In the dim light, he could just make out the other two, busy doing something in a corner. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the Bomber was bending over a long bench, lighting a candle stub. Soon a wavering glow was making the shadows dance in the corners and along the ceiling.
“So what d’you think?” the Bomber asked as if he were welcoming a guest to his new house.
Leo shrugged; what could he say? The cellar was large and - well - spooky. It had a strange, earthy smell, but, then, what else could you expect from the cellar of a haunted house? Of ample proportions, it formed a spacious, below-ground room with stone walls, a hard-packed dirt floor, and a low-beamed ceiling supported by squared-off posts, into which a hinged trapdoor had been cut and from which a broken stair-ladder hung at an angle. There was an old furnace and an empty coal bin, and a cobweb-covered fuse box was attached to one wall. The mixture of odors - of dampness, soil, must, dust and rust, of stagnant rain pools in the corners - gave the place a special character that both attracted and repelled, a place for sinister doings.
“What does the sign mean?” Leo asked. “What are Rinky dinks?”
While Eddie described the illegal organization, the Bomber marched over to a wall and paced out a distance along the footing, then knelt and dislodged a stone, from behind which he extracted a coffee can. Bringing it back to the bench, he removed the lid and pulled out a half-empty pack of Old Gold cigarettes, along with a finger-soiled envelope.
“Smoke?” He fished a squashed cigarette from the crumpled pack and lit up.
“Sure, give us a drag,” Eddie said. The Bomber handed over his butt, then watched Eddie draw and choke, expelling the smoke in three gusts through both mouth and nostrils. The Bomber was contemptuous.
“Cripes, Ed, you know somethin’ - you smoke just like an old lady. Why don’tcha learn to inhale like I showed you?”
“It hurts my throat.”
“You got to get it way down into your lungs and then blow it out. See? Like this.” The Bomber offered an eloquent demonstration of this procedure, puffing voluminously, then proceeded to blow three uniform smoke rings that waffled gracefully through the air.
“You want a drag, Leo?” The Bomber held out the fuming butt. “These have ‘latakeeah’ in ’em,” he pointed out.
“Latakeeah’s only a kind of Turkish tobacco, that’s all,” Leo said knowledgeably. He took a drag, inhaled it, then coughed it out in a thick cloud.
“Must be the latakeeah,” the Bomber said with a smirk.
Leo took another puff; the pugeant tobacco was at once heady^ and dizzying. “ 'Kaf kaf,’ said Major Hoople,” he said; Eddie and the Bomber both chuckled. The blowhard major with the Shriner’s fez was a comic-strip favorite.
The three continued puffing on the cigarette, passing it back and forth; while they smoked, the Bomber made Leo privy to the contents of the envelope: half a dozen dog-eared photographs, which he ceremoniously tendered to Leo for perusal.
Leo blushed; he had never gazed upon their like before - though he’d heard of such phenomena often enough at Pitt, the large-buttocked women clad only in black stockings, the gentlemen self-conscious in funny-looking underwear, gartered socks; one of them wore a derby hat, which rendered him ridiculous, given his activity.
“They’re French,” the Bomber explained, about the cards. “From Gay Paree.”
Leo nodded, hoping he appeared sophisticated. He wondered what Kretch would have to say about all this. The Bomber made a sudden move, holding out his hand for silence.
“Cripes!”
“What is it?”
“Sssh. Button up. Somebody’s up there. Hear?”
Leo cocked an ear and, indeed, the Bomber was right. From overhead came the sound of stealthy footsteps. Someone was tiptoeing around up there! Cripes. The Bomber snatched the pictures from Leo’s hand and stuffed them back in the coffee can, then hastily returned it to its hiding place. Leo listened hard, wondering whether to bolt or stay put. Yes, definitely - someone was moving around up there. Now he was wishing they hadn’t visited the cellar - it was a mistake - they should have obeyed the signs and avoided the place like a pesthouse.
Suddenly the silence in the cellar was broken. Bounding toward the hatchway steps, Harpo began to bark. Harpo! His noise was bound to give them away.
