COPYRIGHT 1940, 1935 BY BOOKS, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

I. A Feud Begins 7

II. “Brick Ryan’s Not for Sale!” 17

III. “Help!” 29

IV. Dirk Jumps 40

V. The Sinking of the Sachem 54

VI. Fight! Fight! 66

VII. The Red Hand Revengers 78

VIII. Shenanigans for Brick 91

IX. Dirk Hears of the Long Trail 103

X. Off for Camp Shawnee 116

XI. The Captain 127

XII. The Mysterious Watcher 138

XIII. On the March 151

XIV. The Watcher Again 164

XV. The Trap on Flint Island 175

XVI. Fire in the Forest 187

XVII. The Flight into the Hills 200

XVIII. The End of the Trail 212

CAMP LENAPE ON THE LONG TRAIL

CHAPTER I
A FEUD BEGINS

Brick Ryan was bending over a washtub out behind the Lenape lodge when the big, shiny automobile roared up the road into camp.

Brick paused in the act of wringing out his best and only flannel shirt, straightened, took one look at the glittering limousine, and whistled.

“Whew! Will you look at the golden chariot!” he exclaimed to himself. “Brick, my boy, can it be that a young millionaire is comin’ to Camp Lenape?”

He bent his flaming mop of copper-colored hair over the tub once more, but kept a watchful blue eye on the big car, which had now drawn up beside the kitchen wood-pile.

From the wheel of the limousine stepped down a man smartly garbed in the uniform of a chauffeur. He swiftly threw open the silver-trimmed rear door, saluted, and offered his arm as the first of the occupants of the car descended. This person was a lady, somewhat stout, with a worried look on her face. Brick saw the flash of many diamonds glitter on her hands as she turned and spoke to those still remaining within the shadowy interior.

“Dirk, dearest, here we are! Gracious, what a rough and dusty road it has been! This camp must be in a perfect wilderness! John, you must come with me right away to see the camp director. I simply must explain to him about Dirk’s diet, and I do hope he will see to it that Dirk wears his rubbers and heavy underwear when it rains!”

Her husband, an older man with hair gray about the temples, nodded reassuringly as he joined her. “There, there,” he said soothingly, “it will be all right, I’m sure. The director knows his job; he’s quite accustomed to looking after all the boys.”

“But you know Dirk has always been so delicate! I declare, I wish we had sent him to Wild Rose Camp again this year—the nurse there was so sympathetic. But you would insist that he be brought to this outlandish place, even when you knew that none of the boys of our social set would think of coming to such an ordinary sort of camp!”

“I know, Marcia,” the man replied. “But Dirk is growing up now. I want him to mix with a regular gang of fellows his own age, and do all the things they do. Maybe at first it will seem a bit like roughing it, but he’ll soon get used to it and be into everything with the best of them. Isn’t that right, old man?”

“Yes, Papa,” a bored young voice answered from the depths of the back seat.

“That’s splendid, dear,” the mother said. “I know you will be a brave lad. Now, your father and I are going to speak to the director about your diet. Benson will help you with your luggage, and you can find out which house you are going to sleep in.”

“They sleep in tents here, Mama.”

“Tents! You see, John, what sort of place you have chosen! And you know how easily Dirk catches cold! The idea of having the boys sleep in drafty tents! I really must speak to the director at once!” She picked her way delicately down the hill toward the front of the lodge, followed by her apologetic husband.

“Gollies!” Brick Ryan muttered to himself, and watched for further developments.

They were not long in coming. The chauffeur went around to the heaped luggage-rack of the car, and began unloading its bulky contents. Several shiny suitcases landed on the ground, followed by a leather hat-box, a bag of golf-clubs, two tennis racquets, a gun-case, fishing rods, and finally a large wardrobe trunk, which the man handled with difficulty. Shouldering the latter, the man also disappeared down the hill. Brick scratched his head, stared at the pile of baggage that still remained, and hung a patched pair of khaki pants on the line to dry in the fresh morning air.

He wheeled about as the same drawling voice he had heard from within the car came to his ears.

