Herbie and Cliff quitted their table of honor and walked through the huge bare wooden hall to the door—and behold, there was no commotion, nobody cracked jokes, and scarcely any campers turned away from the important business of stuffing Spanish omelet into their mouths. Herbie had wisely ceased his waddling after the first great hit; by now it would have been a wearisome jest. Cliff, as Uncle Sandy, had at no time caused much amusement. Lennie had made a sensation where the cousins went unnoticed, for the reason that impersonation is only entertaining when someone is degraded by it.
The boys were halfway up the hill when they met Elmer Bean rattling down with three enormous coarse cloth bags piled in a wheelbarrow. Cliff greeted him with, “Hi, Elmer! Last laundry, huh?”
“Last everythin', fellers. This time tomorrer yer free men. This time a week from now I am.” The handy man braced himself, brought the plunging wheelbarrow to a stop, and leaned against one of the bags. “You guys are the big shots o' the camp, huh?”
“Thanks to you,” said Herbie.
“Herb, there's somethin' I wish you'd do fer me on yer twenty-first birthday.”
“What, Elmer?”
“Write an' tell me where you guys got that fifty bucks.”
Herbie looked sick all at once. Cliff quickly said, “Clever Sam up in the stable, Elmer?”
“He was when I last saw him. Gonna kiss 'im good-by?”
Cliff smiled bashfully.
“Hey, Elmer,” said Herbie, “how 'bout us guys writin' to you? Will you write back?”
The handy man laughed. He looked around at the panorama of lake and bungalows, at the trees with creepers along their trunks already flaming in premature autumn colors, and at the two grotesquely dressed boys. The feathers of Herbie's headdress wagged in a breeze that had turned chilly. Elmer felt an impulse of pity for the small fat boy, whom he was sure he would never see after tomorrow, and whom he regarded as such an odd, self-tormenting mixture of good and bad.
“I tell yer, Herb,” he said, “I been shipmates with guys that I swore I'd write to regular when I got transferred, see? My first coupla years I did write, too, maybe one or two times, but it wasn't no good. You think a letter's gonna be somethin', see, but it ain't nothin'. You were shipmates once, and now yer on other ships an' it's all different. I dunno why.”
“I just thought maybe a letter just once in a long while,” persisted the boy. “You know, after all we done on the Ride together an' all—”
“Why, sure, Herb, write if you feel like it.” The handy man hesitated a moment, then blurted, “Don't be surprised if you git an answer that looks like you wrote it yourself in the fifth grade. I don't write such a hell of a lot, Herb.”
“I'll write, too, Elmer,” said Cliff.
Both boys looked intensely unhappy.
“Look, fellers,” said the handy man, “don't let old Gauss work on yer feelin's next year, see? You know—remember good old Elmer, remember good old this, good old that? I sure would like to see you again, an' I'll be here too, like as not, 'cause I ain't good fer much else, but don't come back, fellers. What's better than bein' free? Yer free when you git outta school, free fer a whole summer, see, and old Gauss gets you marchin' an' workin' again. And you sing them songs, an' you git choked up an' you think you love camp. I know all about them songs. In the Navy we called 'em shippin'-over music. They played 'em whenever the recruitin' officer come to sign us up fer another hitch. I got all the orders an' salutin' an' bugles I ever want in the Navy. And git this straight, I'm proud I was a sailor—but they paid me, see, and what's more important I was doin' somethin'. I was on a ship to defend the country. I wasn't fattenin' up no old turkey like Gauss. Don't come back, guys. I like you both swell. Cliff, yer O.K., yer a real guy.” He took the boy's hand and shook it. “Herb—I dunno what to tell you, Herb. You might be a very big guy someday, an' then again I dunno. Herb, is yer father alive?”
Herbie nodded. The question touched off a storm of emotion, and he dared not speak.
“Listen, feller, do what yer father tells you, see? In a coupla years yer gonna start thinkin' he's all wet about everything. Maybe you do now. Well, I'm tellin' you, Herb, do whatever yer father says. A guy like you needs his pa.”
The handy man patted Herbie's shoulder. Then he bent and picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow.
