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 resisting art
by Jeremy Fernando
alongside illustrations by Natalie Christian Tan

This paperback edition

first published in 2018 by Delere Press LLP

Text
© Jeremy Fernando;
Illustrations and cover design
© Natalie Christian Tan

***
First published in 2018 by Delere Press LLP
370G Alexandra Road, #09-09
Singapore 159960
www.delerepress.com
Delere Press LLP Reg No. T11LL1061K

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-981-11-8442-0
resisting art
 III
Art doesn’t come from a natural impulse,
but from calculated artifice

— Sylvère Lotringer

I would like to begin right away by excusing myself

because I know very little of what I am about to attempt to
speak on, very little of what I write.

This perhaps, being an excuse that comes a little too late.

After all, I have already begun, at least in terms of words,
scribbles, marks, remarks.

Not that we can quite know when we ever actually begin.

Or, where a line even starts.

1
Perhaps then, I should have begun by asking to begin again. which was strange response; particularly since it was coming
For, one might have already begun at the moment when, in from someone who had devoted his thinking to events, to
the very instant, one has — when I had — agreed to write on, possibilities, to the call of otherness.
speak about, the possibility of art as resistance, the moment I
responded to a call from my friend, Mohan Dutta — patched For, why do some calls matter, and why do others not; and is
to a line from him, connected a line to his kind invitation — it ever possible to dismiss a call that one has answered? Is it
to attend to a relation that I know precious little about. even possible to constitute it as a call — or even a summons
— if it were not answered?
Which is not a disavowal of what I am writing,
what I am saying, about to say. And, as my dear teacher, Avital Ronell, reminds us in The
Telephone Book, « if Heidegger was there to receive the SA
Far from it. call, it is because he first had to accept the Be-ruf, or position,
from which that ordering call could be picked up, that of
For, unlike Martin Heidegger, I am not about to deny that rector, a position he held from 1933 to 1934 ». Thus, this
picking up a call — even a call that one might not have call « takes place within a context of a prior call, though not
necessarily wanted, had not called for, as it were — that in terms of a subject’s desire but in those of an inescapable
attending to a call, does not already entail a response. A calling or vocation ». If Heidegger could not turn down
disavowal that he declared, perhaps performed, even staged, daddy’s call, it was because he had first accepted the call —
when he refused responsibility for responding to a call from the ruf — to be a son. For, the very condition of its possibility
the Sturmabteilung; dismissing his role, saying: « someone as a call is that one answers, even if that answer were to
from the top command of the Storm Trooper University turn away, to reject, to refuse the content of the call; the call
Bureau, SA section leader Baumann called me up. He itself is always already answered at the very moment when
demanded … » one recognises it as a call. And more precisely — since one
can never know if the call was even intended for one — by
Not a: I picked up the phone, answered the call. recognising its status as a call, one has already adopted it for
oneself; and in doing so, opened oneself to its effects, to being
But a: it wasn’t my choice, not even of my doing — after all, affected by the call; by doing so, it is authorised as a call.
« he demanded ».
And, as Werner Hamacher, dear dear Werner, tries never to
Which translates to: how could I not do so, how could I even let us forget: to even constitute something as a call, one has
say no. to acknowledge that it comes from beyond. Perhaps, more
importantly, there is absolutely no reason to assume that it
Which is also an attempt at transposing genres: that, it is was meant for you, otherwise there were no need to answer
not so much a call but a summons: that, this was no ordinary it, to respond to it — thus, in picking up a call, one always
sound made from a distance — he was a Storm Trooper, already runs the risk of answering a call that was never even
a figure from, and of, authority; it was daddy calling me … sent to one. Which also means that to pick up a call is not
2 3
only to recognise it as a call but Or, as I might say, have said elsewhere,
to always already assume it for Language is essentially when I write I am always already writing death.
oneself. discrete: what it
expresses can always also
And where, even when, even in, writing death, language
be used as an instrument
Even if the call had picked one remains discrete — and keeps its secrets.
of encryption, a means of
…not that there is any way of dissembling, disfiguring,
ever knowing so. or lying. Since, however,
it constitutes all
Which is not to say that one oppositions in the first
necessarily — or ever — knows place, it can belong to
what one picks up, has picked none of them, neither
up, upon picking up the call. to concealment nor
For, to assume it for oneself disclosure, neither
publicity nor privacy and
always also means that one runs
its idiosyncrasies.
the risk of not only assuming
that one has the right to pick up, — Werner Hamacher
but that one has quite possibly
made the assumption that it is
a call.

Where, what is quite possibly being calculated is whether there

had been, whether there even is, a call.

Where, one might be doing nothing other than hearing voices

in one’s head.

And where, one might well be writing that very call — where
all I might be doing is inscribing Mohan’s call — that is
heard, that is thought to have been heard, into existence.

All whilst trying never to forget Hélène Cixous’, dear dear

Hélène’s, reminder that, « when I write, it’s everything that
we don’t know we can be that is written out of me, without
exclusions, without stipulation, and everything we will be
calls us to the unflagging, intoxicating, unappeasable search
for love ».
4 5
 II
Every translation signifies the
space-between, the gap, the
I would like to begin historical chasm or the repression
right away by excusing of history; translation is the most
myself because I know cautious form of communication
very little of what I am since there is always the inherent
about to attempt to admission of a certain departure
write on, very little of and an uncertain arrival.
what I write. — Hubertus von Amelunxen

Even as this might be

an excuse that perhaps comes too late:
for, even as I am making it, it is already made, can only be
made, in writing. Which is not to say that I am attempting
to disavow what I have written, what I will write, but that
perhaps all writing lies in excusing — in requesting a pardon,
in asking for forgiveness.
7
 Where perhaps, what is being staged — somewhat calculated
Here I should recall why Bearing in mind — for, this in its performance — is the very confession itself: for, one
we confess to God who should always be a burden on should also try not to forget that a confession is only one
knows, our confitemur
one — that one can only confess when it is seen as a confession by the one whom one confesses
Deo scienti, why we only
to one, to another, who already to, when it is recognised as one.
truly confess ourselves
to God-who-knows knows. For, confession is not
because He knows a matter of knowledge: one So perhaps, what is being calculated, if one can call it that,
it is not a question confesses as if the other already but certainly being set up — keeping in mind that theoria
of knowing; and on knows of the transgression. always already invokes, brings with it, echoes of staging,
condition: on condition Whether this is true — both the setting up, performing, putting up in front of others — what
there is no other witness confession and the transgression is being put on, is the very conversation between the one who
than God-who-knows, — is beside the point: otherwise, reads, the one who writes, and the texts. After all, one should
on condition we make it is only a matter of revealing, of try not to forget that this might well be why Plato calls them
our confession to no
telling. Confession lies in asking: dialogues.
one other than God,
regardless of whether the other
therefore to No One,
to God-who-knows-as- knows if (s)he has been wronged For, conversation always already — or, at least, should —
likewise-He-does-not- — quite possibly even if either entail turning around with (conversare), perhaps even dancing
know, to God the Ear the request, or the matter of with, another, even if the other is oneself. And even at points
for my word, God as my being wronged, is a lie. of disagreement, divergence, even at points of potential
very own Ear into which, combat (versus), the other and one are still in relation, still
out of my silence, I And, this is why confessions can with each other (con-): where perhaps what is being staged is
thrust my avowal, aloud, only be a rite, can only take place the very possibility of the relationship itself.
in order to hear myself through rituals: for, it is not so
and (not) be heard by
much a matter of what is being And where, what is being calculated — for, even as
anyone else (other than
confessed, but the fact that a relationships (between one and a work, one and another,
God).
confession takes place, that one a work and one) might well begin as accidents, as chance
—Hélène Cixous has confessed. Thus, confessions encounters, perhaps even events, maintaining them, keeping
are strictly speaking meaningless: them alive as possibilities, as it were, requires time, effort,
it is not their signification that work even — what is being accounted for, is the very
matters, but the significance of possibility of this dance.
their occurrence.
Especially if one is attempting to write in response with, as
a response to: for, even as I attempt to respond to works, to
thoughts, ideas, texts, calls, in all of their possibilities, one
can — I can — never be certain if I am writing on, writing
about, or writing over, these very works. Even worse: all of
8 9
my words are, my writing is, haunted by the possibility that Where, love is quite possibly another name for a relation to
all I am doing is making the calls, texts, ideas, thoughts, the possibility of another — a relation where both the other
works, say what I want them to say; bringing them forth in and one remain wholly other to each other.
order that they, conjuring them such that they, speak for me;
Where, all that the one who writes can perhaps say is