“I say, would you mind lending a hand with this luggage?”

Brick looked at the speaker with open mouth. He saw a tall, pleasant-looking boy of about his own age, with brown eyes and yellow hair, spick and span in white flannels and straw hat. Brick was so startled by the fact that the stranger wore a stiff white collar and necktie that at first he did not comprehend what the boy had said.

“Huh?”

“I said,” the newcomer repeated carefully, “that I would like you to help me with all this luggage of mine. That is, if it won’t interfere with your laundering work.”

Brick slowly drained the soapy water from the tub, and considered this request. Then he took a second look at the strange lad.

“You’re not a cripple, are you?” he asked solicitously.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What’s the matter with you grabbin’ some of those bags and hikin’ down with ’em yourself?”

“You don’t understand,” the other said patiently. “Of course I shall carry my rod and racquets, but I don’t care to lug these heavy bags about myself. Just take them down to my tent like a good chap. I’ll pay you, naturally.”

Brick’s Irish temper, never far from the surface, blew up.

“Say, Mr. Dirk Astorbilt, or whatever your name is, you’ve got me all wrong! Where did you get the idea that Camp Lenape fellows were a bunch of Pullman porters, standin’ around waitin’ to carry bags for a ten-cent tip? Just because I happen to be washin’ out my duds so I wouldn’t look like a hobo, you must think I’m a bellhop or somethin’. Well, up here, mister, every man totes his own pack, see?”

“But—— Do you really mean that you are a fellow-camper, like myself?” the blond boy asked awkwardly.

Brick snorted, stuck his hands in his pocket, and stared pugnaciously at the other.

“Go climb a tent-rope!” he exclaimed rudely, and swaggered off down the hill toward the grove of pine trees that shadowed the white canvas dwellings of the Lenape campers.

In the shade beside the flagpole, he sat down on a log to cool off. With a blue bandana handkerchief he mopped his freckled brow and snub nose. A pine-scented breeze fluttered down the mountainside at his back and ruffled his unruly red hair. Perhaps he had been a little too hasty in taking affront at the new boy’s request. He sniffed the air, and its fragrance soon made him forget the unpleasant encounter with the strange boy in white flannels. For the thousandth time, he gazed over the spreading campus of Lenape, and peace descended on his fiery soul.

Before his eyes, under the limpid blue sky of August, between the mountains and the little lake, lay Camp Lenape, summer home of a hundred lively boys and the dozen councilors who guided their many outdoor activities. Over his head, on the long porch of the lodge, he could hear the uplifted voices of Jake and Jerry Utway; the twins were skylarking about, followed by the laughter of “Happy Face” Frayne, the genial assistant director. Beyond, from the kitchen, came a clatter of pans and a snatch of song as Ellick, the chef, and his dusky minions prepared lunch. Brick looked down the steep hill to the boat dock, where a rowboat full of boys with fish-poles was just coming in from a trip to the south end of Lake Lenape. He yawned sleepily, and stretched. From the rows of tents to his left someone shouted his name.

A group of campers trailed through the bushes in the wake of Mr. Carrigan, the camp naturalist. Among the boys who were thus returning from a nature-study hike were Blackie Thorne, Soapy Mullins, and Lefty Reardon, the latter of whom had called out.

“Hi, Ryan!” Lefty repeated. “Come on down to the tent, you loafer, and clean up for inspection!”

“Right away!” Brick answered lazily, but did not stir. He hated to break the spell of contentment that lay over him.

Brick Ryan loved Camp Lenape. It meant everything to him, the camp life, and for three summers now he had whooped with delight when the time came to leave the hot city streets behind and make for the Lenape hills for two months of busy, carefree sport in the green out-of-doors. Here, among his camper friends and the wise leaders like the Chief and Happy Face and Lieutenant Eames and Mr. Carrigan, he could do to his heart’s content the things he loved—swim and fish and get up shows and take long hikes through the mountains—— And this year, for the first time, he would be allowed to go on the Long Trail——

The blare of Ted Fellowes’ bugle, sounding Recall, broke forth over his head. He rose, stretched, and sauntered down to Tent One, his new quarters for the next two-week period. Every fortnight during the season was moving day for Lenape; then some of the boys who could not stay the entire summer would leave, and other boys would come up from the city to take their places. At this time, too, the tent assignments were shifted about so that each camper could get to know, and live as tent-mates with, a wide variety of other boys. Brick, who had that morning been given a bunk in the tent nearest the lodge, presided over by “Sax” McNulty, the comical leader who directed camp dramatics, wondered idly what sort of gang his new tent-mates would turn out to be.

