City Boy (25 page)

Herbie shook the hand dutifully. “Thanks, Mr. Gauss.”

“Don't mention it, Herbert. And don't call me. Mr. Gauss. I'm Skipper here in the great outdoors.”

“Thanks, er—Skipper,” said Herbie, choking a little over the name as he did over cold oatmeal.

Mr. Gauss walked out of the office. When Herbie realized he was being left alone with Uncle Sandy, he almost wished the Skipper would stay, but the broad back vanished. He looked up at the head counselor timidly.

“Well, Herbie,” said Uncle Sandy in a dry tone, “what do you think the punishment ought to be?”

This bland assumption that there would be a punishment put Herbie in an awkward case. He would have liked to point out that the main object, the soothing of his parents, had been attained, largely through his help; therefore, the whole episode might be forgotten. But Uncle Sandy was obviously wedded to the law of cause and effect.

“I get docked a coupla movies?” the boy suggested faintly.

Uncle Sandy considered the proposal with pursed lips.

“Well, no,” he said at last. “That's pretty severe, and the Skipper wants me to be easy. Tell you what, Herb. The dancing class seems to have caused all the trouble. I think we'll just have you forget about dancing class.”

“If it's all the same to you,” pleaded Herbie, “I'd rather miss the movies.”

The head counselor laughed. “Go on. I know you guys don't even like dancing class. No, that's what I said, and that's how we leave it. Run down the hill, now, and report to your activity.”

“Yes, Uncle Sandy,” said the dejected boy, and turned to go.

“And don't
ever
let me catch you reading during an athletic period again,” called Uncle Sandy after him as he walked out.

“No, sir,” said Herbie, and his head sank a little lower.

In nine cases out of ten, Uncle Sandy would have been right in thinking that movies were a greater loss than dancing class. How could he know that the art of dancing was like a steep wall between Herbie and his beloved Lucille, a wall that the boy was panting to level once for all? It never occurred to him to take the lad's plea seriously.

So Herbie Bookbinder didn't learn to dance. And that small circumstance was to be the cause of great trouble.

T
he first week of August brought the great annual combat with Camp Penobscot.

Camp Penobscot was an institution much like Manitou, situated on another semi-lake eight miles away. Each year one camp piled its best athletes and a small group of boys with loud voices, known as a cheering section, into wheezing country busses, and sent them off to the grounds of the other to do battle. A game of baseball in the morning, and one of basketball in the afternoon, was the rule.

The rivalry, built up over many years, was bitter, and both sides in the past had resorted to tricks such as using waiters and young counselors on their teams. In 1926, two years before the time of our story, this had resulted in a nasty crisis. Uncle Sandy, in the middle of a basketball game which Manitou was losing badly, had suddenly blown his whistle, stalked onto the court, pointed at the star Penobscot player (who was six feet tall), and declared that he would call off the game unless this “adult” were removed at once. A hellish clamor had ensued, ending in a fist fight between the Penobscot star, who really was a counselor, and the best player of the Manitou side, who also was one. Since then an uneasy truce had been maintained, on the mutually pledged honor of Mr. Gauss and Mr. Papay, the owner of Penobscot, that only paying campers would compete.

Two days before the contest a disaster befell Manitou. The huge Super-senior Yishy Gabelson had been led by his love for wild blackberries into a patch of poison ivy, and was a puffed-up, bandaged, itching, helpless giant. Mr. Gauss had at once telephoned Penobscot to ask for a postponement. But he foolishly told Mr. Papay the reason; whereupon Mr. Papay swore that the busses had been hired, the teams trained, the camp routine set, and diminished rations ordered for the remaining campers. In short, postponement was impossible. Gloom swept Manitou, and Yishy, who had been the revered leader of the camp until now, was cursed and despised for being so hoggish about blackberries.

One hope remained. A hard rain would force postponement, and once that happened Mr. Gauss could put off the games for as long as it took a bad case of poison ivy to clear away. The boys of Manitou prayed for rain like savages in a drought. Mr. Gauss himself would have given perhaps twenty-five dollars to a really reputable rain maker. Even Herbie, even Ted, spent hours on the night before the event, guessing the possible water content of the clouds which here and there obscured the stars. Little as they loved Uncle Gussie and his camp, it was their own land, for better or worse, when invasion loomed. Uncle Sandy had no cause to complain of the lack of camp spirit during the days before the Penobscot games.