“We had fun, didn't we, guys? There ain't never been nothin' like Herbie's Ride in this camp, and there ain't never gonna be again. It took the three of us, see, an' Herbie bein' jealous over Lucille, an' all. Them things only happen once.” He started to wheel away his burden, and said over his shoulder, “Sure, write to me here at Panksville. Only like I say, don't mind none about the way I spell an' write. I ain't nothin' but a country boy.”
He went off down the hill, leaning backward to keep the wheel-barrow from running away, his yellow hair flying.
The boys walked to the stable in silence. As they came to the door Cliff said, “Clever Sam must be asleep. Can't hear him movin' at all.” The boys went inside and, to their astonishment, found the stall empty.
“Maybe he's outside eatin' grass,” Herbie suggested.
“Elmer said he was in here,” Cliff said anxiously, but he went outside and looked in the practice ring. The horse was not there, nor anywhere in sight.
“Hey, Herbie, whaddya suppose has happened to him?”
“I dunno. Maybe he wandered off down the road.”
“Clever Sam don't wander. He likes the barn better'n any place. Listen, there's somethin' wrong. Let's go down and tell Elmer.”
The boys descended the hill at a run. With each step they bounded twice as far as they would have on level ground, and felt fleet as stags. Pounding around the corner of a bungalow into Company Street they came to a quick halt, for there was Clever Sam in the middle of the gravel path, surrounded by laughing, chattering boys. He was walking slowly, his head hanging in a woebegone way, the reins dragging from his bridle, and on his side there was whitewashed in crude letters, “HERBIE THE SISSY.”
“Come on, Herb,” exclaimed Cliff. He plunged into the crowd, followed by his cousin, and elbowed his way to the horse. He put his arm around Clever Sam's neck, saying, “Whoa, boy. What're they doin' to you? O.K., boy.”
Hearing Cliff's voice, the animal raised his head, neighed, and nuzzled against him. Herbie, coming up to Clever Sam, saw that his skin had been whitewashed on his other side too, with the words, “SKIPPER GARBAGE.”
The laughter and jokes subsided. A few boys sneaked away from the fringe of the group into bungalows. Curious noses pressed against screens up and down the street.
“O.K.,” said Cliff to the crowd. “Who done it?”
“Not me.” “I don't know.” “I just got here.” “The horse just come walkin' along.” These and answers like them came in a chorus. But the boys looked at each other with knowing smiles. Uncle Sandy appeared in the doorway of Bunk Twelve, still dressed as Cliff. He observed the scene and said nothing. Cliff glanced hesitantly at the head counselor, then at the crowd.
“First I'm gonna take care o' this poor horse, then I'll come back an' find out who done it.”
He was leading the horse to the road up the hill, and was just passing Bunk Thirteen. Lennie stepped out of the doorway, picked up the edges of his white nurse's skirt, and made a clumsy curtsy.
“Why, Mr. Head Counselor, is there somethin' the matter?” he said in effeminate tones.
Herbie, walking beside his cousin, whispered, “Lookit his left arm, Cliff.”
Cliff saw a streak of whitewash running from the wrist to the elbow. Lennie noticed where his eyes were directed and rubbed his right hand along the streak, smiling insolently at the other boy.
“O.K., Lennie, you done it, huh?” said Cliff.
“Who's Lennie? I'm Nurse Geiger, dearie,” Lennie twittered. “That little fat Skipper next to you appointed me, dincha, Skipper Garbage?”
Cliff took his arm from Clever Sam's neck and walked close to Lennie.
The watching boys became quiet. Several counselors were on the outskirts of the group now, but none interfered.
“All right, Lennie. You're gonna come with me and clean off that horse.”
“Why, Uncle Sandy,” said Lennie in falsetto, “I'm a nurse. I treat human beings, not horses.”
Cliff sprang at Lennie, wrapping his arms around him, and toppled him to the ground, falling on top of him. In a moment he was seated astride Lennie, pinning his arms with his knees.
“You gonna clean that horse?”
Lennie, astounded at being on his back, but not at all cowed, said, “Dear me, Uncle Sandy, how rough you play!”
A ringing slap across his face followed. Cliff's expression was peculiarly solemn, except at the instant of the slap, when he bared his teeth.
“Now you gonna clean that horse?”
Lennie heaved his body upward and threw Cliff off him. Both boys sprang to their feet. Lennie raised his fists in fighting position and danced angrily.