As he entered the tent, Lefty Reardon looked up as he was spreading his blankets neatly over his canvas bunk.

“Well, it’s about time you were on the job,” he grinned. “What you been doing, Brick? Picking daisies? How about doing a little fancy work with a broom?”

“All right, Mr. Tent Aide,” Brick answered good-humoredly, and set about making his own bed. “What have you guys been doin’ all mornin’—lookin’ for filly-loo birds up in the tall timber?”

“Mr. Carrigan showed us some partridge. That’s better than loafin’ in the sun. Say, have any of the pups hit camp yet?”

This was Lefty’s belittling way of referring to new boys, tenderfeet who were that day coming to camp for the first time. Brick groaned.

“Don’t remind me—I’d almost forgot about it! Gollies, I was just exchangin’ sweet words with one of the juiciest specimens that you’ve ever seen! Mr. Chauncy Montmorency, the Dude from Swellville! Such a pretty boy, too!”

Lefty grunted. “What’s he like?”

“You’d have to see it to believe it. Mama and Papa and the shover all come along in the family limmyzine to see that little Algy gets here without getting his tootsies wet! ‘And I sye, me good feller,’” he mimicked, “‘would you be kind enough to carry me bags down to the ho-tel?’”

Lefty’s jaw gaped. “Gee, he sure must be a green one!”

“Wait till you see him! He’s the Millionaire Baby, and no mistake! I pity the poor guys that get in his tent——” Brick Ryan broke off suddenly as a shadow fell over his shoulder. He looked up, and gasped.

At the door of the tent stood a blond young fellow in white flannels. A few paces away a chauffeur in uniform stood respectfully, laden with shiny suitcases and sporting goods.

“Oh, there you are again,” the lad said breezily. “Sorry to trouble you, but is this Tent One? If it is, I believe I shall have the pleasure of sharing it with you chaps. My name is Dirk Van Horn, and the camp director has assigned me to stay here. I hope that we shall all be very happy and friendly tent-mates!”

CHAPTER II
“BRICK RYAN’S NOT FOR SALE!”

Brick was too aghast to think of anything to say. He scowled, threw up his hands helplessly, and deliberately turned his back on the smiling Van Horn.

But Lefty, whatever he might think about “pups” in private, had been appointed councilor’s aide for Tent One, and as such was camper-leader in charge when Sax McNulty was not in sight. He rose and extended a hand to the newcomer.

“Glad to meet you, Van. My name’s Reardon. I see you’ve got a baseball glove there among your things. We need good fielders on the camp team—some stiff games are coming up. We’ll talk about it later. Yes, this is Tent One. I hear you’ve met Brick Ryan, over here,” he said easily. “The rest of the bunch will be along pretty quick, except for some of the new boys that are hitting camp today.”

“Thanks. We passed a hay-wagon full of young chaps down the road a few miles,” answered Van Horn. “They seemed to be having lunch.”

“They’ll be along later, I guess. Hope we get some good ones for Tent One. Sax McNulty went down to show them the way. He’s our leader—you ought to hear him shake out a tune from that saxophone of his! Then, outside of you and Brick and myself, we’ve got little Joey Fellowes and Slim Yerkes—— But dump your stuff down here on the floor, and after lunch I’ll show you where to stow things.”

Benson, the chauffeur, gladly stacked his load of baggage inside the tent, and returned for the remainder. His young master spread his legs apart and looked over the tent with a patronizing air.

