LOVE AT MILITARY CAMP

The Utway twins were at it again.

“You are, too!” said Jake.

“You’re another!” said Jerry.

“And you’re his brother!” said Jake.

It was “quiet hour” in Camp Lenape. The peace of Sunday afternoon hung above the rows of white tents on the hillside above the placid lake. In Tent Ten, however, the quiet was broken by a sudden uproar.

Six wide-awake lads perched on upper bunks, grinning and nudging each other. All eyes were turned on two bronze-haired, blue-eyed, sun-browned boys who faced each other in the center of the tent.

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As they stood thus, it seemed as if there was only one boy, looking at himself in a large mirror; for the Utway twins were so much alike that others often wondered how one of them knew whether he was himself, or his brother—whether Jerry did not sometimes wake in the morning and think for a moment that he might possibly be Jake. The resemblance was heightened by the fact that both wore identical outfits—the basketball shorts and green-and-white jersey that served as the camp uniform.

However, while Jerry wore a tennis sneaker on each foot, Jake wore only one. The other shoe he brandished in an upraised arm with a threatening air.

“That’s talking,” put in “wild Willie” Sanders, from his perch above the two brothers. “You tell him, Jake!”

Jake turned on the speaker. “No noise from the nickel seats!” he warned. “This is our business—no butting in. Now, Jerry, take back what you said.”

“Well, take back what you said!” responded Jerry with some spirit. “And quit aiming that shoe at me! Put it down!”

“Keep off!”

9

The band of onlookers, now reinforced by the grinning faces of many inmates of neighboring tents, chuckled with delight. It looked as if there was going to be a fight at last. And the watchers knew from past experience that if the Utway twins got to scrapping again, the resulting action would do much to brighten up a dull Sunday afternoon. Therefore they waited happily for the first gong of the coming battle.

It looked as though Jerry meant business. With a swift rush he attempted to snatch the menacing shoe from his brother’s hand. Jake neatly dodged, and swung the improvised weapon in a dangerous arc. His fingers slipped on the smooth rubber of the sole, and the shoe hurled itself with some force at Jerry’s chest.

Jerry grunted as the flying sneaker took him in the midriff. He was not hurt, but he was mad. He had forgotten completely what the original quarrel was about; he knew that the shoe had been flung by accident, but didn’t care; all he thought of was to “get even” with Jake. He snatched the nearest thing at hand, which happened to be a canteen belonging to little Pete Lister, and flung it wildly at his brother.

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Jake dodged again, and returned this fire with an unwieldy missile that proved to be Fat Crampton’s generously-built raincoat. This went wild of the mark, and he ducked a whizzing flashlight while at the same time reaching about for more ammunition. His hand touched “Sherlock” Jones’s camera-case, and he was about to aim this at Jerry’s head when he was taken full in the face with a canvas pillow, followed by a sweater and a Boy Scout Handbook.

“Hey!” cried Jones, jumping down from his bunk in alarm, now that his treasured possession was in danger, “that’s my camera-case you got!”

The contested object sailed past his ear and met its mark on Jerry’s leg. By this time Jerry was in no frame of mind to distinguish friend from enemy. He was seeing red, and the sight of young Jones dashing toward him to regain his property raised his temper to the boiling point. He reached out and greeted the oncoming boy with the contents of a handy water-bucket.

The bucket was half full, sufficient to make a drenching torrent which reduced the hapless Jones to a sopping state. His cry of rage filled the tent. Wild Willie Sanders came to his rescue, and together they advanced on Jerry, who was now armed with a loose tent-peg swinging on the end of its rope.

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Jake had taken advantage of his momentary freedom from attack to gather together a goodly pile of ammunition—shoes, tennis rackets, pinecones, pillows, and an empty wasp’s nest which Lefkowitz had collected as a specimen. Chink Towner had entrenched himself on the top of a bunk, from which fortified position he was able now and then to swipe the tumbling combatants over the head with a pillow. Little Peter Lister managed to give Fat Crampton a timely shove which sent him rolling between the legs of his battling tent-mates.

Objects of all sorts, from baseball bats to cakes of soap, flew through the air and landed in the low bushes outside the tent. Battle-cries and shouts of the wounded rent the calm Sunday afternoon air.

The fight was no longer a private contest. The action had become general. A whirling shoe had landed on “Kipper” Dabney, aide of Tent Nine next door, and he had immediately led his cohorts in a vengeful sally against their warlike neighbors. Somebody had refilled the empty water-pail and was methodically doing his bit to make sure that not one of the combatants was left undrenched. A scouting party from Tent Five had raced downhill and were swiftly pulling the blankets from every bunk and tossing them into the huckleberry bushes. Tent Ten was a battleground of whirling arms, tumbling bodies, and flying weapons, whereon no one knew his friend, and every boy fought for himself.

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“Stop!”

A shrill voice of command cut through the tumult. Unseen by the rioters, a short, erect man in scoutmaster’s uniform had appeared in their midst.

“Stop this at once! Put those things down! Attention!”