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 Jeremians 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.