City Boy (30 page)

In short, the parents chugged off in their old automobile to return to the city that evening, persuaded that their offspring were enviably privileged creatures.

“I'll say one thing,” said Jacob Bookbinder, as the car swung out through the ramshackle wooden gate of the camp, “they both look wonderful. Sunburned, well fed—”

“I should say so,” said his wife. “It was lovely to see them that way.”

They drove down the dirt road for a while, turning over in their minds the pleasant pictures they had seen.

“Did you notice,” said the father, “that they both somehow seemed quieter than before? Herbie, especially.”

“Of course. Their manners have improved beautifully. I think it's lovely.”

Jacob Bookbinder was ninety-eight per cent satisfied with this explanation of his son's subdued air, the one odd fact he had observed. Wishing to believe the best, he soon decided to let it pass for one hundred per cent, and forgot about it. Nor was he far wrong. There was nothing really the matter with Herbie.

A broken spirit is merely a state of mind.

H
erbie eventually recovered, but his way out of humiliation had an important drawback. It led him into crime.

Boys enter upon this planet as free wild animals, and have to be tamed. Respect for the law comes, but slowly. The sweetest mollycoddle will swipe an apple from a fruit stand—if only once; the saintliest choir boy will “borrow” a quarter from his mother's purse—if only once. What makes them all behave at last is partly upbringing, partly what Mr. Gauss calls Character, and partly the invisible barbed wire of Law, which sooner or later gives nearly every boy a nasty raking—if only once.

It was the last week of camp, and everyone was in the doldrums. Uncle Sandy's schedule was exhausted. Pepsodents, Cadillacs, Lucky Strikes, and Greta Garbos had enjoyed their brief triumph and had been dissolved. The giant struggle between the Yellows and the Reds, with one half of the camp pitted against the other for three racking days, had also passed into history, a Yellow victory.

This “color war,” as it was called, had been fought in the early years of Manitou during the last three days of the season, but the arrangement developed weaknesses which caused Mr. Gauss to change it. First of all, it sent half the camp in a mood of embitterment which no amount of talk about a Gaussian victory could heal (the defeated team always won a tremendous Gaussian victory, according to the camp owner). Second, it returned victors and losers alike to their homes worn out, nervous, and often battered. Mr. Gauss had therefore issued another of his unpopular decrees, advancing the date of the color war a week and leaving seven days for the recuperation and fattening of his campers. The price was heavy: a week of anti-climax and boredom. But Mr. Gauss, caught in the old dilemma of expediency versus the children's desires, had gone his usual way.

To assuage the postwar dullness he invented a couple of holidays: Manitou Mardi Gras, which was held two days before the season ended, and Campers' Day, which followed it. The boy who was judged to have invented the best diversion of the Mardi Gras—whether it was a costume, an act, or a display—was acclaimed “Skipper for a Day.” He ruled the camp, appointed boys to supplant all the counselors (the counselors became those boys), and all in all won an enviable amount of glory. Uncle Sandy and Mr. Gauss usually managed to give the award to one of the more sober Super-seniors, who could be counted on to keep Campers' Day from becoming an orgy of hazing of the counselors.

It was a good idea. The boys consumed several mornings and afternoons preparing for the Mardi Gras, which usually became a gay sort of carnival. Campers' Day gave them a chance to release the grudges of a whole season in horseplay. The climax of the festivity was always the throwing of Uncle Sandy into the lake by the Seniors, in the presence of the whole camp. This happy event in itself reconciled large numbers of the boys to life at Manitou, and made them look forward to next year when they could see it done again. Every summer there were elaborate conspiracies to throw Mr. Gauss into the water, too, but the plots had never come off. He always seemed to vanish at the critical time.

“What th' heck does Mardigrass mean, anyhow?” said Lennie, addressing a circle of boys sitting on the grass around him. Bunks Twelve and Thirteen were having a period of horseback riding again, which meant, as usual, that Cliff gave Clever Sam a workout for an hour while the others lolled and gossiped.

“Hey, Lennie, is it Mardigrass or Mardigrah?” said one of the boys. “Uncle Gussie keeps sayin' ‘Mardigrah.’”