The bugle on the fated morning woke the boys to a sparkling day. Not a wisp of white moisture trimmed the blue. With a community groan, the campers prepared to meet the onslaught. Bunks were cleaned for inspection like Army barracks; everybody's best uniform was hauled out of the trunk; and the entire Intermediate and Junior divisions were marched across the grounds in a single, slowly moving line, to pick up stray papers. The ordinarily seedy camp never came closer to smartness than it did on the day of the Penobscot visit. (Exactly the same was true of Camp Penobscot's appearance each time Manitou came.)

A few forlorn inquiries were made about Yishy Gabelson's condition, but the word soon spread that he had spent a sleepless night, itching devilishly and reading through three whole Tarzan books. Succor from that quarter was hopeless.

Promptly at ten the bugle blew. The boys of Manitou lined up stiffly in front of their bunks, and the Penobscot horde came marching down Company Street, dressed in the hated green and gray uniforms, carrying many banners, and singing with gusto a lively marching song that began with the words, “Over hill, over dale, as we hit the dusty trail, as Penobscot goes rolling along.” They halted at the foot of Company Street and finished their song. A blast from Uncle Sandy's whistle, and the array of Manitou burst into their own marching air, which went:

Bulldog, bulldog, bow-wow-wow,

Man-i-tou.

We always will come through,

Bulldog, bulldog, bow-wow-wow,

and so on. This anthem was a relic of the first head counselor, Uncle Yale, a graduate of Old Eli, of course, and now a drudging lawyer far from the Berkshires. When Herbie first heard the song he had been puzzled by the numerous references to bulldogs, but everybody else seemed to think it made sense, so he refrained from showing his ignorance. Soon he, like the others, took the words for granted, and formed a sentimental liking for them.

But he had never heard “Bulldog” sung before as it was this day. Thrill chased thrill down his back as he shouted the tune with all his might. He glanced sidelong at Ted, and saw that the cynical old Gauss-hater was singing his soul out, too, his skinny face lit with fervor, his big mouth working, his eyes wet and glistening. Poor Ted! The love in a boy's heart must go out to familiar things. What had he had to love, for six long summers, but Camp Manitou?

Out to the best baseball diamond, which had been newly clipped, trimmed, and marked with whitewash, marched the Penobscots, followed by the whole Gaussian crew from the Midgets to the Super-seniors. Soon the enemy were seated along the first-base line, while the Manitou spectators ranged along the path to third base. Now in the distance sweet voices were heard chanting “Over hill, over dale,” and the girls' camp hove into sight, dressed as prettily as for services and singing the Penobscot tune with roguish glances at the strangers. It was considered a handsome gesture by everybody except the Manitou boys, who looked sullen. A whisper spread through their ranks that Aunt Tillie was “sweet” on the head counselor of Penobscot, Uncle Husky, a tall, long-jawed man with blond hair and a heavy tan. Indeed, Aunt Tillie did look almost slim for once in a gleaming white dress, and her freckles were mysteriously not in evidence. The boys, ignorant though they were of the arts of cosmetics and corsetry, nevertheless were suspicious of the striking change. And when Aunt Tillie, smiling happily, shook hands with this Uncle Husky, she stood condemned as a weak-minded traitress, and scattered jeers were heard from the vicinity of third base.

The girls' camp was placed beside the Penobscots. Herbie could not see his sister, but luckily both he and Lucille were in front ranks. It was not easy to send passionate glances across the breadth of a baseball diamond, but Herbie did his best, and though the features of his loved one were indistinct, he could see her returning his look and smiling. The boy decided that it might be a pleasant day after all.

