A day or so later he was given an involuntary bath. He was standing on the end of the landing watching Horace Chase try to do the Australian crawl-stroke, when there was a sudden push from behind and in he went, heels over head, and for a moment he and young Chase were inextricably mixed up, for he had landed squarely on that youth. When he came to the surface, sputtering and blinking, he supposed that it had been an accident, but the grinning faces of the boys on the landing told a different tale, as did the smile that played over the countenance of Mr. Haskins, who was on duty in the row-boat. Then Sam grinned too, pulled himself quickly to the landing, and charged the miscreants. Over they went, with shouts and squeals, striking the water every which way and for the next few minutes giving Sam a wide berth. His good-natured acceptance of their jokes won their approval, and, although some few boys at first rather resented being under the authority of a fellow who was only a year or two older than they were, Sam soon found that he had won his place.
Every forenoon at ten o’clock the councillors met in Mr. Langham’s little office and made their reports and talked over with the Chief all matters concerning the conduct of the camp. Now and then, at first very infrequently, it was necessary to discipline some too-spirited youth. But on the whole the boys were well-behaved and little punishment had to be meted out. Usually the council ended in a jovial give-and-take in which even the Chief had to accept his share of joking. Sam found himself a bit too slow at repartee to take much part in these exchanges of banter, but he enjoyed them in his quiet way and was perhaps better liked because he bore himself modestly.
He had plenty to keep him busy, but all the tasks were more like play than work, and the fact that he was out of doors practically every moment of each day, and might as well have been outdoors at night as far as fresh air was concerned, made his duties easy, kept him fit and gave him a most voracious appetite of which he was inclined to be ashamed until he saw that it was no more remarkable than Steve Brown’s or Mr. Gifford’s, or, for that matter, some of the boys themselves! Things certainly tasted good, too. The food was plain but plentiful, and well-cooked. Kitty-Bett disdained coal, and the meats had a wonderful wood-fire flavour that appealed to appetites grown out-o’-doors. Blueberries were in season and wild raspberries were to be had for the picking. Fresh vegetables were brought every day from a neighbouring farm. There was hot meat at noon—steak or roasts—and cold meat for supper. The eggs were freshly-laid, and, whether boiled or made into one of Kitty-Bett’s inimitable omelets, were delicious. And as for Kitty-Bett’s pies and doughnuts and griddle-cakes! Well, words would have quite failed Sam there! The doughnuts—Kitty-Bett called them “fried-cakes”—were in such demand that he had to fry a batch almost every day. Between meals there was always a bowl of them on one of the tables in dining-hall, and there was no one to see whether you took one or a half-dozen.
Fortunately, for a whole two weeks the weather was fair; pretty hot in the middle of the day, but cool enough at night to make at least one thickness of blanket acceptable. Life at The Wigwam was very pleasant, and to this effect Sam wrote home to his mother and sister, and, later, to Tom Pollock. Sam felt very grateful to Tom for having told him of the situation, and said so in the letter which he penned one Sunday afternoon, seated under the trees by the shore of the lake. Among other things, Sam wrote: “You were right about the railway fare. Mr. Langham asked me how much it was and he is going to pay it back to me at the end of the month. I told him he needn’t, but he said it was the custom and everybody got his travelling expenses, even Kitty-Bett, who is the cook and a wonder. I just wish, Tom, you could taste some of his blueberry pie. The shirts you sold me are fine, but I haven’t worn the sweater yet. The weather has been very warm and no rain yet. Have you started the nine again? Please write and tell me the news.”
Tom replied very promptly and told all the happenings. The Blues were getting together again and Buster Healey was to catch for them. Sid was to play first base. They hadn’t arranged for many games yet, but Lynton had promised to play them a week from next Saturday. Tom was glad Sam liked the camp, and he and Sid meant to run up some time in August and see it.
Meanwhile Sam learned to handle a pair of oars with skill and a canoe paddle less dexterously. There were fish in the lake and Sam was a devoted disciple of Walton. His usual companion on his fishing trips was Tom Crossbush. Tom pretended to be enthusiastic about the sport, but I think his liking for Sam was the real reason for his participation in the excursions down the lake. At all events, his enthusiasm soon wore off after his line was dropped and most of the fish that were caught came up on Sam’s hook. Once or twice Steve Brown went along, but Steve didn’t pretend to know much about the gentle art and as often as not sat for long stretches with, as he said, “nothing on his hook but water.” Nevertheless, it was Steve who, later on in August, by some miracle hauled in the biggest black bass in the history of the camp. It weighed just four pounds and six ounces and Steve was so delighted that he sent it away to be mounted. Mr. Langham, who, could he have done so, would have been on the lake every day holding a bass rod, threw up his hands in disgust when he saw Steve’s capture. “Beginner’s luck!” he grumbled. “I’ve fished in that lake twenty times and never got better than a two-pounder! What bait did you have?”
“Just a worm, sir,” answered Steve innocently.
“A worm! You mean an angle-worm?” sputtered the Chief.
Steve assented, and Sam, laughing, said: “He won’t use hellgamites, Chief. He says they’re too ugly!”
“A garden worm!” exclaimed Mr. Langham. “Great jumping Jupiter! Don’t you know you don’t catch bass with angle-worms, you ignoramus?”