prosopopoeia
— without knowing either what (s)he says, nor even who the
I who writes is —

So perhaps: I love you: I work at understanding you

not just that each writing (écriture) is writhing in the to the point of not understanding you,
possibility that it is saying something other than it should, and there, standing in a wind, I don’t
is struggling with the fact that it is speaking over, silencing, understand you. Not understanding always already —
what it is attempting to speak for, but that in order for in a way of holding myself in front and perhaps only
writing to maintain a certain responsibility, to maintain the and of letting come. Transverbal, possible — in the
transintellectual relationship, this words of another,
possibility that it is responding, it would have to always also
loving the other in submission to the the other.
be erasing what it writes. mystery. (It’s accepting, not knowing,
forefeeling, feeling with the heart.) I’m
Where each scribble, scribere, not only scratches into, stains speaking in favour of non-recognition,
— paints — the surface on which it is writing, but always also not of mistaken cognition. I’m speaking
scratches out, tears, opens, runs the possibility of wounding, of closeness, without any familiarity.
tearing as it is tearing, crying out (cri).
—Hélène Cixous
Where perhaps, every moment of trying to know, to grasp, to
comprehend, to take into one’s hand, prendre — every attempt Keeping in mind the possibility that art is the very movement
to answer, to respond, to attend to a call — is to always — trans- — of what is brought forth through craft, by tekhnē,
already render it dead. But where perhaps, it is love, philia, in into something else, something other than itself. Not that the
its unknowability — in its refusal to claim the other for itself one who makes it is any different — even if (s)he might never
— which maintains the space for life. quite remain the same after. Even though, perhaps precisely
because, there is no guarantee that (s)he might ever be able to
do so again, repeat it, make it again; nor even if (s)he might
recognise the possibility of art in what (s)he has crafted.

Where perhaps, what is art and what is craft might well be the
same, but at the same time, same same but different.

10 11
Where, it is not just that difference lies within sameness, nor
merely that there is sameness in differences, but that what
is same is always already different — for, the very notion of
same is a relation, and in relation lies difference.

Where, in its relation to craft, art might always be un pas au-

delà.

Thus, quite possibly unseen, un-seeable — and where, the one

who sees the art in any moment of craft might well be the
only one who sees it, might well be hearing what (s)he thinks
is a call from and of the work, might well be hearing only
what (s)he hears. For, all she can do is to be in relation with
the work; and more precisely, a relation of
« not understanding in a way of holding myself in front and of
letting come ».

Which is not to say that art is antithetical to knowing, to

knowledge, nor its antonym: but that it is a knowing that
does not know, un savoir qui ne voit pas.

Which might well be why her owl only flies in the twilight —
for, the goddess always knew that the transformation from
tekhnē to art happens due to the movement of the world. Not
that one sees the world differently — nothing that banal —
but when there is a gap between the object and what is seen.
When a chair is both a chair, in all its usefulness, its so-called
purpose, but at the same time not-quite-just-a-chair; where
the purposefulness of crafting this chair is somehow just
slightly beyond its purpose: just slightly beyond — this gap
— being nothing other than not just un pas au-delà, but also
another name for the chair-ness of the chair.

12
art:
Not that what is remembered, recalled, and what is forgotten
are antonymous: for, one should try not to forget that
or, another name for forgetting has no object. Thus, not only can one never quite
I see myself first and know what one has forgotten, but that there is no reason that
a transcendence that is not
foremost as a reader: each memory, each act of remembering, might not bring with
transcendental, reading being understood
an immanent transcendence. it, might not be inscribed with, forgetting.
as the relation to an
other that occurs prior
Which also means that it to any semantic or Where, memory is always already potentially elliptical …
might well be a moment that formal identification, and all whilst trying to remember that one can only write what
escapes one — perhaps, not therefore prior to any one knows, what one thinks one knows; thus, what one
because one did not experience attempt at assimilating recalls.
it, nor that this experience did what is being read to the Ellipsis is the rhetorical
not register with one, but that one who reads. As neither equivalent of writing: it Keeping in mind that an
an act or rule-governed ellipsis suggests that there
it is quite possibly an instance depletes, or de-completes,
operation, reading needs is either something more, or
that writes itself into us in the to be thought as an event the whole so as to make
very instant that it is scratched of an encounter with an conceptual totalities something less, in a sentence
out of us. other—and more precisely
possible. And yet every — it can suggest more to be
conceivable whole added, or a retraction … or
an other which is not the
achieved on the basis of perhaps, a space, a gap, for
A moment which is read. other as identified by the
ellipsis is stamped with the something. Thus, it marks, it
reader, but heterogeneous
mark of the original loss.
A particular approach to in relation to any is the mark of, an unknown
Ellipsis eclipses (itself). It is
reading that came to me in identifying determination.
the figure of figuration: the
— and perhaps always
Thus, a pre-relational unknowable — effect.
a lunch conversation with area no figure contains.
relationality where what
Werner Hamacher — a
the reader encounters And, since forgetting can
moment of speech that is —Werner Hamacher
may only be encountered
recalled, that continually occur at any time, and place,
before any phenomenon;
calls out to me, now in script, hence a non-phenomenal there is then no reason why each act of remembering (that is
inscribed; but since only ever event or even the event of recalled in, and by, the sentence) might not always already
heard by me, might also never undoing all phenomenality. bring with it the possibility of forgetting.
have been heard, that possibly
might never quite have —Jeremy Fernando That, regardless of whether one sees an ellipsis, every sentence
happened. might always already be elliptical.

And, where writing itself might bring with it what the one
who writes might well have forgotten …

14 15
 … to be read —
even as reading is always also potentially a re-writing,
a writing over, perhaps even an effacement of this very
forgetting itself.

And since beauty is of the order of the whole, the complete,

this also means that it, like every « conceivable whole », is
« stamped with the mark of the original loss » … is quite
possibly elliptical.

And where art — allowing all echoes of Immanuel Kant and

the sublime to haunt us here — which is a possible opening,
a potential rupture, peut-être même un éclat, is quite possibly
beauty without being beautiful, an experience of beauty without
quite being able to call it beautiful, without subsuming it
under any prior conception of the beautiful; where beauty
remains a name naming quite possibly nothing other than an
aisthesis which overwhelms us.