The Manitou team took the field, to a vigorous “Oink-oink, bowwow” led by Uncle Irish. All the players were Seniors or Super-seniors, except for the shortstop, Lennie Krieger. Though Lennie was large for his age, he was puny in this company; nor would he have been in the game, except for the ivy poisoning of Yishy Gabelson. He had taken the place of the Senior shortstop, Boy Kaiser, who had been shifted to Yishy's pitching duty. Misgivings about Lennie were rife when he trotted to his post, a grammar-school boy among youths of fifteen, but in the few moments of warming up before play he showed that he was not overmatched. The speed and accuracy of his throws, the deftness of his running catches, were good to see. A wave of sympathy for him spread among the spectators. The Penobscot cheering section astonished and pleased their hosts by rendering their camp cry, “Bang chugga bang,” in honor of Lennie. The girls' camp, let by Aunt Tillie herself, immediately took up the idea with:

Strawberry shortcake, huckleberry pie,

V-I-C-T-O-R-Y,

Are we in it? Well, I guess.

Lennie! Lennie! Yes, yes, yes!

After this there was nothing left for the boys to do but to honor Lennie with an “Oink-oink, bow-wow” all for himself. Lennie acknowledged these unusual tributes with modest nods, and continued to practice coolly. Cast for once in the role of underdog, Lennie had never been a more sympathetic figure. Herbie felt he could forgive him the injuries of all the years if only he would help to win the game.

But, faultlessly as the Intermediate performed, it soon became evident that Yishy Gabelson's passion for blackberries was going to cost Manitou dear. Boy Kaiser seemed to be serving up his pitches to the Penobscot athletes for batting practice. They hit, and hit, and hit, and were only retired when the outfielders were lucky enough to catch long flies. At the end of the fourth inning the score was 17 to 2 in favor of the Penobscot side. Silence hung over the sunlit field, broken only by the excited squeaks of the little cluster of enemy cheerers. Boy Kaiser was replaced by the first baseman, Gooch Lefko, who had never pitched before, and the girls and boys of Manitou counted the game lost.

Then lo, hope sprang up. Gooch struck out two carelessly confident Penobscot batters, and the third went out on a fly. Manitou came to bat, and, urged on by an anguished “Oink-oink, bow-wow,” let loose a thunderstorm of hits. With the bases full, under-size Lennie hit the ball clear into the tennis courts for a home run. From the shrieking demonstration that ensued it was obvious that he could have married any female of Manitou, camper or counselor, at that moment, with the possible exception of Aunt Tillie. The tumultuous inning ended with the score at 17–11. As Lennie trotted out to his position at shortstop, Herbie, quite beside himself, danced up to third base and yelled, “Come on, Lennie, you can win this game yourself! For good old Homer Avenue!” And Lennie waved at him and grinned, and Herbie was as proud as if he had received a letter from the President.

But this flurry was the last. The Penobscot boys blasted Gooch Lefko out of the pitcher's box, and a dismal parade of substitutes failed to stem them. The home team lost heart. Soon it became a matter of hoping for a quick finish. Unlike more primitive struggles like war and boxing, which can end when one side is hopelessly done for, the rules of baseball require the ceremony of nine innings no matter what happens. With the score at the unbelievable figure of 41 to 11, and the game stretching into the lunch time, the Penobscots finally brought the debacle to its close by the humiliating stunt of sending their cheering section to bat. Even so, the crushed Manitou team permitted two more runs; and so the game went down in history, an everlasting stain on the escutcheon of the cohorts of Gauss, 43 to 12.

But the ghastly blow was neutralized at once in an unexpected way.

It had been the custom in previous years for the teams and spectators to march from the baseball field to the dining halls, led by the Manitou head counselor on horseback. Technical difficulties had arisen this year in connection with using Clever Sam. Uncle Sandy, having had a couple of duels with the horse, flatly informed Mr. Gauss that he would not ride him. It was not his own feelings, he admitted under pressure, but the sentiments of the horse, that were decisive. But the camp owner was anxious to avoid giving Penobscot the impression that Manitou was having a horseless year. It was decided that Cliff should ride the horse to the baseball diamond and back again, if Clever Sam proved to have no objections to the traditional green and gray blanket which read, “Welcome, Penobscot.” As it turned out, he was philosophically indifferent to it.