“Jump a guy when he ain't lookin' for it, huh?” he growled. “O.K., Cousin Garbage, come an' get murdered!”
One of the counselors shouted, “Uncle Sandy, shall I stop it?”
Uncle Sandy, still leaning in the doorway of Bunk Twelve only a few feet away, said, “If you mean me, my name is Cliff until five o'clock. Looks like Uncle Sandy's trying to maintain discipline in this camp by force. He'd better make it stick.”
Lennie punched Cliff lightly in the chest. Cliff put up his hands awkwardly and stood with legs spread wide apart. Three times more Lennie hit him, none very hard blows, and at last Cliff countered with a long swing that missed Lennie by a foot. The pugilist in the nurse's uniform laughed aloud and punched Cliff's head with all his might. Cliff staggered, and then jumped on Lennie and bore him to the dirt exactly as he had done before. Seated on top of him he began cuffing the athlete's face with echoing slaps that could have been heard in the near-by hills.
“Will you clean that horse? Will you clean that horse? Will you clean that horse?”
Lennie struggled and squirmed, but could not unseat his foe. Cliff's eyes were bloodshot and he made the same painful face each time he hit Lennie, as though an aching tooth were giving him twinges. Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Lennie made two supreme efforts to throw off his tormentor, arching his back and twisting, but Cliff clung to his seat. Slap! Slap! Lennie flattened to the ground.
“I'll clean him!” came a muffled shout from the model of Character.
At once Cliff stood, helped Lennie to his feet, and put out his hand to him.
“Friends, Lennie?” he said.
The athlete's gown was more black than white, and crumpled and torn. His hair hung in his eyes, and his cheeks showed fiery marks from the persuasion he had undergone. He glanced at Cliff from under contracted brows, looked around at the spectators, then touched Cliff's hand with his own and ran into his bungalow.
“I'm bringin' the horse to the stable,” Cliff called after him. “Come on up with me.”
“I'll come when I'm good and ready,” a surly voice answered from the bungalow.
Cliff pointed at one of the counselors in boys' clothes. “You, Peanuts Wishnik. If he ain't at the stable in ten minutes, you bring him up, please.”
“Sure, Uncle Sandy,” came the grinning reply.
But Lennie arrived at the stable under his own power only a minute or two after the cousins and the dispirited horse. Cliff had already begun to scrub Clever Sam with a large brush and a bucket of soapy warm water. He passed these implements to Lennie without a word, and while the athlete glumly set about erasing his mischief, Cliff walked to the head of the horse and embraced him.
“You'll be O.K. now, Clever Sam,” he said. “Well, so long. Good luck.” He patted the animal's nose and walked out of the stable.
Herbie hurried after him, exclaiming, “Holy cats, ain't you gonna say no more good-by to the horse than that?”
Cliff regarded his cousin with dulled eyes. “What else should I say?”
“Well, I thought you liked that horse.”
“Well, I do.”
“Shucks, tell him you're sorry you're leavin' him, an' you'll miss him, an' all that. Hey, didn't you ever read that poem, ‘An Arab's Farewell to His Steed’? I bet it's fifteen stanzas long. That guy really says good-by to the horse.”
Cliff said, “Yeah, we read it in 6B. That's just a poem.” He looked at the ground for a few moments. Then he added, “Herb, do me a favor, huh? Go down an' tell Uncle Sandy that I wanna be excused. You can give the orders from now on. There's only a coupla more hours, anyhow.”
He turned on his heel and walked back to the stable. Herbie stood irresolutely for a while, but curiosity overcame him. He went to the door and peeped in. Lennie was drying his hands on some old newspapers and walking toward the door with a surprised smile. And Cliff, with a much happier smile, was lovingly, silently washing Clever Sam.
It has been said already that Mr. Gauss was in the habit of vanishing for the duration of Campers' Day. The explanation he gave to himself and the counselors was that much as he regretted missing the fun, it was inconsistent with his “symbolic prestige” to join in horseplay.