Where, art is perhaps nothing other than another name for

forgetting itself …

Beauty will be
amnesiac or, will
not be at all.
—Sylvère Lotringer

16 17
 III
The work of art is not an instrument of
communication. The work of art has
nothing to do with communication. The
work of art strictly does not contain the
least bit of information. To the contrary,
there is a fundamental affinity between
the work of art and the act of resistance.
There, yes. It has something to do with
information and communication as acts
of resistance. What is this mysterious
relation between a work of art and an Keeping in mind that the moment a work informs, it lies
act of resistance when men who resist within an established system — and replicates not only itself
have neither the time nor sometimes within the confines, boundaries, rules, laws, of said system,
the necessary culture to have the least but the very structures of power that bring forth that very
relation to art? system. For, a piece of information — a « grouping of order-
words » within a « controlled system », « used in a given
I don’t know. society » — is always also composed of words that order us,
group one into an us.
—Gilles Deleuze

Which is precisely how communication — through les

communiqués — shapes one into behaving as part of, playing
an appropriate role in, a society of control.

But what if the work is housed, is enframed —

behind glass, perhaps in a museum. For, the moment the
muses are housed, encased, are placed within an oikos, they
are also withdrawn from the polis, from the public. They are
made private — never forgetting that to be private is also to
18 19
 frame
be made voiceless; to be excluded from citizenry; to be the
one that cannot learn; to be an idiotes.

Much like when they are taken (prendre) by, taken into, one’s is art, art, without the frame?
grasp — placed under one’s conception, one’s comprehension.
After all, a painting of sunflowers on a wall is graffiti;
For, it should weigh on one’s mind that the moment one with(in) a frame it is — or, at least, is potentially
attempts to attend to it, to address it, write about it, speak on called — art. Where, it only has a name — one might even
it — even if one is attempting to open oneself to possibilities, say it is called to its name — within those walls.
to potentialities — one is not only tempted to know, to
understand, to make sense of the work, one has no choice but
support
Which opens another
to, if only momentarily, bring it under one’s own conceptions, question: is it only art when
framework; en bref, in attending to, in picking up, its call, it has a name? And, perhaps
the call of the work, one always already tames it, turns it into more importantly, whose Does the frame support the
information. name?: that of the work, or work, or the work support
that of the one who signs on the frame?
And thus, perhaps unintentionally, rather inadvertently, the the work?
very moment of response might well be the instant when the Can there even be one
potential « acts of resistance » in and of the work are already Both of which — the without the other?
muted. frame and the name — are
questions of context: of After all, to call it, to name
After all, the road to hell is often paved with good intentions. situation; of materiality. it as, work is to enframe it:
Which suggests that any where the name is quite
Trying also never to forget that every time one writes about consideration of art — even possibly the frame, whilst, at
something, one not only writes it, but also writes its context, if we take art to mean the the same time, is called into
into existence — recontextualing it, if one is feeling generous movement from a work made being a name by the very
with oneself; but really decontextualising into and — with a through craft, brought forth framing of the work, is only
new framing that has little, maybe even nothing at all, to do through tekhnē, to something the name of the work as it is
with it. beyond it — cannot be framed from the work itself.
divorced from its material Where, it is nothing other
Keeping in mind that, to frame is always also to potentially reality. than its framing that names
accuse someone of something that (s)he might not have done. it as either work or frame—
the threshold between the
two being not only porous,
but somewhat indiscernible.

20 21
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
ball. And, contrary to instructions from the third-base coach, young
Fairchild, doubtless desiring to still further glorify himself, sprinted
for home. He had about one chance in twenty of reaching it safely,
for Porter scooped up the ball on the run, turned swiftly, and threw
to the plate. And Jimmy Benson, astride the platter, caught it waist-
high, and everything should have been lovely for the Indians. But
Terry Fairchild, sprawling on his back, with both legs kicking in the
air, arrived a fraction of a second after the ball and, since Benson
was in the way, Terry just naturally collided with him, knocked his
feet from under him, and went by. Unfortunately, the shock was so
disturbing to the catcher that he inadvertently loosed his hold on the
ball and the ball followed Terry into the dust. And Steve Brown, who
had already motioned the runner out, reversed his decision, and
Peter Simpson slid to second.
Jimmy Benson was disgruntled, even angry, and said unkind
things to Terry. But Terry, picking himself up with a swagger and
patting the dust from his scant costume, only grinned exasperatingly
and walked to the bench, there to be hilariously patted and hugged
by his team-mates. When, however, he glanced toward Sam,
expecting praise, he got a surprise.
“Don’t do that again, Fairchild,” said the junior councillor severely.
“Mind what the coach tells you. You made it, but you had no
business making it, and if Benson hadn’t dropped the ball you’d have
looked pretty cheap. You take your orders from the coach, Fairchild,
after this.”
Terry, chastened in spirit, subsided amidst the smiles of the others
as Jones faced the Indian pitcher. Porter was in the air now, and,
although Mr. Gifford called encouragement and Benson counselled
him to take his time and “put them over,” he slammed the ball in
vindictively and Jones drew a pass. Porter steadied down then, but
the team, especially the infield, was unsettled, and, after Welch, with
two strikes against him, hit squarely to first baseman and made the
first out, Simpson and Jones tried a double steal and got away with
it, the Indian shortstop dropping the throw from the plate. Cheers
and jeers rewarded this event. Benson tried to steady the team as
Dick Barry went to bat.
“Never mind that, fellows!” called Jimmy. “Here’s an easy one!
Strike him out, George! Three will do it! Put ’em right over the
middle, he couldn’t hit a basket-ball!”
Possibly Dick couldn’t have hit a basket-ball, but he did manage to
connect with one of Porter’s curves and send it just over second
baseman’s head. When the ball was back in the pitcher’s hands two
more runs had crossed the plate, Dick was safe at first, and the
score was a tie at four runs each. But the Mascots were not through
even then. Sam, realising that now was the time to win, if ever,
urged his fellows to their best endeavours. Tom Crossbush, however,
over-anxious for a hit, struck at everything and, after fouling off two
good ones, bit at a wide curve, and retired morosely to the bench.
“Two gone!” announced the coaches. “Run on anything, Dick!”
So Dick took a chance and scuttled for second and beat the ball by
several feet. Peterson waited while Porter worked a strike and two
balls on him. Then he met the next offering fairly and squarely for
the longest hit of the game, and sent it far into centre field, at least
a yard over Meldrum’s head, and while that youth scampered back
for it, raced desperately around the bases in an attempt to stretch a
three-bagger into a home run. Fortunately, though, he was held up
at third, to score the sixth tally a minute later when Groom’s easy
infield hit got by Thursby at second. Peterson reached the plate on
his stomach, the merest fraction of an instant ahead of the ball.
Then White hit a swift one to Thursby, and that youth, retrieving his
previous error, made a flying one-hand catch for the third out.
But six to four looked good to the Mascots and they trotted into
the field with the determination to hold their advantage. And they
did, for the rest of the sixth at least. For Dick Barry, summoning all
the craft he knew, and ably seconded by Ned Welch, disposed of the
next two Indians without trouble. The third banged out a two-
bagger into right, and subsequently stole third when Welch let a
delivery get past him, but he got no further that inning, for the next
batsman was an easy out, second baseman to first.
There was no scoring in either half of the seventh, although the
Indians had two men on bases at one time, with only one out. What
luck there was broke for the Mascots; and the first double-play of
the game, participated in by Groom and Crossbush, put an end to
the inning. In the eighth the Mascots came near to scoring when
Peterson reached third on a base hit and a wild throw to second and
tried to score on White’s grounder to shortstop. At that the decision
at the plate was close and might have gone either way.
In their half the Indians set to work with vim and lighted on Dick
Barry hard. Codman hit safely, Benson got his base on balls, Porter
struck out, Thursby sacrificed, and Nettleton, with only one gone,
filled the bases by a pop fly to Dick, which that overeager youth
dropped. Things looked desperate then for Sam’s charges, but a
minute later Sawyer had fouled out to third baseman and the
Mascots and their allies breathed freer. They were not to emerge
unscathed, however, for Meldrum hit a bounder that just tipped
Dick’s upstretched fingers and was finally fielded by Groom too late
to throw to the plate or to first, and the Indians scored their fifth
run. Then, after missing the plate three times out of four, and
putting himself in a hole, Dick made a sudden throw to second and,
after a wildly exciting moment, the runner was caught between
bases.
Simpson opened the ninth for the Mascots with a bunt that
trickled down the first-base line and threatened every instant to roll
out, but never did, much to the disgust of Porter and Benson, who
hovered anxiously over it. Had Porter fielded it at once he could have
made the assist, but he left the decision with the ball and the ball
fooled him. Then Jones sacrificed Peterson to second, Welch struck
out, Barry lifted a fly to left field that was an easy catch and, with
two down and a runner on second, the inning looked about over. But
Tom Crossbush drew a pass and stole second on the first pitch, while
Simpson went to third, and then Dan Peterson scored Simpson, with
a hit over second base.
The Mascots leaped and shrieked with delight, and while the
Indians were still wondering what had happened, and while George
Porter was winding up to send his first offering to Billy White,
Crossbush, who was dancing back and forth a dozen feet from third,
suddenly broke for the plate. Shouts of warning, shrieks of
excitement! Porter momentarily faltering as he pitched! Crossbush
sliding feet foremost for the platter! Benson leaping far to the right
in a despairing effort to get the ball! Peterson rounding second like a
runaway colt! And then, while the brown dust billowed, Steve Brown
announcing, “Safe!”
Eight to five then, and nothing to it but the Mascots! Shouting and
dancing and pandemonium along the lines! And, finally, White
striking out and a deep breath of relief from the Indians and their
supporters.
And there practically ended the game, for the Indians failed to put
over a single tally in their half of the final inning, and ten minutes
later the camp was thronging homeward, the Mascots very cocky
and talkative, and the Indians confiding to their friends what they
would do the next time!
 CHAPTER VI
THE TILTING MATCH

