In the morning Sax McNulty looked over at him curiously.
“What’s come over you, young lad?” the leader asked. “I didn’t know you loved to chase flies so much that you’re bubbling with boyish glee.”
“I love to chase flies, Sax.”
“But not that much. There’s something else. I never saw anybody in such a burning hurry to have an honor emblem pinned on his shirt. I’m suspicious.”
“I can’t tell you now, Sax. But will you help me?”
McNulty snorted. “Do you have to ask? Now, hop into your bathrobes, you birds—What will become of Camp Shawnee if you sleep all day?”
“Shawnee” was the word that rose oftenest in the babel at the breakfast table. All the boys were in hiking clothes, ready for the ten-mile trail that fringed the mountains running north. Within a few minutes after the meal was over, Dirk had seen disappear into the woods all his tent-mates with the exception of Lefty and Brick, who, with the rest of the Lenape nine, were to ride to Shawnee and thus keep fresh for the big contest of the afternoon.
Dirk fingered his glove nervously, and wondered what sort of ball field the Shawnee campus would provide. Somebody slapped him on the back. It was Spaghetti Megaro, second baseman, and a gay light shone in the Italian boy’s eyes.
“You’re worried, huh? Well, forget it! If we don’t win, we lose. But I think we win! Come, the truck is loaded—pile on and hang tight. If you can ride this flivver, the bucking broncho is nothing!”
“Sure, Spaghett.” Dirk joined the crowding band that jostled each other laughingly as they sought places in the body of the camp truck. Stirring up a cyclone of dust, the car left Lenape deserted, and rattled off up the rutted lane. Dirk Van Horn, clinging to the dashboard with both hands, stared into the distance.