Mr. Gauss made a great thing of his symbolic prestige. In his speech to the counselors at the start of each season he always trotted out the phrase and delivered a painstaking exposition of it. The gist of his annual remarks was that in his position of director he was not merely Mr. Gauss the man but a symbol of Camp Manitou, and as such he had to behave, and had to ask the counselors to behave, in ways that would constantly maintain his symbolic prestige. In coarse English this meant that the counselors were to show respect for him even if they didn't feel it. It was a sound administrative rule, and may be met with in all walks of life. Now, the truth is that Mr. Gauss's disappearance on Campers' Day was not entirely a matter of symbolic prestige. He could not swim and had a strong natural fear of the water, consequently he dreaded a ducking. This fact, however, was not mentioned.
The camp owner was lounging on his bed in the guest house, propped up with pillows, clad only in the inevitable khaki shorts, peacefully sipping iced coffee, and leafing through a four-week-old Sunday book-review section of the New York Times. Mr. Gauss was fond of book-review sections. In his weary pursuit of small monetary gains he found no time for reading, yet as an educator he was obliged to have some knowledge of current literature. The reviews gave him an acquaintance with titles and authors that served to work the necessary grace into his conversation. He was impressing his memory with the plot of a now-forgotten novel, which the reviewer compared favorably to the works of Dickens and Fielding, when there came a knock at the door. He glanced at his clock. It lacked an hour of five, when Campers' Day would end and it would be safe for him to sally forth.
“Who is it?” he called crossly.
The voice of the handy man said, “Mrs. Gloster just drove in with her chauffeur. He's parkin' the car an' she's sittin' on the veranda. Thought you'd like to know.”
Mr. Gauss leaped off the bed exclaiming, “Thanks, Elmer. Tell her I'll be right down, will you?”
“Um,” said the voice.
Mrs. Gloster was the mother of the unfortunate Daisy, and also of four girls, all of whom were campers. She was the richest of all the Manitou parents, and her patronage had brought in its wake perhaps a dozen children. This may explain why Mr. Gauss began dressing with a comical haste that would seriously have injured his symbolic prestige, had there been any onlookers. He flung on his best white flannel trousers, and a snowy short-sleeved shirt, and white socks, and freshly chalked white shoes that he had been saving for the homeward journey. He hastily combed his few strands of hair, crouching to see his image in the tilted mirror of the cheap dresser, and ran out of the room, snatching his green sun glasses from a shelf as he passed through the door.
Mrs. Gloster, a thin, small, bright-eyed lady wearing a smart gray traveling suit, sat in a wicker armchair on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and ta
pping her foot. Each year it was her practice to drive up to camp and take her children home by automobile to save them from the dirty, stuffy train ride which all the other children endured. She dropped the cigarette and crushed it with her toe as the camp owner approached.
“My dear Mrs. Gloster, how do you manage to keep so young? I declare you look more like one of my counselors than the mother of five wonderful children.”
Mrs. Gloster beamed. Her husband, immersed in the textile trade, paid her a huge allowance but no compliments.
“You look splendid yourself, Mr. Gauss. I can't understand how the responsibility for so many children agrees with you, but evidently it does. May I see Raymond now?” (Raymond was Daisy's name in the outside world.)
Mr. Gauss peeked apprehensively through a window of the veranda. The wall clock in the camp office read four-twenty.
“Ah—wouldn't you like to see the girls first? They're right here, you know. Then a little later—perhaps after dinner—a visit to the boys' camp?”
The wealthy lady made no objection. Mr. Gauss summoned a passing girl counselor and sent her flying to call the Gloster girls. Four squealing, giggling children came tumbling up the veranda steps a few minutes later. Unluckily for Mr. Gauss, all they could talk about was Raymond's comic appearance as the camp doctor. Poor Daisy had thrown heart and soul into the impersonation, which gave him something to do at last, and had caused a near riot of hilarity in the girls' camp by bursting in on the lunch hour brandishing a stethoscope and a hypodermic needle, and trying to inoculate everyone against “Gaussitis.” This description of her son in such fettle doubled Mrs. Gloster's anxiety to see him at once.
“Oh, it must be a perfect scream. Do let's go down the hill now, Mr. Gauss,” she said.
Mr. Gauss looked through the window again. Twenty minutes to five.
“I'll be delighted, of course, to escort you down to the boys' camp. Just let's have a nice refreshing cup of tea first. You've been through a long, hot drive—”