The afternoon’s game was talked over by all hands that evening at
camp-fire. Once or twice the argument grew warm, but it never
passed the bounds of good-nature. Mr. Gifford criticised the playing,
as did Sam and Steve Brown, pointing out mistakes and making
helpful suggestions. Mr. Gifford had played baseball all during his
college course and knew the game well. Sam, with less experience,
was chary of criticism until urged to it by the others. When he did
give his opinion, however, it was worth hearing, for he spoke of
several things which had seemingly evaded Mr. Gifford’s eyes.
“I noticed,” said Sam, “that neither of the outfields to-day studied
the batsman as they should. They played in the same positions for a
right-handed batter as for a left. Of course, it’s up to the captain or
the pitcher to see the outfield as well as the infield is where it should
be, but every outfielder ought to realise that a right-handed batter is
going to hit more to the left than a left-handed batter, and he ought
to move over accordingly. The infield the same way, only, of course,
the infield needn’t change position so much. On the Mascots, White
stood too far back for most batsmen. He was all right for a long hit
to centre, but he would have lost two out of three hits into short
centre. The—the ideal position for any fielder is where he can run in
quickly for short flies and grounders and run out easily for long ones.
Of course no outfielder can station himself where he is going to be
able to reach every ball. If he gets so far back that he can handle
three-baggers and homers he is going to miss short hits. But you
want to remember that it is a heap easier to run in for a ball than it
is to run out, because when you’re running in you can judge the ball
as you go, and when you’re running out you have got to make up
your mind about where the ball is coming down and then turn your
back and scoot. The only way to judge the ball is to look over your
shoulder, and that isn’t easy. So the best thing for an outfielder to do
is to play his position about two-thirds back. That is, leave two-thirds
of his territory in front of him and one-third behind him. And an
outfielder’s territory begins at a point where it’s impossible for an
infielder to reach a fly and extends to the farthest limits of a home
run. If your infielders are smart at running back and getting flies,
your territory is—is shortened just so much, and you can play further
out than you can if your basemen and shortstop are weak on hits
outside the diamond. I don’t know that I’ve explained this very
clearly.”
“I think you have,” said Mr. Langham. “Don’t you, fellows?”
There was a chorus of assent, and Sam continued.
“Another thing was that Peterson played too far to the right in left
field. That fly of Thursby’s would have been an out if Peterson had
been in position for it. Thursby bats right-handed and Peterson was
playing as though for a left-hander. Peterson made a fine try for it,
but he had to cover too much ground. So, you see, an outfielder has
got to divide his territory in two ways, lengthwise and crosswise. Of
course, on the big teams it’s customary for the catcher, or
sometimes the pitcher, to signal to the infield what the delivery is to
be and the infielders, usually second baseman or shortstop, let the
outfielders know. Because a certain kind of a ball, if it is hit, is pretty
sure to go to a certain part of the field, as you all know.”
“That’s something I didn’t know,” laughed the Chief. “Suppose you
explain for my benefit, Craig.”
“Well, sir, of course I don’t mean that a certain ball always goes to
a certain place when hit, but it generally does. For instance, if
there’s a right-handed batter up and the pitcher sends him a slow
ball, either in the groove or with an out-curve, that ball is usually hit
before it quite reaches the plate, because the batter doesn’t judge
the speed of it in time to wait for it, and that hit goes into third-base
territory or beyond. The same way, if the pitcher sends in a fast ball,
straight or with an out-curve, the batter will hit late or after the ball
has passed the centre of the plate and it will go toward first base or
right field. A ball of ordinary speed, like a straight drop, usually goes
toward second base. Of course, some batters can meet a slow ball
just right and then these—these probabilities are upset. But by the—
the law of averages, a slow ball to a right-hander goes to left field
and a fast ball to right. And so, if the fielders know what the pitcher
is going to pitch they can either shift their positions or, anyhow, be
prepared.”
“Doesn’t shifting position give the thing away?” asked Steve
Brown.
“I think it does,” Sam agreed. “But for all that some of the big
teams do it. I don’t think, though, that it’s necessary. If you’re
playing in the outfield, say, and you get the signal that the hit is
coming to your right, that’s enough. You’re ready to move that way
the instant the ball goes to the batter.”
“That’s what I suppose you call inside baseball,” commented Mr.
Langham. “It is very interesting. You must have played a good deal
of baseball, Craig, to know so much about it.”
“I’ve played several years, sir,” replied Sam, a bit embarrassed.
“I’ve always caught, though, and you have a better chance to study
the game from behind the bat than from anywhere else on the field,
I guess. I—I didn’t mean to talk so much, though, when I started
out.”
“I don’t think you need apologise. I think we’ve all been very
much interested. And I dare say I’m not the only one who has
learned something. How about it, fellows!”
Hearty agreement greeted this, and George Meldrum said: “I think
it would be fine if Mr. Craig would tell us something like that every
evening. I guess all us fellows want to know about baseball; I mean
stuff like he’s told us to-night. I know I do.”
 “That’s so,” agreed Ned Welch. “How about another lecture to-
morrow, Mr. Craig!”
“I’m afraid that’s what it sounded like, a lecture,” said Sam
ruefully.
“No, I didn’t mean it that way,” replied Ned earnestly. “We liked it.
I always thought that stuff about a certain kind of a ball going to a
certain part of the field was just—just made up by men who write
about baseball. I didn’t think anyone could really know beforehand,
sir.”
“Let’s try it the next time we play,” said Mr. Gifford, “and see how
it works out. Anyway, what Mr. Craig has said about shifting
positions according to the batter is excellent advice. And we’ll see if
we can’t persuade him to tell us some more to-morrow night,
fellows. Who plays next Wednesday, by the way?”
“Your team and the Brownies,” answered someone. And a
discussion of the probable outcome of that contest followed and
almost before anyone knew it nine o’clock had arrived.
Camp-fire was always a pleasant hour. The fire was built each
morning on a circular floor of stones some eighty feet up the hill
from The Tepee and just at the edge of the forest. About it each
night the councillors and boys gathered. At eight the fire was lighted
and in its cheery glare the day’s events were discussed, stories were
told, songs were sung, and plans for the morrow laid. Several of the
boys played instruments. When the entire orchestra was assembled