“Shucks, dincha see the big sign they got stretched across Company Street?” said Lennie. “It says ‘Mardigrass Saturday,’ don't it? Mardigrass with a
s.
”

“Uncle Gussie says it's French.”

“Maybe, but I ain't no Frenchman.”

This caused a burst of laughter. Lennie had solidified his position as a hero during the color war by winning a couple of crucial games for the Yellows. Everything about a hero is magnified, and a joke uttered by him is much funnier than if it comes from ordinary flesh and blood. Encouraged by the laugh, Lennie added, “Maybe Uncle Gussie is French. He always sounds like he's been eatin' frogs.”

This was considered pricelessly humorous, and several of the boys rolled on the grass in merriment.

“That still don't answer what it means, though,” said Lennie.

The boys sobered, and tried to think of an explanation.

“Maybe,” said Ted, “it has somethin' to do with grass. This is grass-cuttin' time, for makin' hay, ain't it? O.K., maybe in French Mar-di-grass means ‘Cut the grass.’”

The circle all looked to Lennie for his opinion. The hero wrinkled his brow judiciously and said, “Sounds right. I bet that's it.”

Everyone else nodded now, except Herbie, and one boy said, “Pretty smart, Ted, figuring it out like that.”

“Er—I looked it up in the dictionary,” Herbie put in diffidently. “It means ‘Fat Tuesday.’”

“What!” Lennie's tone hovered between amazement and scorn.

Herbie was at low ebb in his own esteem and everyone else's. He had been of no use at all to the Reds in the color war. His usual good spirits had been lacking since the night of the fateful dance, and Lucille had avoided his presence and even his glance since that time.

“Well, I know it sounds funny,” he faltered. “But—but Fat Tuesday is what it says.”

Murmurs of resentment were heard.

“General Garbage, the only thing you can do good is lie,” said Lennie. “If we'd of had a lying contest, the Reds would of won the color war.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” from the chorus.

Then a rapid fire of wit:

“How could they have a Fat Tuesday on a Saturday?”

“You sure it wasn't Skinny Wednesday?”

“Or Pot-Bellied Friday?”

“Or Bowlegged Sunday?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Fat Tuesday!”

“I know what he means, guys,” exclaimed Lennie. “He means
he's
fat Tuesday and every other day.”

The hilarity which followed this epigram was so prolonged that Uncle Sid broke away from a conversation with Elmer Bean and inquired what the joke was.

“Herbie says,” Lennie gasped between guffaws, “that Mardigrass means ‘Fat Tuesday.’”

“You pronounce it ‘Mardigrah,’ and it does mean ‘Fat Tuesday.’ It's the name of an ancient religious holiday,” answered the counselor, and walked away.

After a short silence conversation was resumed on other topics. No more jokes were made about Fat Tuesday. Herbie was noticeably shouldered out of the talk. He had committed that breach of manners, unforgivable among adults as well as among boys: he had known more than the leader.

When the group started down the hill for the swimming period, Herbie got permission to remain behind with Cliff and Elmer Bean while they unsaddled Clever Sam.

Elmer Bean was regarded by Herbie as an oracle on camp matters. The rough young handy man gave straight answers, uncolored by contempt or satire, and he seemed to have a fuller understanding of the ways of Mr. Gauss than anybody. Also, unlike a counselor, he did not stand in opposition to boys in the nature of his duty.

“Say, Elmer,” said Herbie, as he watched Cliff and the handy man fussing with the horse's girths, “has a Intermediate got a chance to become Skipper-for-a-Day?”

Elmer paused in his work, and regarded Herbie with a twinkling eye. “Why? You figger on bein' it?”

“Well, no,” said Herbie, “'course not. But still a guy likes to know if he got a chance.”

“Nobody but a Super-senior ain't got it yet, Herb. Mr. Gauss likes to make sure, see, that the thing don't get to be all hog-wild.”

“O.K. That's all I wanted to know.”

Cliff swung the saddle off Clever Sam's back and stood holding it. “Why, Herbie?” he said. “You got a good idea for the Mardigrass?”

“Pretty fair, I thought. But it don't make no difference.”

