Brick came to the edge of a little glade, and saw the leader standing threateningly above a youth who crouched on the sward, guiltily handing over his weapon. His body was covered with a stained blue coat and the wreckage of a pair of white flannel trousers; his yellow hair was rumpled; and on his pale face there was a look of mingled relief and dismay.
“Begolly,” said Brick to himself, “it’s the Baby!”
Sax McNulty seized the rifle and poured out the contents of the magazine into his hand. “What are you trying to do?” he asked. “What do you mean by shooting around Camp Lenape? Who are you, anyway?”
Brick came up, and grinned at his councilor, indicating the prostrate figure on the ground. “It’s the guy I was tellin’ you about, Sax,” he sneered. “Young Moneybags. What else could you expect?”
“My—my name is Van Horn,” the other boy stammered. “I’m a camper.”
“A camper? You?” McNulty was scornful. “Well, you must be in the wrong camp. At Lenape we don’t go around firing rifles all over the place.”
Dirk Van Horn swallowed, and began clambering to his feet. “I—I got lost,” he began. “I read somewhere that three shots was a signal for help. They didn’t sound very loud, so I shouted, too. I imagined that someone might hear me and direct me back to the camp ground. You see, sir, I hurt my leg——”
“Badly?”
“No—I can walk on it now. But then I got a trifle frightened, I suppose, and things got mixed up somehow.”
Brick broke into a rasping laugh. “Lost, is it! He gets lost a few hundred yards from camp, and yells for help! You got a job ahead of you, Sax. He don’t need a councilor—it’s a nurse-maid he needs!”