there were three mandolins, two banjos, and a violin to make music.
None of the performers save perhaps Horace Chase was very
talented, but all made up for lack of skill by their willingness to
entertain. Young Chase, who played the violin, was of different
calibre, and when he took his instrument out of its case the
audience was sure of a real treat.
Sam never forgot those nights when, stretched out on the pine-
needles, or, if the evening was damp, on a blanket from his cot, he
lay in the mellow firelight and listened to Horace Chase play “Annie
Laurie” or “Home, Sweet Home.” He had merrier tunes, but those
two seemed to be the choice of the boys. Or perhaps the mandolins
and banjos would be strumming together, or fairly near together,
some rag-time tune. Or perhaps the fellows would be singing such
songs as “Solomon Levi” or “Boola” or some more recent favourite.
Often a big white moon swam overhead or played hide-and-seek
amongst the branches of the dark trees, and the lake, below them,
showed a wonderful silvery path to the farthest shore. They were
very pleasant, those camp-fire hours; fragrant with the night odours
of trees and grass and pungent pine-needles, musical with the lap of
the water against the shore and the whisper of the breeze amidst
the trees and the sleepy chirp of unseen birds; blessed, too, with a
fine atmosphere of good-comradeship; nights to be long
remembered.
Sam did continue his baseball talks, although he didn’t give one
every evening, and the boys liked them and always demanded more.
Not all of Sam’s knowledge had been gained at first-hand, you may
be sure. Much of it he had read or been told, but all of it he had
seen put to the test. And, before the summer was over, much of it
was put to the test again, for the fellows profited by what they
heard and, as far as it was possible in the circumstances, followed
Sam’s advice.
Some amusing incidents developed. As, on the Wednesday
following Sam’s first talk, when, in the game between the Indians
and Brownies, Jimmy Benson signalled for a fast ball and the
fielders, getting the signal from Jimmy, moved to the left, and the
batter lined a hot one six feet inside of third base, and there was no
one there to even knock it down! But the incident didn’t prove Sam’s
theory at fault, since Jimmy and Porter both acknowledged
afterwards that the ball had not been what the signal called for, but
a slow out-shoot. It had been a case of mixed signals between
catcher and pitcher. Again, in a later contest between the same
teams, the Brownies, who had fixed up a most elaborate system of
signals, had a runner on third and one on second. With two gone, a
double steal was called for. The boy on second got the signal, but
the runner on third was evidently day-dreaming, and a moment later
the surprising sight of two runners each claiming third base was in
evidence! That bungle probably cost the Brownies the game and for
some time a signal code was viewed by them with disfavour.
But baseball was not the only interest at The Wigwam. The first
week in August there was an afternoon of water sports that provided
lots of fun and not a little excitement. By that time many of the
beginners had attained to quite a degree of proficiency, and in the
forty-yard swimming race more than twenty younger boys lined up
and struggled gallantly for the honours. What a splashing and
gurgling and general rumpus there was! Mr. Langham laughingly
said that it reminded him of a swarm of minnows trying to get away
from a pickerel!
Harry Codman, a sturdy thirteen-year-old youth, won by a scant
yard over Billy White, and after that most of the others floundered
across the finish in a bunch and none of the judges could have told
who was entitled to third place. A twelve-year-old chap named
Walters very nearly made a tragedy of the event. Walters tired
himself so in the first dash that when, halfway through the race, one
of the other swimmers accidentally kicked him in the stomach,
Walters lost all interest in the race and tried hard to drown in three
feet of water. It was Sam who saw what had happened and dropped
from the landing and pulled a much-exhausted and water-logged
youth to dry land. The programme was halted while young Walters
restored some of the water he had swallowed.
There were many entries for the tilting tournament. The
contestants occupied canoes and were armed with ten-foot poles.
The poles held a pad at one end and the bows of the canoes were
likewise protected. The boys “had at” each other most briskly until
some fortunate thrust deposited one or other of the tilters either in
the bottom of his canoe or in the water. Joe Groom emerged
triumphant from three encounters and finally met George Porter in
the final bout. Cheered by the onlookers, the boys approached each
other warily. Each canoe was paddled by a partner in the stern, Ned
Welch for Joe and Ralph Murdock for George. Naturally, a good deal
depended on the cleverness of the paddler in manœuvring the
canoe and each of the operators was well skilled. Joe and George,
poles ready, stood in the bows while the craft neared each other
cautiously and the audience laughed and jeered. Then Ned Welch
dug his paddle and his canoe shot forward.
But George and his mate were ready. Their craft sheered aside,
avoiding the bow of the other, and George, thrusting low, almost
won the event there and then. Fortunately for Joe, however, the
padded pole glanced off his leg and he recovered his balance but not
in time to retaliate. The canoes swept past each other, turned and
again drew together. This time they met bows on and a fast and
furious battle ensued. Once George went reeling backward and his
canoe rocked dangerously, but steady work by Murdock avoided an
upset. Ned Welch, pressing the advantage, pushed after the
retreating craft, and Joe sought to get under the guard of his
opponent. George, though, recovered finely and defended himself so
well that in a moment he was again forcing the fighting and only a
well-executed retreat by Ned saved Joe from defeat. Ned backed
away quickly, turning almost in the length of the canoe, and before
Murdock could solve his intention, had drawn parallel and slightly to
the rear. Murdock paddled furiously and shot his craft ahead, but
Ned was on his heels and the spectacle of the two warriors, each
maintaining his equilibrium with difficulty, proceeding frantically out
into the lake almost side by side brought bursts of laughter from the
onlookers.
It was a stern chase for a minute and then Ned’s muscles
prevailed and Joe drew up within pole’s length of his enemy. George,
facing toward the stern of his rocking canoe, strove to beat down
the thrust that Joe made. But Joe’s aim was good and he put all his
force into the delivery and the padded end of his pole caught George
under one shoulder and fairly lifted him off his feet. Over he went,
backward, still grasping his pole, and disappeared from sight, while a
shout of applause and laughter arose from the landing and boats, a
shout which redoubled an instant later when Joe, having lost his
balance in the desperate thrust, staggered, tried to save himself,
failed finally, and, dropping his weapon, plunged heels over head in
the lake!
 CHAPTER VII
SAM OFFERS A SUGGESTION

