“I’d keep quiet if I were you,” he said. “Don’t forget you’re still on the blacklist around here.” He moved off, and Blackie sat down weakly on a rock on shore. He had hoped that by this time the edict of the Kangaroo Court had been forgotten and that he could once more speak freely with his comrades; but since his return not one of them had spoken to him in friendship or asked about his adventures.
He did not try to talk with anyone again, but sat where he was and watched the progress of the swimming meet with dull eyes. The Shawnee team was a good one; a red-headed, slightly-built lad named Lawrence took honors in the junior class in diving, winning several first places in the form and fancy events, and a husky kid whom his Shawnee camp-mates called “Hobo” starred in the sprints. They both helped to give Lenape the worst of it, and at the end of the junior contest the score was Shawnee, 37; Lenape, 23.
Blackie caught sight of Irish Gallegher among the groups on shore, but did not want to speak to him. The senior diving events were now called, and Blackie answered to his name among those competing in high-diving. There were about seven contestants entered from each camp, and every entrant was entitled to three dives. They assembled on the upper dock platform, where a runway and springboard jutted out over the end of the piers. In this event Lenape, thanks to Wally’s careful training, was in its glory and took all three places. Steve Link, who was a member of the life-saving crew, took first; Blackie, in spite of his weariness, won second; and Terry Tompkins came third. Blackie had conquered his tired muscles and performed a very creditable back jack-knife dive, but not one of his team-mates shook his hand or dropped him a “Well done!” Disgruntled, he retired to his place on the rock and watched the Lenape team slowly shorten the difference in score as the senior events progressed.
The “funny dive” came last of all, and was won by Fat Crampton, the pudgy lion-hunter. He had been entered at the last moment by the joke-loving Sax McNulty, and his victory came as a surprise to everybody, but most of all to Fat himself. He had timidly approached the board, for he was not used to diving in any form; and while he stood at the end debating with himself what to do, his foot slipped and he toppled heels over head into the water. His arms became entangled in his legs as he fell, and he came up with such a pop-eyed, startled look on his puffy face that the judges immediately awarded him the blue ribbon, although he had to be pulled out by a delegation of volunteer life-savers.
The diving events in the senior class were finished, and the score stood somewhat closer, with Lenape standing 42 against Shawnee’s 48. Wally summoned the contestants in the fifty-yard dash, in which Blackie had not entered, wishing to save all his power for the more demanding distance events. A rangy, sandy-haired youth with the emblem of the Junior Red Cross on his jersey stepped forward and was hailed by a volley of cheers from the wearers of the red. “Dunning! Show ’em how to do it, Dunning!” He was evidently their champion, and he had a confident smile on his face which might betoken bad news for the Lenape supporters.
As a matter of fact, Dunning did win the fifty-yard with ease, although his triumph was offset by Link and Gil Shelton, who took second and third places for the Lenape side of the score. The representatives of the green and white also took first and second in the underwater swim, making the tally read Shawnee, 52; Lenape, 50, with only three more events yet to be contested.
“Hundred-yard swim!” came Wally’s voice hoarsely through the megaphone. “Shawnee team—Dunning, Coombes, Lipsky; Lenape team—Haviland, Link, Thorne!”
Blackie rose and walked stiffly to the end of the dock; he was more tired than he had thought, for no boy can hike with a heavy pack through mountain roads for seven hours and still hope to be fresh and springy in a gruelling distance swim the same afternoon. He lined up with the six contenders, between the confident Dunning and Ken Haviland. The latter twisted his mouth when he saw Blackie beside him.
“Still trying, huh? Well, let me tell you, Thorne, I’d rather lose the meet than have a fellow like you help to win it—and every fellow in Lenape thinks the same!”
Blackie said nothing, but a red tide of resentment climbed to his brain. So that was what they thought of him! But at least they couldn’t say he was a quitter; he would do his best in spite of what any of them said! He clamped his jaw, and stared out over the sparkling waters of the lake, over the course that had been marked out by two of the life-boats, trying to recall everything that Wally had taught him about the crawl-stroke—trudgeon kick, powerful overhand pull with the arms, measured breathing once in four strokes.