“Attention!” came the Chief’s command. He stood with dignified sternness before them, and the files straightened.
“Blackie Thorne, five paces forward!”
There was a stir among the campers as Blackie marched forward with chin up, arms at his side, and a set face. They, too, guessed what was coming now.
“I wish I hadn’t said he was yellow yesterday,” whispered Slater behind his hand. “That kid’s got nerve!”
“He sure has!” responded Gallegher. “I know what he feels like now, and believe me, it’s no joke! But it was all my fault—I really dragged him into it.”
“Silence in the ranks! Blackie Thorne, you have admitted to me that you have been guilty of conduct unbecoming to a Lenape camper, and have signified your willingness to abide by whatever punishment is inflicted. Is that right?”
Blackie flushed, but looked his Chief straight in the eye. “Yes, sir.”
“You will here, in the sight of all your comrades, be stripped of the honor emblem which has been made unworthy by your act.”
Blackie braced himself, waiting; the Chief stepped forward with the blade of a knife gleaming in his hand. Now it was coming! He felt the Chief pulling away his coat and cutting the stitches of the green and white badge. The clattering tattoo from Lister’s drum was in his ears. The Chief stepped backward, putting away the knife. Now it was all over. Blackie made a move to return to his place in line.
“Stay where you are, Thorne!”