“What's the idea?” said Elmer Bean.

“Aw, just a ride.”

“What kind of ride?”

“It's—it's hard to explain. Anyway, I might as well forget it.”

Elmer took the horse's bridle and led him toward the barn. “Come on, talk up, Herb,” he said. “What's yer big idea? Maybe you might be the first Intermediate to make Skipper.”

“Well,” Herbie began, following Elmer, “I figure this Mardigrass is kind of like Coney Island, ain't it? Well, my pop took me to Coney Island once. The most fun I had was on a thing they called the Devil's Slide. It was a big boat that slid down into a tank of water. Boy, oh boy, when that thing hit the water—zowie!”

Cliff said, “I been on that. You ain't figuring to build no Devil's Slide out here, are you, Herbie? Heck, that would take a year.”

“It's all built, Cliff!” Herbie answered excitedly. “Don't you see? The doggone girls' lawn slants right down to the lake, don't it? All right. All you gotta do is put a rowboat on wheels, see, an' bang! You got the Devil's Slide!”

“How,” said Elmer dryly, “do you steer this rowboat on wheels an' keep it from runnin' into a bench or Aunt Tillie?”

Herbie's face fell. “I never thought of that.”

Cliff said, “Heck, you could steer it with ropes or somethin'.”

“A heavy rowboat fulla people barrelin' down a hill? Son, you need wire cables and Samson pullin' 'em to steer that.”

They were in the tumbledown stable now, redolent faintly of straw and strongly of Clever Sam. Elmer backed the horse into his stall and closed the door. Clever Sam leaned against the wall and closed his eyes with a peaceful sigh.

“I tell you what,” said Herbie. “What's the matter with layin' a couple of rails down the hill just like they had it in Coney? The boat could slide down the rails. All you need's a few boards.”

“You mean greased boards,” said Elmer.

“Of course greased boards,” replied Herbie, although it hadn't occurred to him that the boards would have to be greased.

“Hm. Four hundred feet of two-by-fours and twenty gallons of axle grease wouldn't hardly begin to do it.”

“O.K.,” said Herbie dejectedly. “I said forget about it.”

“An' after the boat gets down in the water once, how do you git it back up the hill?”

“O.K., O.K., Elmer.”

“An' anyway, what keeps the boat from flyin' clean off the greased boards halfway down the hill 'an roostin' up in a tree?”

“Heck, Elmer, do you have to poke fun at me? It was a crazy idea, that's all. I'll go to the lousy Mardigrass dressed like a old lady or somethin'. You said I couldn't win, anyhow.” He sat on a perilous old chair with one leg missing, tilted it against the horse's stall, and slouched.

“For that matter,” Cliff remarked slowly, as though talking to himself, “Clever Sam could pull the boat back up the hill easy.”

“For cryin' out loud, forget the thing, Cliff,” said Herbie.

“Why are you so red hot fer gettin' to be Skipper?” asked Elmer, squatting opposite Herbie and stuffing a grimy pipe from a tobacco pouch.

“Because I'm the camp joke, that's why!” burst out Herbie. “The little fat baby that can't run, can't play ball, can't fight, can't do nothin'! That's me an' everyone knows it. An' they're right. That's just what I am.”

“Why, hold on, Herb. A guy shouldn't think that bad of hisself. You're a good kid, an' you got brains. You'll have the laugh on 'em all someday. You know you ain't that terrible.”

“Lennie stole his girl,” observed Cliff, looking out at the sunny green fields.

“Hm.” Elmer smiled for an instant, but when Herbie glanced at him suspiciously his face was serious. “Why, Herb, any girl who likes Lennie I say oughta be welcome to him, an' good riddance to both of 'em.”

“An' why does the boat have to fly off the rails, now I think of it?” said Herbie. “Heck, you nail a couple boards under the rowboat, see, so's they fit just inside the rails, an' how's that rotton boat gonna slip off them rotten rails?”

Elmer smiled, and lit his pipe with a thick wooden match. Cliff looked at his cousin admiringly. “Hey, Herb, that's good. I told you” —he turned to Elmer—“he's got a head.”