“Friends, is it!” he shouted. “Gollies, you and your little presents! Pup, get this! You or the likes of you can’t buy Brick Ryan’s little finger, and you can’t bribe him, either! You and all your pretty junk may go over big with kids like Joey that don’t know any better, but Brick Ryan’s not for sale!”
Dirk’s mouth fell open, and he backed off hastily. “Why—Why, I’m sorry—I didn’t think you’d take it that way! Of course, if you don’t care to accept it——”
“Yah!” cried the Irish boy. With sudden fury he flung the offending tennis racquet in a wide curve. It fell out of sight into a clump of bushes some yards away; and Brick Ryan, with clenched fists, turned on his heel and stalked from the tent.
CHAPTER III
“HELP!”
Dirk Van Horn wondered if he were going to like Camp Lenape. There seemed to be far too many uncomfortable rules that got in the way when a fellow wanted to have some fun. Then, too, outside of little Joey Fellowes, nobody had seemed duly impressed with his father’s wealth and his luxurious camping outfit. It was clear that this was going to be quite different from Wild Rose Camp, where everyone knew that he was J. T. Van Horn’s only son, and where he and his tutor had shared a cosy cottage with every convenience that money could buy.
Dirk sighed; then turned suddenly as a new idea struck him. He’d show these kids what a real sportsman could do!
“Joey, old son,” he said, “would you mind clearing up the rest of this stuff? I’m going to take a look around the woods and see what the chances are for a bit of sport.”
“What you going to do, Van?”
“Oh, just a bit of gunning. That chap Reardon mentioned at lunch that he had scared up some partridge on the mountain this morning. I thought I might get a shot at a few.”
Joey Fellowes stood aghast at such daring. “Whe—you mean, shoot them? Say, nobody at Lenape ever does that! We just go out and watch birds and animals and things, and try to study them and take pictures of them. Nobody in camp is supposed to have a gun!”