Though the memory of the morning’s embarrassments still caused him to blush, that night Leo had taken heart from the friendly bull session before Lights Out, conducted by Reece himself. The counselor had stretched out on his cot and led the discussion, about what it meant to be a Jeremian – a true-blue member of the team, as he put it – and how they were all looking forward to seeing the Hartsig Trophy emblazoned with their names under the heading “Best Campers of 1938.” And Leo, who had envied his cabin-mates their camaraderie and lighthearted give-and-take, the way Reece kidded around with them (especially Phil and Tiger), and the bonds they had formed through years of close association and shared experience, had felt – actually, physically felt, he thought – those bonds now being extended to include him.
Luckily there had been no bad dreams that night, no disturbances whatever, and next morning he had got up before reveille, ready to attack his first real camping day. He was off to a flying start – well, no, not quite. As a greenhorn at Moonbow he was bound to make a few mistakes, that would have been okay; unfortunately for him he had come a cropper three times in a row, which hadn’t upped his stock with either the Jeremians or their counselor.
First, the camp inspection committee, made up of a revolving panel culled from the Sachems’ Council, showed up in Jeremiah on its twice-weekly rounds, to find that Leo’s cap had been left on his pillow – one demerit – and the contents of his suitcase were not up to standard neatness – a second demerit, making Leo the only Jeremian to receive blackies that day.
Next came his introduction to the traditional soap bath. Monday was “wash day,” when first thing in the morning everyone fell out for the weekly soap bath in the lake, and Leo was tugging on his swim suit when he noticed he was getting funny looks from his cabin-mates.
“What are you doing, kiddo?” Phil demanded, wrapping his husky waist in a towel.
Leo gave him a look back; he was putting on his trunks, what else?
“Nobody wears a bathing suit to soap bath.”
“They don’t?”
"No. They go buck-assed naked.”
“Oh.” Leo crimsoned, and, pulling off his trunks, wrapped a towel around his waist. Though he was used to the casualness of dormitory life, the idea of standing around naked in the open air offended his sense of propriety, and when, within minutes, he found himself dockside amid a sea of robust male forms, legs, arms, and pale behinds, a forest of limp penises, of corrugated scrotums drawn up tight as walnut shells in the nippy morning air – all of Pa’s campers gathered to worship Hygeia, goddess of “cleanliness,” with their pious offerings of pink Lifebuoy or green Palmolive soap cakes – he clung desperately to his towel. The result had been a spate of scornful taunts.
“Come on, lily-white, dive in!” “Hey, Wacko, drop the laundry!” “Yeah, screwball, let the world see your dong!” This last from an older, thick-necked camper with a round, pimply, pug-ugly face and a nasty swagger, who wore a tattoo on his forearm, like Popeye. His name, Leo had already learned, was Claude Moriarity – more often known as “Bullnuts,” Leo now perceived, for obvious reasons. The sight of the new boy, covered with goose pimples, knees knocking from the morning chill, seemed to goad him, and he advanced menacingly.
“Okay, you guys!” he boomed. “Let’s get ’im!” And five or six campers had sprung on Leo and stripped away his towel, leaving him trying to cover his nakedness with both hands. This show of modesty further provoked Bullnuts and his pals, who, before Leo realized their full intent, had picked him up and chucked him off the dock into the swim crib, where he landed on his back and got water up his nose. Not knowing what else to do, he paddled helplessly around until the Bomber came to the rescue and loaned him his block of Ivory soap (“It floats”), then dived for Leo’s cake of Lifebuoy (which didn’t).
The third incident of note occurred after dinner that evening, and marked the beginning of Leo’s troubles with Hap Holliday. He had been heading for the Dewdrop Inn, giving a wide berth to the playing field, where late baseball practice was in progress, hoping to go unnoticed by the coach, who Leo was afraid might try to trap him into playing. Swinging madly, Junior Leffingwell had hit a pop fly that sailed across the field and (having been missed by Oggie Ogden, in the outfield) bounced within ten feet of Leo and continued rolling toward him. Leo had stood transfixed, unable to do anything but stare at it, as if to touch it would do him injury.
“Come on, Wackeem, for cripes’ sake, throw the ball!”
This command, from Dump Dillworth, had finally roused him to dazed action. He had picked up the ball and awkwardly launched it toward the plate, but the throw had gone wild, and as Junior rounded third and sprinted for home, the entire field, players and spectators a-like, had erupted in scornful hoots and catcalls (“Woo-woo!” “Chicken wing!” “Hey, Wackoff, where’d you learn to throw, at dancing school?”).
Hap had made no secret of his scorn and mandated this morning’s private practice session, and later Leo had overheard Phil muttering that it looked like the new boy might turn out to be every bit as twerpy as Stanley Wagner. Wally agreed: Leo was twerpy. Tiger, however, had gone to bat for him: just because every Jeremian excelled at some sport or other, even if it was only Ping-Pong, didn’t mean Leo had to. He’d rack up plenty of happy points for Jeremiah other ways, they’d see.
Leo had been grateful – but worried, too. Because the truth was that every true-blue Jeremian made a good showing at athletics; his cabin-mates were not an assortment of wimpy oddballs – not, as Reece pointed out to Leo at that night’s bull session, the kind of boy who had a pillow called Albert and wore a hat that looked like something out of the funny papers. There followed a lecture on the nature of teamwork and about winning. The Jeremians, Reece reminded them, were winners because they operated as a team (led by a leader like himself), and if you played the game properly you came out a winner, too, while, if you didn’t… well, look at Stanley Wagner.
“Yeah, look at him,” said Phil, scowling. Then, tossing his cap by its bill, he led the Jeremians out to Old Faithful to brush their teeth.
“So how do you like it so far, kiddo?” he asked, fetching up beside Leo at the fountain.
Leo replied that he liked it fine so far.
“Well, don’t screw up,” said Phil. “We don’t want any more spuds in Jeremiah.”
“Aw, can it,” the Bomber growled. “He’s going to get us plenty points. And wait till he plays his fiddle at Major Bowes.”
Fifteen minutes later, when taps sounded, Phil’s remark still rankled, but as Leo lay on his bunk, staring up at the molded impression of Tiger’s backside pressed into the canvas overhead, he felt reassured. Stanley Wagner had been a spud, no doubt about that, and Jeremiah had paid the price. As cabin monitor, and second-in-command to Reece, Phil felt responsible, that was all.