“Nice little place you’ve got here, but it could be fixed up better. I’ve got some pennants and a few pictures in my trunk that we can stick around to make it look quite homelike, I fancy.”

Lefty smiled grimly. “We mostly do our decorating up at the lodge, where there’s plenty of room. With seven fellows and a leader in a tent this size, we have to save space for the things we use every day. You seem to have a lot of junk there—enough to take up a whole tent yourself. After lunch we’ll weed out what you need and the rest can be stored under the lodge.”

“I don’t know about that. A chap wants to be comfortable, doesn’t he? Oh, I guess there are my folks coming to say good-bye! Hello, Mama!”

Brick scornfully watched the approach of the fond parents. The lady, after embracing her boy, looked disdainfully about the tent and its simple furnishings. She did not sniff, but she looked as if she might at any moment.

“Gracious, John, do you really think we should leave Dirk here? I’m glad we thought to bring up his spring cot and mattress—the idea of having a growing boy sleep on plain canvas stretchers like these!”

“The other boys don’t seem to have suffered,” Mr. Van Horn smiled feebly.

“This is Reardon, Papa,” his son said. “Plays baseball, you know.”

“Fine! Fine! Well, young men, Benson is bringing down a big watermelon for Dirk’s tent-mates. Guess you won’t mind a cool slice later on? Now, Dirk, your mother and I are going. We’ll have lunch in Elmville. If you want anything, write or wire me and we’ll see what the old man can do. That canoe ought to be along in the morning.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Dirk turned to Lefty. “Back in a minute, old chap.” He waved a hand and accompanied his parents up the hill toward the waiting automobile, where no doubt a fond farewell was to take place.

As soon as they were out of sight, Brick faced his friend.

“What a fine sister we drew!” he exclaimed. “Well, what do you think of the Millionaire Baby now?”

Lefty returned to his task of tidying up the tent beside his bunk. “Aw, lay off, Brick. It isn’t his fault he’s a poor little rich boy. He seems to me like a pretty decent sort, and that watermelon will come in mighty handy, too. Just because he took you for a kitchen mechanic, you’ve got it in for him. Snap out of it! There goes First Call, and here’s the tent still in a gosh-awful mess. Stir yourself!”

Brick Ryan bent moodily to the work. After a moment, he snorted as his eye fell once more on the shiny heap of luggage and sport outfits, and his scorn broke forth anew.

“Just the same, Lefty my son, Little Lord Fauntleroy will need a bit of polishin’ before he’s a true-blue Lenape man, and F. X. A. Ryan is the lad to give it to him,” he muttered darkly. “Mark my words, young Chauncy is in for a lot of fine adventures he never dreamed of back in dear old Swellville!”

During lunch, Brick listened with ill-concealed disgust while young Van Horn chatted with Lefty about baseball and prep school and asked the usual list of silly questions that a new camper always puts. When the meal was over, Brick and silent Slim Yerkes washed the dishes in short order, and then retired to the tent for quiet hour. Slim soon left to visit a friend in a neighboring tent, and Brick stretched out on his bunk with a copy of the life-saving manual, to study up for the various tests that were a part of the badge requirements. But no sooner had he settled himself than Dirk Van Horn, followed by the admiring little Joey Fellowes, came down from the camp store.

“What a silly rule they have here, that a fellow can’t spend more than fifteen cents a day at the store!” Dirk was complaining, munching a chocolate bar. “Up at Wild Rose Camp last year we could spend as much as we wanted, and they had everything—ice-cream cones every day. Why, I could buy out this little store if I wanted to! Here, youngster, have a bag of almonds.”

“Thanks,” said Joey admiringly. “Say, what kind of a place was that Wild Rose Camp?”

“Very select. I believe it cost me five hundred dollars a season, not counting extras, such as piano lessons, archery, and so on.”

Brick Ryan said “Humph!” in a loud tone, but Joey was visibly impressed.

“Well, youngster,” Dirk went on, “shall we get busy unloading all these traps of mine?”

“Sure. Say, if you could go to such a swell place as that, how come you’re here at Lenape?”

