Before his eyes, under the limpid blue sky of August, between the mountains and the little lake, lay Camp Lenape, summer home of a hundred lively boys and the dozen councilors who guided their many outdoor activities. Over his head, on the long porch of the lodge, he could hear the uplifted voices of Jake and Jerry Utway; the twins were skylarking about, followed by the laughter of “Happy Face” Frayne, the genial assistant director. Beyond, from the kitchen, came a clatter of pans and a snatch of song as Ellick, the chef, and his dusky minions prepared lunch. Brick looked down the steep hill to the boat dock, where a rowboat full of boys with fish-poles was just coming in from a trip to the south end of Lake Lenape. He yawned sleepily, and stretched. From the rows of tents to his left someone shouted his name.
A group of campers trailed through the bushes in the wake of Mr. Carrigan, the camp naturalist. Among the boys who were thus returning from a nature-study hike were Blackie Thorne, Soapy Mullins, and Lefty Reardon, the latter of whom had called out.
“Hi, Ryan!” Lefty repeated. “Come on down to the tent, you loafer, and clean up for inspection!”
“Right away!” Brick answered lazily, but did not stir. He hated to break the spell of contentment that lay over him.
Brick Ryan loved Camp Lenape. It meant everything to him, the camp life, and for three summers now he had whooped with delight when the time came to leave the hot city streets behind and make for the Lenape hills for two months of busy, carefree sport in the green out-of-doors. Here, among his camper friends and the wise leaders like the Chief and Happy Face and Lieutenant Eames and Mr. Carrigan, he could do to his heart’s content the things he loved—swim and fish and get up shows and take long hikes through the mountains—— And this year, for the first time, he would be allowed to go on the Long Trail——
The blare of Ted Fellowes’ bugle, sounding Recall, broke forth over his head. He rose, stretched, and sauntered down to Tent One, his new quarters for the next two-week period. Every fortnight during the season was moving day for Lenape; then some of the boys who could not stay the entire summer would leave, and other boys would come up from the city to take their places. At this time, too, the tent assignments were shifted about so that each camper could get to know, and live as tent-mates with, a wide variety of other boys. Brick, who had that morning been given a bunk in the tent nearest the lodge, presided over by “Sax” McNulty, the comical leader who directed camp dramatics, wondered idly what sort of gang his new tent-mates would turn out to be.
As he entered the tent, Lefty Reardon looked up as he was spreading his blankets neatly over his canvas bunk.
“Well, it’s about time you were on the job,” he grinned. “What you been doing, Brick? Picking daisies? How about doing a little fancy work with a broom?”
“All right, Mr. Tent Aide,” Brick answered good-humoredly, and set about making his own bed. “What have you guys been doin’ all mornin’—lookin’ for filly-loo birds up in the tall timber?”
“Mr. Carrigan showed us some partridge. That’s better than loafin’ in the sun. Say, have any of the pups hit camp yet?”