It wasn’t until the boys had retired to the dormitories that Sam had an opportunity to hear the home news from Tom and Sidney. The three sat on the porch of The Tepee and talked until it was nearly time for “lights” and Sam heard all the gossip of Amesville. It wouldn’t greatly interest, us, but Sam found it most absorbing and asked many questions and began to feel a little bit homesick withal. At ten they went to bed, Sidney and Tom being accommodated with cots sandwiched in between Sam’s and Harry Codman’s, an arrangement that allowed them to lie very close together and whisper cautiously long after they should have been silent.
Tom and Sidney remained until the second day and then, cheered to the echo by the campers, climbed into that same “ancient thing” that Sid had so eloquently sung of and, accompanied by Sam, drove back to the station. Sam felt a bit forlorn after the train had whisked them away and he walked back to camp rather wishing that he too was on his way to Amesville. But that feeling didn’t last long, not long enough, in fact, to prevent him from eating a very hearty dinner!
The day following Mr. Langham made a trip to Columbus. He was away only one night, returning the next afternoon with many packages, most of which represented commissions from the boys. He also brought back a piece of news which he divulged that evening at camp-fire. The nights were getting rather cool now and sweaters and blankets were appreciated, and the fire was bigger and hotter.
“Fellows,” announced Mr. Langham, “coming up in the train this morning I ran into a man I used to know at college, a chap named Scovill. We got to talking about things, old times and old acquaintances, you know, just as you fellows do, I dare say——”
Chuckles from the circle.
“—and it turned out that Mr. Scovill has a boys’ camp, much like this, I suppose, though a bit older and larger, at a place called Mount Placid, just across the line in the next state. Seems they play baseball at his camp—Camp Placid, he calls it—and he thinks he’s got the best summer-camp ball team around this part of the world. I told him”—Mr. Langham laughed softly—“I told him he might have a pretty fair team, but I knew of a better one. He asked where it was and what it was called, and I said it was located at Indian Lake and was called The Wigwam Baseball Team.”
Fervid applause from his hearers.
“Well, to make a long story short, fellows, he issued a challenge to us. ‘You bring your team up to Placid,’ he said, ‘and play us. We’ve got plenty of room and can look after you overnight and give you some real food.’ I thanked him and told him I’d talk it over when I got back and let him know. We looked up trains and found that we could leave here early in the morning, on that seven-forty-five express, and get to Mount Placid at about eleven. We’d have to stay over there until the next forenoon at about ten-thirty. The one objection is just this. If we are to try conclusions with those folks we’ve got to make up a team of our best players, councillors included—the Placid team has four councillors on it, he tells me—and then get in a week or so of practice. If we do that it’s going to interfere badly with our ‘long hike,’ which is set for September fourth. If we postpone the hike we interfere with Visitors’ Day, the ninth. And we don’t want to do that, because that date is set down in the camp-booklet and parents and friends are doubtless arranging to come then, and if we change the date there’ll be a lot of confusion. Now, I’ve been wondering how it would do if we all went to Mount Placid, the whole kit and kaboodle of us——”
Interruption of enthusiastic cheering.
“—saw the game and then hiked back from there. We’d have seventy-odd miles to do and could take four days to do it in if necessary. It wouldn’t be any trick to ship our things to Mount Placid by express a day or two ahead. There’d be the matter of railway fares, of course, and perhaps some of you wouldn’t feel like paying out so much money.” Mr. Langham paused questioningly.