“Quiet in the ranks!” came the command of Mr. Avery, the officer of the day. “Attention!”
The expectant bodies stiffened. The Chief cleared his throat.
“Timothy Gallegher, five paces forward!” he said.
A ripple of astonishment ran down the line. Blackie felt a movement at his side; Gallegher had left his place and now appeared in front of the Chief, standing with a strange white look on his drawn face, swaying slightly in his place.
“Timothy Gallegher, you have been guilty of conduct unbecoming to a Lenape camper. You will here, in the sight of all your comrades, be stripped of the honor emblem which you have been found unworthy to wear.”
The crowd gasped. Gallegher never moved, staring in front of him with a blind tenseness. The Chief reached into his pocket and drew forth a clasp-knife, opened one of the sharp small blades. From the end of the line came a muffled tattoo; little Pete Lister, trap-drummer in the camp orchestra, was sounding a rattling roll on his drum, as he had been told to do.
Slowly, in the sight of all, the swastika-L on the front of Gallegher’s sweater was cut away. The thin blade slit the stitches, and the Chief’s hand tore away the green and white emblem of honor. Blackie watched Gallegher’s face, fascinated. He should be out there, too, taking his medicine, suffering along with the Irish boy; he was just as guilty, and more so, for at least Gallegher had not lied about his guilt. Blackie wanted to cry out, to tell them all that he should be standing there, too, with the Chief tearing away his own badge; but he stood rooted in his place with a dry tongue and pale cheeks beneath his tan.
Now it was too late. The Chief had put the emblem and the knife into his pocket; the drumming had stopped; Gallegher shambled doggedly back to his place in the line, beside Blackie and the other boys of Tent Four. The chance to confess was past. Blackie rather envied Gallegher; he had owned up and taken his punishment, and however hard the work on the woodpile might be, at least he would have no ugly stain on his conscience.
“Right face! Forward—march!” The files trailed up toward the lodge steps, and instantly a curious babel of voices broke out.
“Gee, what did you do, Irish?”