“Oh, just a notion of Papa’s. You see, he used to go to college with the camp director here. I made Papa buy me a canoe all my own if I promised to come here, but I tell you, if I don’t like this place, I shan’t stay very long.” Dirk turned airily and stooped to open the large wardrobe trunk that stood amidst his heap of luggage. “Shall we get to work?”

Brick Ryan, whose sole possessions had come to Lenape with him in a canvas dunnage-bag, pretended to read, but he kept one eye on the proceedings. Languidly Dirk, aided by the awed Joey, began to unpack his multitude of belongings. First he unrolled a thick mattress—the only mattress in camp aside from those in the hospital tent—and spread it on the lower bunk nearest the lodge. Brick felt called upon to interfere.

“Say,” he began, “that bunk belongs to Sax McNulty, our leader. All the other lower bunks are already taken. You’ll have to take one of the uppers.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Joey broke in hastily. “Say, Van, I got a lower, but I don’t mind sleeping up in Heaven—I’m used to it. You can have mine, over here, and I’ll take the upper.”

Dirk nodded. “Thanks. Very sporting of you, youngster.” He spread the mattress on the bunk that Joey had relinquished, and with an inexperienced hand spread sheets and fine woolen blankets in the semblance of a bed.

Next he began unpacking the trunk and suitcases, and Brick Ryan’s snorts grew louder and louder as the stack of the newcomer’s possessions grew higher. In a short time the tent was strewn with clothing and objects of all sorts. The leader’s empty bunk was piled high with suits of every kind and shade, among them a trim blue yachting outfit with white cap, and a khaki uniform with Sam Browne belt and white helmet such as African explorers wear. One suitcase was almost completely taken up with books and a portable typewriter. Between reading the books and dressing up in the dozen different suits, Brick reflected, the new boy would have very little time to do any camping.

But this was not all. It seemed as if Dirk must have gone into a big sporting-goods store and ordered at least one of everything in stock. He had complete outfits for baseball, basketball, and track. Joey was set to work stringing up an aerial for a portable radio receiving set that was carefully packed in a leather case. The interior of the tent was submerged beneath such objects as a big electric lantern, a fisherman’s creel, two swimming suits, a sketching outfit, golf clubs, hats and shoes of all sorts, and a black bag such as is carried by doctors on their rounds. Dirk opened the latter, and took from its well-filled interior a bottle of pills.

“That reminds me!” he said. “Forgot to take my prescription.” He swallowed two pills, made a face, and picking up an armload of shoes and a banjo case, approached Brick.

“Excuse me, old fellow,” he said agreeably, “but would you mind awfully if I parked these things under your bed? These tents don’t seem to have any closets in them, and that clothes-line from the tent-poles doesn’t look very strong.”

“Can’t do it,” Brick answered shortly.

“Why not? You don’t seem to have a great deal of junk yourself.”

Brick groaned. “Listen!” he said with some heat. “Lefty Reardon told you he’d show you where to put your stuff. He’s up at aide’s meeting now, and since Sax is still away, I don’t mind tellin’ you what the rules are. We got eight people in this tent. Suppose every single one of them had as much stuff as you’ve got?”

“But I can see they haven’t, so——”

“Wait! We have inspection here every day, to see which tent wins the pennant. Everything has got to be in its place, and there’s a place for everything. Beds made in a certain way, clothes folded in a certain way, shoes in a line under the bunk, everything polished up and swept out. Do you figure on cleanin’ up all that stuff every day, or are you goin’ to hire Joey as a valet?”

“My dear chap, I merely——”

“My advice to you,” Brick went on, “is to pick out from that mess just what you need every day, and store the rest in the lodge. Then we might have some room to move around. Do you get that?”

A crimson flush mounted from beneath Dirk’s immaculate white collar and spread over his pale features, but he said nothing. He dropped the things on the floor in a heap, and sat down on a locker-box, watching Joey sort out a collection of stockings and handkerchiefs. Brick pointedly returned to his life-saving manual.

