“Thanks, Ryan, old chap—you’re white about it, but Lefty’s right,” admitted Dirk. “I forced you, just to show off. Maybe some day,” he ended miserably, “I’ll learn how to play on a team.”
Many a curious glance followed him as he pushed through the admiring bunch of Lenape boys who clustered on the sidelines; but Ollie Steffins was at bat, and the invading campers, thirsting for more rapid-action runs, did not notice him as he headed behind the tent-houses that ringed the Shawnee diamond. He passed the lodge overlooking the brown waters of Iron Lake, and started down the road by which the hikers had marched that morning into the rival encampment. There were still two innings to play, but Dirk Van Horn did not want to see the end of that game. Camp Lenape was ten miles away, and he must hike. He went on his way; and as he went, he thought....
That night there was jubilation in Camp Lenape. Hated Shawnee had been taught a lesson on the diamond, by the slender margin of one run made in the last inning by Blackie Thorne. There were comments at the supper table, however, upon the sportsmanship and hospitality of the defeated camp, who had taken their defeat in good nature, and in parting had promised vengeance at the next inter-camp tilt. Tired hikers ate like wolves, assuring each other between mouthfuls that it had been a swell day.
Dishes had to be washed. At Tent One table, Lefty and Eddie Scolter were due for this detail. The latter, however, could hardly keep his eyes open—the long hike, the swim in Iron Lake, and the excitements of the day’s visit at Shawnee had been almost too much for the small lad. He nodded gratefully when Dirk Van Horn offered to take his place. Sax McNulty raised his eyebrows at this generosity, but made no remark.
Lefty busied himself with a broom and piled the dishes while Dirk mixed up suds in the pan. It was Lefty who spoke first.
“I got a bit heated up this afternoon,” he confessed casually. “Hope you didn’t take me too seriously, Van. Sometimes, when a guy is captain of a team, he has to say things and do things he doesn’t like.”
Dirk nodded.
“I’m sorry if you’re sore about it,” the aide went on. “Brick Ryan was taking your part, on the way home, and darned if he didn’t convince me that I was wrong in bawling you out the way I did.”
“I am sore,” admitted Dirk; “but at myself, not at you. You were quite right to kick me out. It’s—it’s not easy to say it, but I’m pretty much of a swell-head any way you put it. Will you do me a favor, Reardon?”
“Sure.”