Dripping and grinning the two warriors were pulled into row-boats
and taken ashore, where Mr. Gifford, referee of the tournament,
announced the match a draw.
There was a senior diving contest, won by Tom Crossbush, and a
junior contest for the younger youths. And there were several other
swimming races of varying distances. And, finally, a special race of
an eighth of a mile, more or less, between Sam and Steve Brown, in
which Sam allowed his competitor something like fifty yards and
beat him out handily.
There were no prizes given, but Steve Brown recorded the events
and the names of the winners with a hot poker on a wooden panel
and the panel was hung in The Wigwam.
The ball games went on twice each week and the Indians, thanks
to George Porter’s pitching, distanced their rivals without much
trouble. It was well into August before the Mascots again won a
victory from Mr. Gifford’s team, having meanwhile lost four more
games to it. The Brownies were easy picking for both the other
nines, and, in fact, won but two games all the season, defeating the
Mascots once, 12 to 10, and the Indians, 7 to 4. In the latter game
Porter was suffering, as he later acknowledged, from too many
unripe apples, and his pitching was far from being up to his
standard. Toward the middle of August there was a noticeable
improvement in the work of all the teams. The fellows batted better,
fielded better, and ran bases better, and, too, developed not a little
team-play. Even the Brownies had their star performer, that same
Ralph Murdock who had piloted George Porter through the tilting
bouts. Murdock was a born first baseman and a fine batsman as
well, and had his team-mates possessed half his ability the Brownies
would have been a nine to fear.
The councillors usually played only in practice, but once or twice,
by common agreement, they took part in a game. When they did the
fielders were busy. Mr. Gifford was the slugging kind of a batter and
in one game drove out three home runs, a double, and a single in
five times at bat. The Indians were playing the Brownies that day,
and Steve Brown, while he did not succeed in rivalling Mr. Gifford’s
batting record, always managed to reach first and then showed what
could be done by a smart base-runner. He stole second brazenly,
using the fallaway slide to such purpose that it was a hopeless
matter to try and stop him. Once on second, he had scarcely more
difficulty reaching third and on two occasions he made barefaced
steals to the plate. In one inning he reached first on a scratch hit
and then stole home before the following batsman had been retired!
The Indians soon got so that they only half-heartedly attempted to
stay him in his delirious romps around the bases, only Mr. Gifford
daring to dispute his progress. Mr. Gifford played in centre field and
once, having come in almost to the base-line to field a short fly, he
conceived the idea of catching Steve off third. Steve was enjoying a
twelve-foot lead at the moment, doubtless considering his chance of
getting home ahead of the ball. Mr. Gifford pegged suddenly to third
baseman and that youth made a perfect catch. But, contrary to
expectation, Steve didn’t scuttle back to safety at third. Instead, he
dashed for the plate at top speed. Third baseman heaved the ball to
catcher. Steve turned and doubled back. Catcher went after him
along the base-line. By that time most of the infield had gathered
about to help retire the annoying Mr. Brown and there was much
shouting and confusion. But it was evidently not the first time that
Steve had been caught between bases. He ran and ducked and
doubled as coolly and craftily as if he quite enjoyed it, which he
doubtless did. And at last, just when the shortstop, who had joined
the fray, was on the point of tagging him, Steve spurted back to
third, upsetting two players on the way and slid into the bag in
safety.
Much applause then from the audience of non-combatants and
from the bench where the Brownies were congregated. Much
laughter, too, and not a little “ragging” of the Indians. Out near
second Mr. Gifford shook a threatening fist at Steve as the latter
arose and patted the dust from his flannel trousers. Disconsolately
and a bit sheepishly, the Indians returned to their places. At the
plate, Jimmy Benson stooped to pick up his mask. In the pitcher’s
box George Porter, ball in hand, back to the plate, waited for the
fielders to get in position. And at that psychological instant Steve
Brown trotted home!
He didn’t even hurry. There was a shout of alarm from the third
baseman and Porter turned to see the councillor halfway to the
plate. Porter raised his arm to throw, but there was Benson,
intensely agitated but helpless, struggling with his mask. And so
Steve crossed the home-plate at a slow lope and turned smilingly
toward the bench. The ball reached the plate a moment later and
rolled against the backstop. The Indians were not allowed to forget
that incident for many days.
In another contest, when Sam was playing left field for his team
and Mr. Gifford was with the Indians, there was a batting contest
that was worth seeing. Sam was something of a heavy hitter himself,
and he didn’t find George Porter very difficult. Sam and Mr. Gifford,
then, vied with each other and kept the opposing outfields very busy
indeed. Mr. Gifford got no home runs that time, but he made a
record of two doubles and three singles, and his doubles might have
gone for triples if the Mascots’ outfielders hadn’t been playing well
back. Sam got one three-bagger, a double, and two singles, on the
other occasion popping a foul to first baseman. In the matter of total
bases the two councillors came off even, but it was claimed by the
Mascots that Sam’s triple had gained him the palm. As far as the
game itself went, the Indians won it easily.
 There came a rainy spell in the middle of the month, that made
baseball out of the question for several days and the boys began to
show signs of fidgeting. There wasn’t much they could do to work
off their surplus animation when it rained. Not that the rain kept
many of them indoors, for it didn’t; but knocking about in wet boats
and canoes soon palled, tennis was impracticable, and there seemed
to remain no outdoor amusement. By the fourth day the fellows had
begun to get into mischief in sheer boredom and Mr. Langham
realised that something must be done; that some outlet must be
provided for the stored-up energy. The councillors talked it over in
the office that morning. The rain still pelted down and the buildings
were damp and cheerless in spite of the fires that flared all day in
the big chimney-places. Sam, who had put on his raincoat and had
his pockets bulging with bait-box and fishing tackle, hoped the
conference would soon be over, for he and Tom Crossbush were
going down the lake after bass. As it turned out, however, there was
to be no fishing for them to-day.
“I suppose,” said Mr. Langham, “we couldn’t get up any sort of an
athletic meet, Brown?”
“No, sir; everything’s flooded at the field. The pits are mud-holes.”
“Well, we ought to get them busy at something, fellows. They’ll be
getting into trouble if we don’t. I thought I detected a strong odour
of cigarettes under the window yesterday.”
Mr. Haskins nodded. “Three or four of the older boys were in the
trunk cellar. I—er—I went down there, but failed to apprehend
them.”
The Chief tried not to smile. They all knew that Mr. Haskins had
undoubtedly warned the boys of his approach and carefully waited
until they had hidden all incriminating evidence before he had
confronted them. Mr. Langham coughed and looked out the dripping
window.
“We mustn’t have smoking, Haskins,” he said gravely.
“No, sir. If you’d like the names——”
 “No, no,” responded the Chief hurriedly. “If there’s no evidence
—— What we’ve got to do is to get them busy so they won’t get into
any deviltry. Anyone got a suggestion?”
Apparently no one had. At least none spoke for a moment. Then
Mr. Gifford said doubtfully: “We might let them go over to the village
for the afternoon, sir.”
The village lay across and down the lake some two miles, a tiny
hamlet boasting of three or four stores, a blacksmith shop, and a
station, from which an occasional train rambled away to the north on
an unimportant branch line. Mr. Haskins smiled.
“There isn’t much for them to do over there,” he said. “They might
buy root-beer and candy and make themselves sick, but that’s about
all.”
“What we want is something they can go at hard,” said Mr.
Langham, frowning over the problem. “Something that’ll leave them
healthily tired out.” Another silence followed and then Sam asked:
“Would it do them any harm to sleep out of doors, sir?”
“Sleep out of doors? Why, on wet ground, yes, I presume it
would.” He looked questioningly at Sam.
“I was thinking that we might have a hike, sir.”
“A hike,” repeated the Chief thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Craig. You
see——”
“That’s what they need, Chief,” said Mr. Gifford. “What’s your idea,
Sam?”
“Well, I thought we might select a place say five or six miles away,
divide the fellows into two parties and set out with blankets and
grub and see which party could get there first. There might be some
sort of prize or reward. Of course, it would mean sleeping outdoors
——”
“But if the parties started out together it would just be a race,
wouldn’t it?” objected Mr. Gifford. “Pretty strenuous, I’m afraid,
Sam.”
“I thought we could set out different ways, perhaps. We could see
that the fellows didn’t overdo it. The idea would be to get there first,
but in good condition. That would mean resting along the way,
taking the easiest routes, and so on. It’s just a suggestion. And I
don’t know anything about the country around here. Maybe it
wouldn’t do.”
“I say,” exclaimed Steve Brown, “isn’t there a picnic-ground or
something of that sort over at Miles, Chief? Seems to me I
remember a big open building near the railway.”
“Yes, a park they used to hold Chautauquas in. You mean we
could sleep there, eh? Not a bad idea. In fact, the scheme sounds
good. What do you think?”
“Excellent,” voted Mr. Haskins. “And I’d like it myself first-rate. My
legs certainly need stretching.”
“We’d have to take blankets and eats, wouldn’t we?” asked Steve.
“And some cooking things, too, I suppose. Or we might find some
place to feed over there.”
“It would be more fun for the boys if we cooked our own grub,”
said Mr. Gifford. “Let’s do it, Chief!”
“Well, by Jove, we will! And I’ll go along. Now let’s figure on
rations and luggage.”
And that is how the Marathon Picnic, as the boys called it, came
about. Shortly after dinner—siesta being disregarded that day—the
boys congregated in The Wigwam and the plan, of which they had
already caught an inkling, was explained to them. It met with instant
acclaim. Had the Chief suggested a trip to the North Pole they would
have welcomed it. Mr. Gifford and Sam alternately selected members
for the rival parties until every boy had a place on the “Reds” or the
“Blues,” as they chose to call them. Mr. Haskins was finally drawn by
Mr. Gifford and Steve Brown by Sam. Mr. Langham, when they set
out, elected to throw in his lot with the “Reds,” Mr. Gifford’s party.
Every fellow rolled up his blanket, tied the ends together and slipped
it over a shoulder. Then he donned his raincoat. Food and a few
cooking utensils were apportioned out and went into pockets or
were slung over shoulders, and a tin cup graced every belt. At half-
past two all was ready for the start.
 CHAPTER VIII
THE “BLUES” WIN!