For the first time since he had arrived at Lenape a few hours before, Dirk Van Horn paused to think. He could not see that he had done anything to merit such a harsh tone as that used by the red-headed Irish boy. Of course there was that awkward mistake when Ryan had been washing his things back of the kitchen; but that might have happened to anyone. Dirk had never before met a boy of the independent stripe of Brick Ryan. There had been no boys like him at “select” Wild Rose Camp, nor in what his mother called their “social set” back in the city. But Dirk wanted everybody to like him. He wanted Brick to like him and admire him. He went about it in the only way he knew—but it was the wrong way.

Brick was aware of a tap on his shoulder. He turned; before him stood the despised Van Horn in his citified garments. There was a smile on his face. His right hand was outstretched frankly; his left hand held a tennis racquet of the most expensive make.

“Look here, Ryan, old chap,” Dirk began. “We have to live together. Let’s be friends! What say? I know I was a chump a while ago, but I apologize, and I hope we’ll get along splendidly. Now, just to show you I think a lot of you, I hope you’ll accept this little present. It’s just a trifle, and I have two of them—but perhaps it will prove how much I want to be your friend.”

Before the amazed Brick knew what was happening, the other had pressed the handle of the racquet into his hand, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“That’s the spirit! Now we’re fast friends, you know!”

Brick stared at the gift. Fashioned of finest wood and gut, it represented at the least an amount that Brick would have had to work on his paper-route, back in the city, for a month to earn. Unbelievingly he looked from the gift to the giver. A sudden tide of red anger flooded his freckled face to the roots of his red hair. He jumped up, flung off the outstretched hand, and faced Van Horn. There was an ugly look on his face, and ugly words rose to his Irish tongue.

“Friends, is it!” he shouted. “Gollies, you and your little presents! Pup, get this! You or the likes of you can’t buy Brick Ryan’s little finger, and you can’t bribe him, either! You and all your pretty junk may go over big with kids like Joey that don’t know any better, but Brick Ryan’s not for sale!”

Dirk’s mouth fell open, and he backed off hastily. “Why—Why, I’m sorry—I didn’t think you’d take it that way! Of course, if you don’t care to accept it——”

“Yah!” cried the Irish boy. With sudden fury he flung the offending tennis racquet in a wide curve. It fell out of sight into a clump of bushes some yards away; and Brick Ryan, with clenched fists, turned on his heel and stalked from the tent.

CHAPTER III
“HELP!”

Dirk Van Horn wondered if he were going to like Camp Lenape. There seemed to be far too many uncomfortable rules that got in the way when a fellow wanted to have some fun. Then, too, outside of little Joey Fellowes, nobody had seemed duly impressed with his father’s wealth and his luxurious camping outfit. It was clear that this was going to be quite different from Wild Rose Camp, where everyone knew that he was J. T. Van Horn’s only son, and where he and his tutor had shared a cosy cottage with every convenience that money could buy.

Dirk sighed; then turned suddenly as a new idea struck him. He’d show these kids what a real sportsman could do!

“Joey, old son,” he said, “would you mind clearing up the rest of this stuff? I’m going to take a look around the woods and see what the chances are for a bit of sport.”

“What you going to do, Van?”

“Oh, just a bit of gunning. That chap Reardon mentioned at lunch that he had scared up some partridge on the mountain this morning. I thought I might get a shot at a few.”

Joey Fellowes stood aghast at such daring. “Whe—you mean, shoot them? Say, nobody at Lenape ever does that! We just go out and watch birds and animals and things, and try to study them and take pictures of them. Nobody in camp is supposed to have a gun!”

“Humph! What do they come up here in the woods for? Well, here’s one person who isn’t going to overlook a chance if he happens to see one!”

“But—but—— Why, Sax McNulty or any of the rest of the councilors would sure bawl you out if they found you with a gun! It’s against the camp rules!”

“Bother the old rules! Good heavens, McNulty may change his mind pretty quick if I present him with a nice bag of partridge ready for Tent One to eat for supper.” With deliberate casualness, Dirk slung his gun-case over his shoulder, unearthed from a suitcase a large box of chocolate cake as provisions, and paused at the door of the tent. “Come along if you like, Fellowes.”

