: Blackie Thorne at Camp Lenape by Saxon Carl - Camps Juvenile fiction

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BLACKIE THORNE AT CAMP LENAPE

Two enormous hay-wains, full and running over with a tumbling mass of boys, turned a bend in the narrow country road.

Blackie Thorne was the foremost boy on the first wagon. He clambered up on the narrow seat with so much eagerness to view the camp and the lake that he almost knocked over the stolid farmer who was driving the team. His first view of camp!

There it lay on the wooded slope above the shining lake and the boat dock, a large white lodge with a flag floating lazily above it, and two rows of canvas tents lost among trees to the right but showing clearly against the gray mountains beyond, with their heavy covering of tall pines sticking up like spikes along the skyline. Camp Lenape, where the wonderful things his friends told about had happened. Why, anything might happen in such a marvelous place as the camp which grew nearer every minute as the slow horses plodded their way along the dusty road!

Blackie squirmed with excitement and jerked his arm so that it hit the head of the driving farmer and knocked his wide straw hat down over his eyes.

"Here now, sonny!" spluttered the man, grabbing at his hat and almost falling off the board which served as a seat. "If you're a-goin' to get so het up about seein' this camp-ground of yourn, you better get out and walk!"

"A good idea!" exclaimed a fellow standing just behind Blackie, holding himself up in the jolting wagon by a hand on Blackie's shoulder. He was Gil Shelton, patrol-leader in Blackie's troop back in the city, and a "three-striper" who wore on his camp sweater three green chevrons to show that he had been at Lenape for as many seasons. "What do you say, Blackie? If we hop off now, we can follow the trail through the woods and beat the rest into camp."

The trail led around the end of the lake, down through a meadow dotted with daisies and buttercups, and on again into the deepening shadow of the pines and birches.

They panted as they ran up a short hill, and came out in a little cleared space among the scrub-pines.

"Wait a minute, can't you?" gasped Blackie. "What's the use of killing ourselves?"

Gil snorted. "Does that little run make you tired? Wait until you've been here at camp a week, and a trot like this will seem so slow you'll think you're going backwards." Nevertheless he stopped and threw himself on the soft ground, and Blackie gratefully followed his example.

"How far are we from camp now?"

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