“C’mon, let’s scram outta here,” the Bomber said and started toward the hatchway. But before they could gain the stairs, Bullnuts Moriarity came thundering down at them bellowing like a Blue Briton, followed by what seemed to Leo like a horde of savages, all yelling and waving their arms. Among the foe he glimpsed the moon-like features of Moon Mullens; Billy Bosey was there too, and Barty Tugwell, all bent on punishing the boys who had intruded into their sanctum. Leo felt himself slammed from side to side until he came dizzy. Someone gave him a jab in the ribs, while another had got his fingers into Leo’s hair and was trying to yank it out. Then, using brute force, the Bomber muscled his way through, dragging Leo along with him, Eddie in their wake. Before he knew it Leo was out the lower door and scrambling up the hatchway steps to freedom.
At the top he barked his shin on the edge of the stone step. The pain was excruciating and, biting back his moans, he hopped around on one foot, then hobbled off to hide in a clump of sumac bushes. By this time Eddie and the Bomber had reached the road and were nearly around the bend. From the cellar came angry voices, disputing whether or not to give chase. Evidently the decision was against pursuit, for no Rinkydink reappeared. Finally, feeling himself safe, Leo made his way back to the pond to collect his knapsack and violin; then, brushing the leaves from his knees, he headed down the lane to the road where he turned toward camp. When he reached the bend, he glanced back over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure that the house was still there; as he looked, he saw, or had the impression of, a shadowy figure seated in the upstairs window, gazing out - at him or at the view? He could not tell.
Out on the lower playing field the hour was on the cusp, gently poised between the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon, as the campers at Friend-Indeed gathered for the Snipe Hunt. Odd currents of barely stifled excitement whiffled among the knots of spectators and would-be nimrods who stood about conversing, not in giddy boisterousness, but soberly - an indication of the sport’s importance as a Traditional Camp Activity. Observing somberly from the sidelines, Leo wondered what they were saying, the old campers who were exchanging knowing winks and glances. Something was up, definitely.
Leo had no spirit for the evening’s activity, this hunt that the others expressed such a rousing passion for. Frankly, he’d just as soon skip it. As anticipated, his reception upon his return to camp had been on the heated side. Hap Holliday, fuming over the missed practice session, declared that Wacko could go on throwing a ball like Clara Bow for all he cared - he was washing his hands of the chicken-wing. Reece was even more put out and inclined toward stern measures. Having got wind of the illegal visit to the Haunted House, he docked all three malefactors three days’ worth of desserts. Since the Bomber and Eddie were old-timers and knew better than to go near such off-limits places, they were also deprived of their free-swim privileges, while Leo got a private dressing-down from his counselor, who let him know in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to fit into camp life he was going to have to play by the rules; alienating Coach by standing him up - and earning himself five blackies - was no way to get on at Friend-Indeed.
Leo would willingly have borne all without a twitch, if his misadventure hadn’t affected his friendship with Tiger Abernathy. Though Tiger had little to say about the morning’s matters, his very silence spoke volumes, and after dinner he broke a date with Leo to go canoeing; instead, while everyone was getting ready for the Snipe Hunt, he lay in bed reading a book and studiously ignoring Leo.
In the end, however, having decided that the real fault lay with the Bomber for coaxing Leo (and Eddie) into the cellar in the first place, he took pity, and when the other Jeremian
s left the cabin to join the group on the field, he detained Leo for a personal word. Slipping from his pocket something resembling a watch, he tucked it surreptitiously into Leo’s hand.
“Take this along,” he urged. “In case you need it.”
“What is it?”
“A compass. See?” He unsnapped the case of crocodile leatherette.
“Am I going to get lost?”
“No, but if by any chance you do—” He gave Leo a quick briefing on how to use the instrument. “And here’s a Hershey Bar - you might get hungry.” He slapped the candy bar into Leo’s palm, along with a packet of matches, also “in case,” and .gave him a friendly poke. “C’mon, let’s hop it.”
Brrrt - brrrt - brrrt—! Chest out, whistle shrilling, Hap Holliday came strutting across the field in his billed baseball cap and jacket with a white felt B sewn on the chest (Harold Hampton Holliday was a three-letter man from Bowdoin). “ ’Ray, Coach, ’ray!” the boys cheered, and Hap clutched his mitts overhead boxer-style, then called for quiet, and began counting heads. “Hey hey, guys, who’s missing here?” He consulted his clipboard. “Wackeem. Where’s Wackeem? Let’s get Slugger Wackeem over here.”
