“What’s that for, Sax?” Eddie Scolter asked, pointing to the strange object.
“It means we have to hang that up on our tent-pole in full sight, so everybody in camp can see we’re a bunch of dubs,” explained the leader, with a glance around the table. “And that’s just what we’ve been today. Van Horn, you may have the privilege of carrying this little token down to the tent.”
Dirk opened his mouth to protest, but the whistle sounded just then, and the campers leaped to their feet and began pouring out the doors. Picking up the loathed booby-can, Dirk started walking down toward the tent. He had not gone far when he felt a hand on his arm, and he looked up, frowning, to see Sax McNulty’s serious face.
“I didn’t say anything at the table just now,” began the leader, “but of course you know you’re to blame for most of our demerits today. I’m afraid you’re not getting off to a very good start at Lenape, Van.”
“Why blame me for everything?”
“Well, I don’t, exactly. The other fellows should have known better than to drop their duty and help you launch your canoe this morning—but you’ll have to admit you were the main cause of it. Then, Wally Rawn told me about your fool stunt at the lake. Also, and moreover, when the inspection staff came around this noon, our tent was cluttered up with your things strewn all over the place, wet clothes dumped on the floor—plenty demerits. You’ll have to learn not to do the first thing that enters your head, Van Horn—you’ll have to think of the other fellow, and consider what will be for the good of the camp and your own gang. I haven’t mentioned anything about your fight with Ryan, but——”
“He started that!” retorted Dirk.
“I won’t interfere there,” promised McNulty gently. “Ryan is a decent chap, and so are you; and I know that after a couple of days you will get along together fine. Try to get his point of view. We’ve got a fine bunch of fellows in Tent One this time, and as soon as we get to pulling together, we’re going to show Lenape some speed! I didn’t mean to make you listen to another sermon today,” he ended wryly, “and I don’t expect you to learn everything about camping in a few hours. Come to me next time you feel the urge to do something startling, and I’ll try to put you wise first.”
Dirk smarted under the words, but held back the bitter reply that rose to his lips. He slammed the booby-can on a nail sticking into the front tent-pole, and retired sulkily to his untidy bunk. The other boys, with the exception of the two who were doing the dishes, were stretched about, taking a restful siesta after their bountiful dinner. Across from Dirk sat Brick Ryan, busied as usual over his life-saving manual, and apparently unaware that there was anybody named Van Horn within a thousand miles of him. For the first time, Dirk noticed that Brick wore a curious insignia stitched to the front of his jersey. It was outlined in green and white, and showed a large L superimposed upon a swastika. Dirk’s eyes passed to Lefty Reardon. Lefty also wore the green L.
Dirk decided that the camp monogram would look most attractive on one of his sweaters. He jumped up, and hurried back to the lodge before the small camp store closed.