Blackie had donned his shirt and sweater after the boxing bout. “Thanks, Irish,” he said.
“I’ve seen lots of tough fights, and I know what I’m sayin’, see? Say, are you tired?”
“No, not very.”
“What do you say we take a little walk? I’m sick of bein’ shut in this lodge all mornin’.”
Blackie looked out a window; the rain had slackened, but still drizzled down with settled persistence. “In the rain?”
“Sure—what’s a few drops matter? Put on your raincoat and come along.”
The two boys slipped into their rainproof ponchos, and then Gallegher led the way a short distance through the wet woods behind camp. Here he turned off and struck through the brush toward the mountain, following a line of lead pipe that ran from a spring above down to the lodge, supplying fresh, cold water for the use of the camp. A trail had been cut when the men had laid the pipe, but it was overgrown and indistinct, and it was easy to see that few campers ever passed that way. After about a quarter of a mile of trudging in silence through the dripping forest, Gallegher turned off and floundered through the undergrowth until he came to the thick trunk of a fallen tree that lay rotting on the ground.
“Here we are,” he said. “Not so bad, eh? I come here lots of times.”
“What for?” asked Blackie curiously.
“I’ll show you.” Gallegher stuck out his chin, and winked meaningly. “Have a good time, away from all the baby kids in camp. See what I mean?”