Finally, when Leo and the rest of the new boys had been obliged to come forward and suffer the mirthful scrutiny of the others, Hap proceeded to the matter at hand, explaining how the hunt worked. Campers experienced in the art of hunting snipe would be teamed up in pairs with a tyro, forming a hunting threesome, two to beat, one to catch. The “old” boys on each team would use tin pans and batons to flush the snipe through the woods and roust them in the direction of the catchers - the- new campers, who would handle the sacks and do the actual catching. Each team would report back to the lodge with its catch; the team that trapped the most birds would win.
Then it was time to pick the teams. One after the other the pairs of old boys stepped up, one by one the new boys'were assigned. Tiger and the Bomber drew Leffingwell; Tallon and Klaus got Dusty Rhoades. Hunnicutt of Malachi, one of the new boys in the High Endeavour unit, went with his cabin-mates Bosey and Mullens, while Emerson Bean fell to Dump and Eddie Fiske. Finally, of the new boys, only Leo was left; of the leaders, Phil Dodge and Wally Pfeiffer.
“Okay, Wacko,” Phil called, rubbing his palms briskly together, “I guess that makes us a team.” Leo moved reluctantly to join his assigned partners.
“All right, now, fellows,” Hap was shouting, “step up and collect your gear. One sack to each new boy. Beaters, grab your pans, let’s get going here.” He shoved a burlap sack smelling of fertilizer at Leo. “Take it, Wackeem,” he ordered. “If you can’t pitch a ball, maybe you can catch a bird,” he added, drawing a laugh.
Leo accepted the sack, feeling his cheeks heat up. Before he started off, Tiger swung by for a final pointer.
“Remember, when you’re in Indian Woods, the Old Lake Road is always to the north,” he said, then hurried away to catch up with the Bomber and Leffingwell, who were already halfway across the field, leaving Leo to Phil and Wally. Soon the boys had crossed the road and entered Indian Woods; in another few moments each team was out of sight and sound of the others, and on its own.
“This way, not far now,” Phil said encouragingly. They tramped along a while longer, until Phil stopped and cupped a hand to his ear.
“There! That’s them all right - snipe! We’re really in luck.”
“Sure are,” Wally seconded quickly.
Leo darted him a look, but Wally’s bland, noncommittal expression told him nothing, and Phil began issuing crisp instructions: Leo was to remain here, in this spot, with his sack, and wait. As beaters, Phil and Wally would make their way circuitously to the “other side,” where they knew the snipe were gathered. Beating their pans, they would flush the covey in Leo’s direction; all he had to do was shine his flashlight in their eyes to blind them, nab them, and carry them off.
“Where will you guys be?” Leo asked.
“We’ll meet you back at the lodge,” Phil said. “Here, better have my flashlight,” he added, exchanging it for Leo’s. “It’s got fresh batteries - you don’t want to be caught in the dark out here.” He jerked his head at Wally and they moved off together, calling ever more remote encouragement until they had disappeared into the encroaching darkness.
Leo waited, one, two, five minutes. Presently he heard the noisy clatter and bang of sticks against pans, a terrible racket doubtless designed to flush the snipe from their hiding places, but one (Leo noted) that instead of coming nearer was fading. The beaters were moving not closer, but farther away. In a few more minutes the noises had stopped altogether.
“Okay, you guys, that’s it, how do we get out of here?” he called after his erstwhile teammates. There was no answer. He called again; again no answer. Not a sound, not a peep, nothing. Just Leo Joaquim and the forest primeval. Letting the useless burlap sack slip to the ground, he squinted into the fading light, asking himself where the heck he’d been left.
The silence was eerie - a different silence from the quiet of Kelsoe’s meadow with its birdsong and butterflies in the sunshine - a brooding, ominous silence filled with menace; and in it, Leo realized, there was a message: like every last new boy in camp, he’d been had. There were no snipe. The Snipe Hunt was one of those Moonbow traditions that left dumb spuds like Wacko Joaquim holding the bag. Hello, sucker, ha ha. Some joke. Standing there like a dope in the middle of Indian Woods, he didn’t think it so funny. How was he to find his way out of the woods when every path looked just like every other? He could call out again, of course, hoping for an answer, but even if he and Bean or Hunnicutt found each other - un-likely in the dark, and it was getting darker by the minute - they would still be just as lost. Meanwhile the old-timers would be back at the lodge, gorging on watermelon and laughing their heads off.
