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Read Ebook: Blackie Thorne at Camp Lenape by Saxon Carl
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Ebook has 846 lines and 45107 words, and 17 pages
"Yes, sir, I always do that when I'm camping. It makes it seem more as if I was really in the woods," he said.
The tall man--he must have been six feet two, and stockily built--looked down at Blackie and frowned. He was big enough to have picked up the boy and used him for a baseball.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, since we are to be tent-mates, we ought to get acquainted." He grinned broadly, and held out his hand. "I'm Wally Rawn. What's your name?"
"Blackie. Blackie Thorne."
The man grinned as he took the boy's hand in a firm grip and surveyed the bright black eyes, the shining black hair.
"Not a bad name, at that. What's your mother call you?"
"She calls me Blackie, too. My regular name is Ambrose."
"I won't tell a soul. Blackie you are and Blackie you shall be. Now, Blackie, I'm going to offer you a chance to show what sort of a spirit you have for helping to make the Tent Four boys known all over camp. I have, after much thought, decided to paint our tent-poles with pink and green stripes. That ought to start the rest of camp thinking about us. Now, please run up to the kitchen and ask the chef to send you down here with a bucket of striped paint--pink and green."
Blackie was off like a flash, but his leader called him back.
"While you're up there, Blackie, you can also ask him to lend you a bunk-stretcher. I find that my feet stick out over the edge of my berth, and I don't want to wake up in the morning and find the birds roosting on my toes. A left-handed bunk-stretcher--my bunk is on the left-hand side."
"Yes, Mr. Rawn."
"Call me Wally. Now, off with you!"
Blackie bounded up the short hill to the side door of the kitchen. Through the screen came the tantalizing fragrance of something good; supper was on the way, evidently, and Ellick, that good-hearted king of the kitchen, was at his busiest. Blackie pushed open the door and ran in with an important look on his dark face. He was greeted by Leggy, a skinny, coffee-colored individual whose thin shanks, although they seemed to have no end, did no more than reach the ground. He waved a long-handled spoon, and made a swing with it at Blackie's head.
"Outside, white boy!" he cried. "Kitchen ain't no place for little boys at de supper-call."
"I got a message for the chef--very important. Let me in!"
"Hol' on dere!" came Ellick's voice from the far corner of the room. "You ain't de boy what is lookin' for de striped paint, is you?"
"Yes, I am, chef."
"Well, if dat don't beat all!" exclaimed the surprised cook. "We is just out of striped paint. If I wasn't busily pre-incapacitated by carving dis yere ham for dinner, now, I would shorely help you-all out. A left-handed bunk-stretcher wouldn't do as well, would it, now?"
"Say, that was the other thing I was sent for!"
"Who-all sent you?"
"Wally Rawn--he's my leader."
"You bet, chef--keys to the campus, fencepost holes and the Royal Official Back-Scratcher."
"I thanks you. What might be you-all name?"
"Blackie."
"Hmm. I decalculate from dat name dat you are repartial to doughnuts." There was a sweet, sugary smell in the warm kitchen air.
"Doughnuts? You said it, chef!"
"Catch!"
The grinning Ellick deftly caught up a doughnut from a bowl beside him, and tossed it in the air. Blackie got under it like a veteran fielder, and sped out the door. The gangling Leggy aimed a parting swing at him with the long-tailed spoon, and missed.
On the parade ground, Blackie paused in his headlong lakeward course at the sight of Gil Shelton, hair combed, face shining from a recent scrubbing, and spotless for supper. "Hey, Blackie, where you heading? After fence-post holes?"
Gil started in great surprise. "Don't tell me," he exclaimed, "that they picked you to bring the Royal Official Back-Scratcher?"
"They sure have."
"That's a great honor, my son. In fact, only the newest and greenest boys are ever picked for it. Say, Blackie, I didn't think you'd fall for that old stuff. Did you ever see a fence-post hole? Does striped paint come in cans?"
Blackie paused and thought for the first time.
"Well, Gil, it was my leader Wally who sent me. He told me not to tell lies, too, so I thought it was all right."
"Say, did you ever hear of Santa Claus? Why, for a week now the little, new, green, smart, bright city boys will be looking all over the place for striped paint and the key to the lake. And you fell for it the first thing!"
Gil's laughter was so deep that Blackie was glad to get back to the shelter of his tent.
Wally greeted him. "So you didn't find it, eh? Well, that's all right--don't be discouraged. You can help me out in another way. Just run down to the dock, will you, and ask if anyone down there has seen the key to the lake?"
"Not on your life, Wally," grinned Blackie. "Send one of the new fellows down, can't you?"
The camp bugler, Ted Fellowes, sounded Assembly Call at that moment, and there was no time for further talk before supper. After the Retreat ceremony and the lowering of the flag, the boys attacked the supper that had been prepared in the depths of the kitchen. Blackie had never found a meal that tasted quite so good.
He met the remainder of the boys of Tent Four at the table. Ken Haviland, the tent aide, was busily serving as waiter at one end; he had to run again and again to the serving window for additional platters of ham, potatoes, and turnips, mountains of bread and oceans of milk. Blackie didn't envy him his job.
Wally had evidently met all the boys in his group. He paused and, between mouthfuls, addressed them.
"There's one thing that's worrying me, gentlemen of the famous Tent Four group. There are only seven of us, and there should be eight, counting myself. One of our number has not turned up. I shall call our imposing roll. Haviland!"
"Here, sir." Ken seized his serving tray and dashed off in pursuit of dessert.
"Thorne! Here, I see. Slater!"
"Here, sir!" answered a freckle-faced boy with burning red hair.
"Guppy!"
Blackie looked with interest at the boy with such a beautiful name. He was a little chap of about eleven, at the end of one row.
"Lefkowitz!"
"Present!" came a squeaky voice from across the table.
"Gallegher!"
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