The musical echo of Tattoo came from the bugle, and a hush fell upon Tent Four. The campfire still smouldered in the field by the lake, but the campers had passed to their tents at the Call to Quarters, and were now making ready to turn in for the night.
Blackie squatted on his bunk and stared at the faces that were half-illuminated by the solitary lantern that hung on the tent-pole. Mindful of the pine-cones that were still in Ken Haviland’s bed, he was lying low and watching for developments.
The aide had already stripped, and was climbing into a swathing suit of pajamas. Above him jutted the head of Lefkowitz, already between blankets but still full of interest in proceedings.
“I can’t find my nightgown,” wailed little Guppy at the other end of the tent.
“It should be under your pillow,” said Wally. He stretched his broad arms and yawned prodigiously, making a noise like an enraged walrus. “You ought to have pajamas anyway.”
“I put it under the pillow, sir, as Ken told me to. I had an extra one, but that’s gone too. And I promised Mother I wouldn’t sleep in my—my underthings, sir.”
“Well, they’ll probably turn up. For to-night you can have an extra pair of my pajamas. I think the pants would be enough for you, though—you’re not exactly a giant.” Wally produced a pair of outing-flannel pants, stuffed the small Guppy into the legs of them, tied the cord about his neck, and stowed him away between the blankets like a sack of potatoes.
Ken was turning down the covers. Blackie watched him feel the blankets all over, and to the joker’s disappointment, the aide touched several suspicious bumps and resuscitated the hidden pine-cones. He tossed them into the night, and winked at Blackie.
“My camp experience has taught me to always feel my bed before I turn in,” he grinned. “Some chaps have a funny sense of humor.” He hopped in and sprawled out luxuriously.
Now that his trap had failed, Blackie bethought him of turning in also. Slater, who had been outside gazing at the stars, stepped into the tent.