thrust his feet into his shoes, as usual. But the state of those shoes was far from usual. Brick let out a yell of rage. His shoes were brim-full of icy water, and the strings were knotted a dozen times. He had to hurry to setting-up drill barefoot over the rough ground; and to crown it all, his bathrobe was missing, and he shivered in the raw breeze until he caught sight of the garment hung in a pine tree far below the parade ground. And he found that when he went to brush his teeth before breakfast, his tooth-paste tube had been stuffed with soap; but he did not find out until his mouth was burning with the choking stuff, and he was frothing and blowing sudsy bubbles, much to the delight of two small boys who scrubbed away beside him. He washed out his mouth, but the vile taste remained until long after the morning meal. Brick began to wonder if he were bewitched. What was the meaning of this series of afflictions? He could find no trace of whoever had committed these acts. If it was Dirk Van Horn, he covered it up pretty well. Besides, why should Van Horn resort to such stealthy tricks, the acts of a cowardly soul? Van Horn had fought him the day before, and won fairly; why should he now begin a campaign of cockleburrs, watered shoes, and soapy tooth-paste? The bewildered Brick spoke to his friend Lefty about it when the two were walking up from morning swim. “And when I got back after breakfast, I found a big hoptoad in my clothes locker,” he concluded, “and nobody was around but a little kid from Tent Seven. Who do you suppose it can be, Lefty? How long will it go on? I swear, I’m about ready to soak somebody in the nose if I catch him getting into my things. Am I haunted, or what?” “You are,” agreed Lefty promptly. “You’re haunted by some sneaking coward who is trying to get your goat. Van Horn fought you fair yesterday, didn’t he?” he went on in a matter-of-fact tone. “Sure. I didn’t mind that. But the Millionaire Baby, although he has some crazy ideas, wouldn’t stoop to those tricks, I guess.” “If he did, he wouldn’t stand a show of getting on the baseball team, Shawnee game or no Shawnee game,” said Lefty. “As long as I’m captain, we’ll have only square-shooters playing for Lenape. You comin’ down for practice this afternoon, eh?” “You bet, if my glove hasn’t been stolen by that time. I swear, Lefty, I’m gettin’ so I’m scared to turn around, for fear somebody will swipe my pants when I’m not lookin’! But, say, do you think this Van Horn guy is really baseball material?” Lefty shrugged. “We’ll try him out. Goodness knows we can’t pass up any promising players, when we only have today and tomorrow to get ready for the Shawnee game. I hear Shawnee has got back Hook Bollard and Widelle this year, and that catcher of theirs—what’s his name?—that made three runs last time we played them. If Lenape wants to take the best end of the score on Wednesday, we’ve got to show some steam!” When the announcements were made at lunch, Lefty Reardon rose and read a list of names of the campers who had been chosen to form the team that would defend Lenape’s honor on the baseball diamond on the following Wednesday. On that day, the whole of Lenape would trek northward to the shores of Iron Lake for a visit to their rival, Camp Shawnee. The crowning event of the day would be a ball game between the two camp teams, thus renewing a yearly custom of friendly sportsmanship. Lenape had been badly beaten the season before, and among the campers there was much talk of the coming encounter, and predictions that this time they would pay back the old score with a rousing victory. Dirk Van Horn noted with disappointment that his name was not among those called; but no sooner had Lefty seated himself than he turned to Dirk and said: “Say, Van, I hear you’re supposed to be a fielder. If you want to come down to the diamond with the rest of the team, we’ll try you out and see if we can find a place for you.” “Sure, try out!” urged Sax McNulty. “You were on your prep school team, weren’t you, Van?” Dirk nodded. “I’ll come down, sir.” He had spent the morning lolling in his bunk with a book of stories, and had disregarded Wally Rawn’s offer to teach him to swim. Neither had he made any move to join in the many other activities of the camp routine. But baseball was different, he felt; he knew and liked that sport best of all, and had little doubt that with his school training, he could hold a position on a scratch team such as he thought the Lenape squad to be. When the bugle sounded recall, Dirk, resplendent in a brand-new baseball suit and bearing a well-oiled glove under his arm, sauntered down to the field and reported to Captain Reardon, who with Kipper Dabney was warming up a few curves. Lefty slammed a sizzling drop into Gil Shelton’s padded mitt, and turned to Dirk with a nod. “You can get out there with the bunch and get under a few of those fungoes that Mullins is knocking,” he directed, “and show us what you can do. Later on, we’ll have batting practice and you’ll have a chance to prove you can hit.” Dirk, with a confident smile, trotted out into the tall grass behind third base, and for half an hour, in company with Ollie Steffins, Blackie Thorne, and a youngster named Tompkins, he fielded lofty flies and grounders from Soapy Mullins’ resounding bat. Now and then he glanced at the other members of the squad. The infielders were tossing the ball back and forth with easy skill, and Brick Ryan, hovering over first base, missed few of the shots that came near his post. When the players were warmed up sufficiently, they lined up one after another to face the delivery of Captain Lefty and his relief pitcher, Dabney. At last it came Dirk’s turn. He selected a bat and approached the plate with a cocky grin. Lefty, noting his short grip, thought to teach this arrogant newcomer a little lesson, and slipped over a neat inshoot that took him up short. “Strike!” called out Lieutenant Eames, whose service on the West Point team qualified him as volunteer umpire. Dirk did not lengthen his grip; but when Lefty sought to repeat his trick, he was ready for it. As the whirling ball neared the plate, Dirk stepped back a pace and his levelled bat met the horsehide smartly. A clean single flew through the infield well inside the lines and through the fingers of Ken Haveland, who was covering the domain of shortstop. The few scattered spectators set up a quick shout of approval. When the period of practice was over, Lefty announced that there would be a short game with a team of leaders the following afternoon; and the players strolled in twos and threes back to their tents to prepare for swim. Lefty, on his way to the lodge burdened with bats and other equipment, found Brick Ryan sitting on a bench under a huge black cherry tree at the gate. “Why so thoughtful?” Lefty hailed him. “And by the way, where were you for batting practice? You slipped off without telling me.” “I had an idea,” responded his friend grimly. “I see—and it gave you a headache.” “No, it gave somebody else an ache, but not in the head. I put a stop to all these shenanigans that have been raisin’ cain with my belongin’s—at least, I put a stop to them for a while, anyway. I sneaked up on Tent One durin’ battin’ practice. Not a soul was around, except that nasty little Toby brat from Tent Eight. Do you know, I caught him in the very act of dumpin’ a pail of water right on my bed!” “No!” “Yes. I spanked him, Lefty.” “But what would he do that for? What’s he got against you?” “Not a thing that I know of. It’s a mystery.” Lefty threw back his head and laughed. “Better not let young Sherlock Jones hear about it,” he advised. “He’ll pester around with clues until he’s dizzy. Well, I’m glad Van Horn didn’t have anything to do with it. He was down at the field all the while.” “Well, he’s stretchin’ his bunk right now, readin’ bedtime stories. How did he look in there today?” “Not bad. He’s a better fielder than Terry Tompkins, that’s sure. And he’s fairly brainy with a bat. Tomorrow we can see what he can do against the councilors.” Lefty picked up his equipment and started on. He had only gone a few paces when Brick, who had not moved, called after him in a low voice: “Say, my son, what do you guess is the meanin’ of R.H.R.?” Lefty considered. “Why, it might be Red-Hot Rhubarb, or Right-Handed Rattlesnake, or anything. Why do you ask?” “Nothin’,” muttered Brick. “But maybe tonight I’ll find out, and if I do, Lefty me boy, I’ll tell you all about it!” |
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