Now he understood why Tiger had insisted that he take the compass, and, wondering if he could figure out how to use the thing, he sat down on a stump and opened it, then switched the button on Phil’s flashlight. Nuts; the flashlight didn’t work. When he unscrewed the barrel his probing fingers told him it was missing a battery. He swore and tossed it into the bushes, then brought the compass up close to his eyes, squinting. No dice: he couldn’t see the markings on its face, much less take any kind of bearing.
A chill breeze had arisen to rustle the leaves overhead, and he shrugged on his sweater. Finally he decided to take the same path Phil and Wally had taken - they would not, after all, have followed a route that led anywhere but straight back to camp — and, sticking his arms out in front of him to grope for bushes or tree trunks, he started off, blindly footing his way along the path, stumbling and blundering into things as if he had been set not to hunt the mythical snipe, but to run an obstacle course.
He soldiered on for a while, until, having twice barked his shins and once twisted his knee, he made out a fallen tree trunk and plunked himself down again. He strove to think, cudgeling his brain to come up with a way out of his predicament. It occurred to him that he could wander along these paths for hours and get nowhere. And no one would find him. He shivered, slapping at the mosquitoes that swarmed around his bare legs - they seemed to thrive on the citronella he had doused himself with - then roused himself, telling himself he must do something; he couldn’t sit here forever like a bump on a log. He arched his back and was about to get up when - what was that? A shaft of alarm nailed him in the chest. Out there - in the dark - something . . . Yes, squinting hard, he could just make it out, a dark shape, over there, he could hear it moving around. Something . . . something was there! This was no joke. This wasn’t his imagination working overtime. He peered along the path. If only he could see better! His teeth began to chatter. He would get up and run, but his legs were too weak, his knees were wax. What was it? Hardly daring to breathe, he stretched his eyes wide in an attempt to pierce the shadows.
From the sounds in the underbrush he supposed the thing to be large and clumsy, heedlessly shattering twigs and br
anches as it came lurching nearer . . . nearer . . . Oh God, there it was - he could almost feel its breath, hot and panting on his neck. A moan of fear escaped his lips and, raising his arm to ward off the attack, he struggled to his feet and began to run. Unable to see where he was going, he managed to move only a few yards before he tripped and went sprawling to the ground. The beast was upon him—!
“ Moooooooo ...”
The panic-stricken cow came crashing through the underbrush, apparently eager to make contact with a fellow creature, be it only a dumb camper as lost as she was.
The disconsolate sound mocked Leo, marking him a greater fool than he already felt. What if someone had been watching? He’d never live it down. The cow looked so ridiculous and out of place. He shooed it off, then considered his situation, rubbing his chilled arms; even under the wool sweater his goose bumps wouldn’t go down. Overhead the pine boughs whispered softly in the breeze. He was panting with nerves and fatigue. He had no choice; he must move on. But further probings into the dark now failed to locate any trees to guide him along the path. There was no longer a path, none at all. In trying to get away from the cow, he must have stumbled into a clearing. Utterly discouraged and despondent, he kicked a stump and jammed his fists deep into his pockets - but wait! He had forgotten the packet of matches Tiger had given him. He could read the compass in the light of a match. He fumbled them out and lit one; the flame blew out before he could get even a quick look at the compass face. He lit another, and another, with similar results. There were only a few matches left. To conserve them he would build a little fire to see by.
He scrabbled up some tinder of needles and twigs, and struck another match. The tinder caught quickly; when he had it going he added some bigger twigs and pieces of branches so the blaze lighted up the clearing sufficiently for him to get his bearings. What he found himself looking at caused him to blink in surprise and wonder. In the center of the open space was a circle of round rocks marking off a campfire site - there were charred bits of wood scattered about - and, a little way off, the dark mouth of a cave. The trunks of the nearby pine trees were blazed with ax markings and knife carvings, Indian signs like the ones on the old campers’ torches, with initials and dates.