Miles, a small village about four miles distant from camp in a

straight line, was on the opposite side of Indian Lake. A study of the
map had shown that if the trip was made entirely afoot the distance
was nearly seven miles, whether one passed around the southern
end of the lake or the northern. Some light advantage appeared to
lie with the northern route, since one could finish the journey over
the railroad track and so save a possible half-mile. Mr. Gifford and
Sam had tossed a coin for choice of routes and the former had won
and selected the northern way. Almost on the minute of the half-
hour the two parties, shouting good-bye, set off from in front of The
Wigwam, the “Reds” hiking briskly away toward the road that led to
the Indian Lake station and the “Blues” skirting the lake to cross the
playing-field and ultimately reach the road which led by many turns
and angles about the southern or lower end of the lake.
It had been agreed that after half of the distance had been
covered each party should be divided into a first and second group,
the slower walkers in the latter, each group in charge of one of the
councillors. This was to keep the weaker boys from straggling and,
possibly, getting lost. Filled with enthusiasm and a physical energy
generated by three days of inactivity, the “Blues” set off at a pace
which would have left them tired out before half the distance had
been traversed had Sam allowed them to continue. But once away
from camp he took the lead and made the fellows suit their pace to
his.
“We’ve got seven miles to do, fellows,” he said, “and maybe more,
and the idea is not only to get there first, but to get there in good
condition. If we overdo it now we’ll suffer later. Three miles an hour
over the roads we’ll have is plenty fast enough. Some of you could
do better than that and some of you will find it a little too fast. After
a while we’ll divide into two squads and Mr. Brown will take one and
I’ll take the other. Those of you who feel the pace can take it more
slowly with the second crowd. If any of you have to stop you must
tell Mr. Brown or me, so you won’t get left behind. There isn’t any
reason why you should, though, because there’ll be a rest of a few
minutes every half-hour.”
Steve Brown joined Sam, and, turning occasionally to make sure
that none of the nineteen youths who comprised the squad was
straggling, the two councillors and the boys about them chatted and
laughed and had a very merry time of it in spite of the steady
downpour of rain. The first half-mile was across country and, toward
the end of it, the going was mostly up-hill. At last, though, they
came suddenly on the road, a narrow and ever-winding country lane
just wide enough for one vehicle. Fortunately, the soil was mostly
sand and the roadway was consequently fairly dry. At least, there
were few of the puddles and muddy stretches which they were to
encounter later on. The woods closed in on each side of them,
although occasionally they had a brief view of the lake, grey and
sullen, a half-mile or so below. It was shortly after reaching the road
that Sam called the first halt after consulting what he called his
“one-jewelled watch.”
Some of the boys had not yet found their second wind and were
glad to perch themselves for a few minutes along the side of the
road. The weather was by no means chilly and those whose
raincoats were of rubber found them much too warm, especially as
they also had their blanket-rolls across back and chest. Several
begged to be allowed to remove their coats, but this neither Sam
nor Steve thought it wise to consent to. A few minutes past three
they went on, some of the older and stronger fellows inclined to
grumble over the slowness of the pace. The road presently turned
abruptly toward the east and led them out on the summit of a
sparsely-wooded ridge from which they had a view of the lower end
of the lake and of the country on the other side. On a fair day, as
Steve said, they might have seen the camp very easily, for they had
reached a point nearly halfway around the end of the lake and much
of the eastern shore was visible. The councillors discussed the
advisability of cutting across near the lake and trusting to pick up
the road again later, and the boys were much in favour of the plan,
but it was finally decided that, although they might gain in distance,
the more difficult travelling would equalise matters and that it would
be best to keep to the highway even though it insisted on fairly
turning its back on their destination.
By the time the next rest was taken some straggling was already
in evidence. Several of the younger fellows showed a disposition to
slow down, and Sam and Steve decided that at the next stop the
party should be divided into the two squads as planned. It was then
nearly twenty minutes to four and they judged that they had
covered about three miles and a half, although as no one had a
pedometer save young Chase, and his was, as he explained,
absolutely unreliable, this estimate was mostly guesswork and, as
indicated later, probably too great by the better part of a mile. At
five minutes past four, they having then struck fairly westward once
more, with, as they believed, the lower end of the lake well behind
them, another halt was called and Steve recruited for his rear-guard.
Strangely, however, few of the nineteen would allow that they
were at all tuckered. Horace Chase and Billy White confessed to
blistered heels, but were all for keeping up with the first group. The
councillors had to take matters into their own hands and, using their
best judgment, relegate eight of the nineteen to the rear squad.
Most of the eight objected strenuously. They felt themselves utterly
disgraced. Mutiny was in the air and the two councillors had to be
very stern and short-spoken before affairs were finally settled. Then
Sam with his eleven started off a bit more briskly and Steve, waving
a laughing good-bye and threatening to get there first, after all, held
his overeager and disgruntled squad to what they grumblingly
assured him was a snail’s-pace.
 There was less talking now in the ranks. Fellows had found it wise
to husband their breath, for the road had grown muddy and wet and
the walking was harder. The rear squad soon dropped from sight
around a turn and Sam’s party, pushing forward at a good rate of
speed, began to look for signs of civilisation. But another half-hour
passed, with its accompanying rest—only two or three minutes this
time—before they caught sight of their first house. It was a deserted
cabin perched on a gravelly hill just off the road. But even the sight
of an empty house was welcome, since it seemed to promise a
settlement, near at hand. And, a quarter of an hour later, the