“No—no thanks,” blurted Joey. “You better report to the Chief before you go.”

“I won’t be long,” said Dirk carelessly. “Well, then, ta-ta! If you’ve got most of my things stowed away by the time I come back, I’ll slip you a dollar or two.”

With these generous words, Dirk waved an easy farewell, and strode off through the trees, taking care to make a wide circle about the lodge, where some fussy councilor might see him and keep him from his purpose. His plan was simple. He wanted to make Brick Ryan and the rest of the campers realize what a fine fellow was now in their midst. If he could casually stroll into the tent with a dozen partridge in one hand and his shiny new rifle in the other, they would see at a glance that here was a comrade to be reckoned with! He conjured up pleasant pictures of their surprise and admiration, himself the center of the group.

Still lost in these happy visions, he crossed a sunny meadow and picked his way over the dusty, rutted country road that led to camp. Here he plunged into thick woods, making straight up the mountainside. It was cool in the leafy forest, and he would have been very well contented save that a swarm of gnats hovered over his hatless head in a buzzing cloud, following wherever he went. His coat was too warm, but he did not want to carry it as his hands were already full, and he wished to be free in case he located the desired covey of partridge.

Ahead lay a flat, marshy stretch of ground, where clumps of grass and rotting tree-limbs formed a half-submerged, muddy mass. There was no path going around, and Dirk, balancing his burdens dangerously, jumped from one solid-looking tuft to another. More than once he slipped on the rotting stuff, and floundered ankle-deep in slimy water. Long before he reached the other side, he regretted that he had not changed his city flannels for togs more suited to mountain work. His low sport shoes were caked with ooze and half full of water; his erstwhile spotless white flannels were muddied, streaked with green scum, and a triangular tear on one leg showed where he had come up against a sharp branch.

Ruefully he sank to a seat on a decayed oak-trunk and unloosened his wilted linen collar. He would have liked a drink, but he knew that the stagnant pools at his feet were unhealthy, and he settled back, inspected his glistening rifle to see that the magazine was full of .22 caliber cartridges, and then slowly began munching the cake he had brought with him.

He had barely eaten half of it, however, when he leaped hastily from his seat with a cry. One arm was afire, beneath the sleeve, with a thousand prickling stings! A simmering stream of large black ants that infested the rotting wood—no doubt attracted by the chance of refreshment in the shape of sweet crumbs of cake—was flowing over his hand and arm, and even beneath the collar of his shirt. In a painful frenzy he dropped the cake and began brushing off the stinging insects, stripping off his coat and shirt. It was several minutes before he could fight free of the crawling horde, and then, grabbing his things, he rushed off up the hillside away from the treacherous lower ground. Even then, he was reminded now and again of his misadventure by a red-hot sting in some part of his tender skin beneath his clothing.

So far, his expedition had not been successful. He had not seen any sign of a partridge or any other small game. Even had there been any of the birds in that part of the mountain, his stumbling progress would undoubtedly have given them warning long before he could train his rifle on them. But he kept on up the slope, smashing his way through the thick underbrush and trying not to turn his ankles on the rocky ground underfoot.

To his right he saw through the leaves a long scar of gray rock outcropping on the hillside. This promised easier going than the tangled underbrush. Besides, he thought, if he could get high enough, he might be able to look around and see in just which direction lay the camp. His flight from the marsh had twisted him around somehow, and a glance at the sky gave him the feeling that the sun was not where it should rightly be at this time in the afternoon. He altered his course and began scaling the sloping, moss-encrusted rocks.

Before he was half-way up the rocks, he began to wish he had not chosen such a steep and rough road. His shoes and trousers were in pitiful shape. Still he scrambled upward in the hot sunshine, dripping perspiration, ascending on hands and knees and trailing his rifle after him. He was glad to see that the rocks ended a few feet above his head in an overhanging bank of earth and matted shrubs. Over the top! He charged the little cliff, seized with his free hand the roots of a sapling oak that grew on the edge, and tried to haul himself up. His first heave loosened the soil; he could feel his hold slipping. He cast a fearful eye backwards; if he fell on those sharp rocks——!

