[CHAPTER II]
TELLS OF A TALK BY THE CAMP-FIRE AND OF HAPPENINGS IN A DORMITORY
An hour later, having discarded some of the garb of civilization for more comfortable attire, Nelson lay stretched out on a carpet of sweet-smelling pine-needles. Above him were motionless branches of hemlock and beech and pine, with the white stars twinkling through. Before him was a monster camp-fire of branches and saplings built into the form of an Indian tepee, which roared and crackled and lighted up the space in front of Maple Hall until the faces of the assembled campers were recognizable across the clearing. A steady stream of flaring sparks rushed upward, to be lost amid the higher branches of the illumined trees. Beside him was the boy with the gray eyes, who, having recovered from his temporary excitement, no longer stammered. Sitting cross-legged in the full radiance of the fire, Tom Ferris looked not unlike a fat, good-natured Indian idol. Not that he was as ugly of countenance as those objects usually are; what similarity existed was due rather to his position and a certain expression of grinning contentment. He really wasn’t a bad-looking chap; rather heavy-featured, to be sure, and showing too much flesh about cheeks and chin to be handsome. He was only fourteen years old, and weighed something over a hundred and thirty pounds. He had a rather stubby nose, tow-colored hair, very pale gray eyes, and exceedingly red cheeks. He was good-natured, kind-hearted, eager in the search for fun, and possessed a positive genius for getting into trouble. Like Nelson, he was a student at Hillton Academy, but whereas Nelson was in the upper middle class, Tom Ferris was still a lower-middler, having failed the month before to satisfy the powers as to his qualifications to advance. Nelson and he had not seen much of each other at school, but this evening they had met quite as though they had been the closest of chums for years. Nelson had already learned a good deal about Camp Chicora and its customs, and was still learning.
“The Chief’s a dandy fellow,” Tom was saying. “We call him ‘Clint’ for short. Carter called him ‘Clint’ to his face the other day, and he just smiled, and said, ‘Mister Clint, Carter; I must insist on being addressed respectfully.’”
“He looks like a bully sort,” answered Nelson, turning his eyes to where the Director-in-Chief, the center of a merry group of boys, was sitting at a little distance. Mr. Clinton looked to be about thirty-five years old. A few years before he had been an assistant professor in a New England college, but the confinement of lecture-room and study had threatened his health. He had a natural love of the outdoor life, and in the end he had broken away from the college, built his camp in the half-wilderness, and had regained his health and prospered financially. Camp Chicora had been in existence but three years, and already it was one of the most popular and successful of the many institutions of its kind in that part of the country. He was tall, dark, strikingly good-looking, with an expression of shrewd and whimsical kindliness that was eminently attractive. He knew boys as few know them, and managed them at once surely and gently. Like the fellows about him, he wore only the camp uniform of jersey and trousers, and the fire-light gleamed on a pair of deeply tanned arms that looked powerful enough to belong to a blacksmith.
“What did he say to you?” asked Tom.
“Said he was glad to see me, hoped I’d make myself at home and be happy, and told me to let him know if I wanted anything. It wasn’t so much what he said as—as the way he said it.”
“That’s ju-ju-ju-just it!” cried Tom, with enthusiasm. “It’s the way he says things and does things! And he’s into everything with us; plays ball, tennis, and— Say, you ought to see him put the shot!”