Ken looked at them all pityingly. “Say, don’t you know Wally is a senior at Columbia University and on the varsity water-polo and basketball teams? He’s coming up here and spending his time teaching you birds how to be good campers, and that’s all the thanks he gets!”
“I guess he has a pretty good time,” said Blackie.
“Of course he does, or he wouldn’t be here. But it’s no fun to have a tent full of lazy draw-backs like you that object every time he tries to make a good showing.”
There was a short space of silence. Slater looked up from his writing.
“Hey, Ken, do we have council ring to-night?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“What’s council ring?” asked Blackie curiously.
Slater explained. “Just when it’s getting dark, we all put on blankets and go over to council, just like the Indians used to do. We all sit in a circle around a four-square fire, and one of the fellows lights the fire with flint and steel, or else with rubbing-sticks. Then we have report of scouts. Any fellow who has seen any interesting birds or animals or anything like that gets up and tells about them. Then we suggest anything we can do to help make the camp better and offer to do it. Then they have all kinds of contests—hand-wrestling and talk-fests and imitations, and usually end up with a ghost story. It’s real fun, all right.”
Blackie remembered that Gil had pointed out the way to the council ring the evening before, and suddenly thought he would like to see the place by daylight. He put away his letter, rose, and stretched.
“So long, you guys,” he said.