A shower of dirt, twigs, and small pebbles rattled down upon his head; with a rending noise, the roots he was gripping parted. Clawing the air helplessly, Dirk fell backwards, and slid painfully a few feet down the smooth rocks. His rifle flew from his hand, described a short circle in the air, and landed with a bruising crash upon his outstretched right leg.

Dirk cried out, and rubbed his shin. The sharp blow brought tears of pain into his eyes, and he gritted his teeth. He realized now that it had been a foolish thing to trust his weight to such a sketchy hand-hold. Well, he had suffered for his error!

He clutched the rifle, whose wooden stock was badly scarred by the fall, and began crawling across the rocks to the shelter of the brush. Every movement heightened the ache in his leg, which was now throbbing brutally. When he gained the wooded hillside, he rose and tried to walk; but after a few steps he gave up, sat down, and began rubbing his shinbone once more.

Dirk was not used to giving up an idea easily, and he hated to think of limping back to camp with torn clothes, and lacking the game he had set out so proudly to get. Here would be a very different return from that he had visualized! But now he began looking about him and puzzling just in which direction lay Camp Lenape.

The sound of a bugle call floating up from the lake came to his ears, and faintly he could hear shouting, off to his right, where the woods were thickest. He could not be exactly sure where it came from, but evidently camp was not far away. Of course, he could back-track on his own trail, but that would mean going through the marsh again. There must be a short cut that he could take. He rose and began hobbling through the trees, hoping to find a stream where he could quench his hot thirst. As he went he thought of his mother and father, by this time far on the way back to the city. Dirk Van Horn was just a little homesick.

Again came the bugle-call. But this time it sounded from behind him! He wheeled about, listening. Where was camp? He could see nothing through the trees. Perhaps if he could climb high enough, he might catch a glimpse of the flagpole or the tents; but his leg was now swollen and stiff, and useless for climbing. Where was he, anyway? Could it be that he was lost among the mountains? Lost! Dirk began to run unsteadily through the thick brush. His eyes were wild, and the little hammers of panic were beating in his brain.

Brick Ryan was slipping into his swimming suit in Tent One when Sax McNulty, followed by a racing pack of boys, appeared at the lower end of the campus. The new recruits had hit camp just in time for afternoon swim period.

“Hi, Sax!” the red-headed boy greeted his leader. “You look hot. Just in time for a dip.”

The long-faced young man gave him a mournful look. Sax always looked gloomy, even when he was saying his funniest things.

“I’m a little sunbeam,” he announced. “I can keep smiling even after piloting twenty little greenhorns up from Elmville. Dusty but smiling. Say, who made my bed so nicely?”

“Me and Lefty.”

“Good lads.” Sax sank on his bunk and began stripping off his dust-laden garments. “I met two of the new fellows who’ll be with us this section. Nig Jackson was one—you remember him from last year. Another is a new kid, Eddie Scolter, who claims he can play a clarinet. But one fellow didn’t come after all, I guess. The Chief said his name was Van Horn.”

“Oh!” grinned Brick, “you mean the Millionaire Baby! Well, don’t worry about him. He got here this mornin’, and has been around all day, big as life and twice as natural.”

“Millionaire Baby?”

Brick pointed to the scattered array of suitcases, clothes, and other possessions that Joey Fellowes had given up trying to sort out and arrange. Sax McNulty whistled as he looked at Dirk’s heaped outfit.

“This all belong to Van Horn?”

“Junk enough for ten guys. Wait till you get a look at him.”

Sax shook his head. “Can’t have that. Where is he, anyway? He’ll have to stow that stuff before Nig and Eddie and the rest get here.”

“Search me,” Brick shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since siesta. He’s probably off tellin’ the little kids what a rich guy his dad is, and how Wild Rose Camp is much sweller than this joint.”

The leader pulled on his swimming suit, and looked up thoughtfully. “Don’t tell me he’s the son of Van Horn, the bank president! Don’t tell me that!”