settlement, such as it was, appeared. There was a country store and
half a dozen houses in it, and Sam called a halt while he entered the
store to make inquiries. Several of the boys went inside with him,
while the others seated themselves on the edge of the rickety
platform outside to rest.
The only occupant of the store was an elderly man who hobbled
forward with the aid of a hickory stick. He was very deaf and Sam
was forced to twice repeat his question before the store-keeper
sensed it. Then he grinned a toothless grin and asked: “On foot, be
ye?”
Sam assured him that they were and the old man shook his head.
“It’s a goodish way to Miles,” he said. “Most four miles, I guess, by
the road.”
“Four miles!” ejaculated Sam. “But, man alive, we’ve walked at
least six and it was supposed to be only seven when we started.”
“Where’d ye come from?”
“The Wigwam, a boys’ camp on Indian Lake. It’s about three miles
this side of Indian Lake village.”
“Well, if ye was goin’ to Miles why didn’t ye cross the lake?”
inquired the man contemptuously.
“We wanted to walk. Does this road we’re on now go to Miles?”
 “Uh-huh, mostly. It goes to Tappenville, too, and Lower Millis. If
you keep to the right turn about a mile an’ a half beyond here and
then take the middle branch a ways beyond that ag’in you’ll likely
get to Miles.”
“Is there any shorter way?”
“Well, there is an’ there ain’t. If you go across that field yonder an’
find Benny James’s place likely he’ll row ye across to t’other side, an’
then——”
“But we want to walk,” said Sam impatiently.
“Uh-huh; all right. Keep the road then, son.”
“And there’s no short cut?”
“I don’t know as there be. Still, ye might strike off across the hill
when ye reach the first fork. Likely you’d pick up the road ag’in
beyond Lower Millis.”
“I see.” Sam frowned thoughtfully. Finally, “I guess we’d better
stick to the road,” he said.
“Uh-huh; I would if I was you, son.”
Rather dejectedly then they took up the journey once more. “I
don’t believe the old codger knows what he’s talking about,”
grumbled Tom Crossbush. “How can it be four miles further when
we’ve walked five or six?”
“Five or six!” said another of the party. “I’ll bet we’ve walked ten!”
A little further on, the rain, which for the past hour had been
hardly more than a drizzle, stopped entirely, and off came raincoats.
Walking was a bit easier then. The road went up hill and down and
turned and twisted crazily. At the first fork a sign-post pointed one
way to Tappenville and another to Lower Millis, but said nothing of
Miles. But they took the right-hand road, after Sam had pinned a
note of direction to Steve on the post, and went doggedly on,
resisting the temptation to leave the highway and try the short-cut
across country. The road seemed bent on travelling in every
direction save that in which they wanted to go. There never was
such a stupid, stubborn old road as that! Murmurs of discontent
began to be heard. The fellows were thoroughly disappointed, too,
because all hope of winning the hike was now idle. It was already
after five o’clock and doubtless by this time the “Reds” were
comfortably encamped and waiting for supper. The thought of that
supper encouraged them to renewed exertions.
It’s a long lane that has no turning, and at last Sam, who had
been watching anxiously for a good half-hour for their destination,
gave an exclamation of relief. The winding road turned a sudden
corner, and there, straight ahead, loomed a white triangle on which
was lettered: “Railroad Crossing—Look Out for the Engine.” With
whoops of joy the boys gained the track and set off northward,
fatigue and disappointment forgotten in the prospect of reaching the
end of the journey. Only a hundred yards or so further on a wider
road than the one they had abandoned crossed the railway. On one
side, perhaps a half-mile away, lay Indian Lake, glimpsed through a
fringe of trees that bordered a meadow. In that direction stood a
red-brown farm-house, and the sun, slipping for an instant from the
wrack of clouds above the western horizon, flashed ruddily against
the distant windows. Turning their backs on the lake, they followed
the new road. A house came into sight, a dog barked at them,
somewhere a rooster crowed, civilisation drew near. And then,
without warning, the brief glimpse of sunlight faded and the rain
began once more. And at almost the same moment a lane branched
to the right ahead of them and a sign nailed to a tree directed them
to “Centennial Park.”
With raincoats thrown hastily over their heads to keep their
blankets dry the boys broke into a trot. The lane ascended a hill, a
gleam of white shone through the trees ahead, voices came to them,
and a moment later they were “out of the woods” in more ways than
one. The trees gave place to open turf and they were on a hill, the
lake stretching below in the rain-blurred twilight. In front was a
roofed building, open on all sides. To the left were some smaller
structures; sheds, booths, and so on, all tightly boarded up. Under
the big roof of the auditorium boys were lounging or moving about,
and as Sam’s squad crossed the park a shout of greeting met them.
With rather less enthusiasm the newcomers waved and answered.
Tom Crossbush turned to Sam. “They aren’t all there,” he said.
“Maybe, if Mr. Brown comes along soon, we’ll beat them after all!”
“Why, no, they’re not all there by any means,” answered Sam. “I
see only about a dozen. Perhaps the rest are around, though.”
“They’re all kids, too, sir!” said Joe Groom excitedly. “They must
be Mr. Gifford’s second squad, sir!”
By this time they were close to the building and some of the boys
came out to meet them and Mr. Haskins called from the shelter.
“That your first squad, Craig?” he asked.
“Yes. Is that yours?”
“No, second. Goodness knows where the rest are. We’ve been
here nearly an hour. Either they took the wrong road or we did. We
haven’t seen them since about four o’clock!”
Sam smiled. “How many of you are there?” he asked.
“Only eleven,” replied Mr. Haskins ruefully. “You’ve got us beaten, I
guess, unless the Chief and Gifford show up soon. I suppose your
second squad will be right along?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t believe so. As near as I can figure it,
we’ve done about nine miles, and I guess the younger chaps will be
pretty well fagged. Queer how you got by your first squad, though.”
“Mighty queer,” agreed the other. “There was only one place——”
He stopped and gazed toward the entrance. Sam’s eyes followed.
Out from the grove moved a group of boys. “There they are now,”
said Sam. “Only——”
But further speech was drowned by the shout that went up from
the assembled “Blues.” Over the rail or down the steps they fled to
meet the arrivals, a small band of eight youths led by a councillor