“You’re not so crazy for a swim you want to hustle right down now, are you?” asked Wally in surprise. “You better take a nap, son.”
Blackie shook his head. “I’ve got to get in the meet, Wally! It’s my last chance—you know I have to leave camp to-morrow; I’m only signed up for the first two weeks. And you’ve put in a lot of time teaching me the Australian crawl stroke, and I want to show what I can do in a real swimming meet. Will you enter me in the distance swims and the high dive?”
The councilor grinned. “You sure are a glutton for punishment! I wouldn’t think, after the last couple of days, you’d have steam enough left for swimming contests! But I admire your gameness, and I’ll sure put your name down.” He buttoned the strap on his bathing suit, thrust his feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and dashed off down the path toward the dock, from the direction of which came a confused babble of shouting and cheering. The swimming meet was already in full swing.
Blackie went down to the lake only a few minutes later, meeting no one on his way. The boat dock and the shore were lined with swimmers and spectators; about a hundred of them were strange boys and leaders, wearing the red arrowhead of Camp Shawnee, who had hiked down from Iron Lake to accept Lenape hospitality for the day and contest Lenape superiority in the water. The life-saving boats were stationed further out than usual, and Wally Rawn, with a whistle about his neck and papers and a megaphone in his hands, was stationed on the upper deck of the tower, directing the events, assisted by the chiefs of the two camps.
The first person Blackie encountered as he stepped on the dock was Ken Haviland. The aide gave him a stare of contempt.
“Humph!” he snorted. “So you came crawling back to camp just as I knew you would! Well, you might just as well have stayed away. What’s the idea of the bathing suit? You needn’t think we want a fellow like you to represent us against Shawnee.”
“Wally has entered me in the meet,” said Blackie stoutly. “You shouldn’t kick if he thinks it’s all right.”
“Wally’s running the meet, and what he says goes,” admitted Ken grudgingly, “but as far as the campers are concerned, you don’t count.” He turned away, refusing to speak further.
“Third event—underwater swim, junior class!” came Wally’s voice through the megaphone. The six contestants, three from each camp, lined up at the end of the dock and when the whistle sounded took off with flat racing dives. The spectators cheered as the boys hit the water; and the wearers of the arrowhead gave a happy yell as their contenders took first and third places. Steffins of Lenape ran a close second with a fast breast-stroke.
“What’s the score now?” Blackie asked the boy next to him. It was Slim Yerkes, and he favored Blackie with a stare.