Long before the hour for the afternoon swim the fellows were in their bathing togs, impatiently awaiting the signal. When it came, there was a regular stampede down to the beach, and in the space of thirty seconds every scout, save only three of the advance-party, who had been appointed life-savers, was splashing joyously in the water. They enjoyed every minute of that half-hour, and responded to the dressing signal with a reluctance that was considerably tempered by Mr. Reed’s announcement of an early supper.
There was no council-fire that night. The crowd that had come down was too sleepy to do more than listen to a brief talk by Captain Chalmers in front of headquarters tent, in which he repeated what Mr. Curtis had told them of the need of refuting Mr. Thornton’s peculiar ideas on scouting and briefly explained the camp rules and routine.
Each of the six tents, which were numbered, was to be daily assigned to special duty such as sanitary squad, cook’s helpers, commissary, and the like. In addition there would be a daily tent-inspection, and before each meal an inspection of the tables, which corresponded to the tents in number and for which the boys occupying those tents were responsible. All of these marks would be carefully kept, and the tent having the highest at the end of each week would be the honor tent, to be accorded special privileges besides having its individual marks go toward the winning of a camp emblem. This emblem, the captain explained, would be the highest honor a scout could obtain in camp, and when he had finished, almost every one of his hearers was keenly determined to carry the coveted trophy back to Hillsgrove on the front of his jersey.
It was barely dark when the talk was over, but already more than one tired scout was nodding and the clear notes of taps sent them stumbling tentward. Dale Tompkins lost not a moment in shedding his clothes and crawling in between the blankets. He heard vaguely the complaining tones of Harry Vedder as he climbed into an upper bunk, and the joshing comment of those who watched the diverting process. But even these sounds barely penetrated to his brain. In a moment more he was lost to the world, and in his next conscious moment he was opening his eyes to the dawn of another day.
CHAPTER XXI
LOST MINE HILL
The camp was very still. Each tree and bush stood motionless and distinct in the queer gray light of early morning. Their tent was the last in the row, and lying on his side, Dale could look under the rolled-up flap straight across the sloping, sandy beach, over the smooth, rhythmic lapping water of the bay to the low, sparsely wooded line beyond which lay the sea. There was a crisp tang to the air that made him snuggle into his blankets as he drowsily watched the eastern sky turn pink and gold and delicately crimson in the glory of the rising sun.
The boy gave a sigh of content, and his lids drooped sleepily. The next thing he knew reveille was sounding, and he rolled over to meet the glance of Ranny Phelps, sitting tousle-headed on the edge of the opposite bunk.
“Gee! Isn’t this great!” exclaimed Tompkins, impulsively.
Ranny nodded. “It sure is!” he agreed, in a half-friendly, half-embarrassed fashion. And then, almost as if regretting his tone, he sprang up and reached for his swimming-tights. “Everybody out for the morning dip, fellows,” he called authoritatively.
They needed no urging. Vedder was the only one who clung to his blankets, and the others lost no time in dragging these off and applying the sole of a sneaker with a dexterity that brought a howl of protest from the plump youth.