City Boy

  Uncle Sid was playing “Bulldog, Bulldog” on the old piano with spirit, as the lines of boys and girls marched through the door side by side. The first thing the children noticed, besides the familiar white sheet and bulky movie projector, was the impressive figure of Lennie, seated alone in the first row, his right arm in a fresh white sling. Around his neck hung a placard announcing his election to the Royal Order of Gooferdusters. The sight of the wounded hero, thus singled out for distinction, lifted their hearts yet more. They took their seats in a state approaching comfort.

  Uncle Nig, the movie operator, slipped the first reel into the projector. The usual hush was over the audience. He signaled for the turning out of the lights—and at that moment Mr. Gauss rose dramatically, exclaimed, “One moment, please,” and walked to the front of the hall. Here he stood, his back to the blank canvas sheet, and faced the puzzled children with a smile.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Victory Speech of Mr. Gauss

  “Boys and girls,” said the camp owner, “before we see this wonderful, exciting picture, The Black Pirate, I want to tell you just one thing about the events of this day.”

  He looked around at the silent faces. Herbie, buried in one of the rear rows, wondered what he could possibly have to say. Wasn't it best to forget the Penobscot horror as quickly as possible?

  “I want to tell you, boys and girls,” went on Mr. Gauss, “that today Camp Manitou was not defeated.”

  There was a stunned stillness for a moment, then a tumult of yells and clapping. Mr. Gauss permitted the noise for perhaps thirty seconds, then quieted it with a raised hand.

  “I saw those games,” he declaimed. “I know how the scores read. And still I say to you campers of Manitou we did not lose today. We won.”

  More cheers. Herbie, not quite knowing what Mr. Gauss meant, but sensing a vague, wonderful meaning in his words, cheered too.

  “Boys and girls, there are victories in the scoreboard sense, and there are victories in the moral sense. George Washington at Valley Forge won a victory in the moral sense. General Custer in his last stand won a victory in the moral sense. Moses, standing on the mountains of Moab, seeing the Land of Promise which he could not enter, won a victory in the moral sense. If Washington was truly defeated, if Custer was truly defeated, if Moses was truly defeated, then today Camp Manitou was defeated. But if those great heroes of history each won a great victory—and you know that they did—then today Camp Manitou won a great victory!”

  (Vigorous applause. Sniffles among the girls.)

  “What kind of showing would the French have made in their great wars without Napoleon? What kind of showing would the British have made at Waterloo without Wellington? Think of this for a moment. And then ask yourselves, boys and girls, did our boys not make the most splendid showing in all Manitou history—without Yishy Gabelson?”

  (Cries of “Yes, yes!”

  Cry from Ted: “Let's throw Yishy in the lake.”)

  “Somebody has suggested that we throw Yishy in the lake. (Laughter.) No, we will not throw Yishy in the lake. First of all, it would raise a high tide. (Yells of laughter.) Second of all, from what I have seen of his condition it would contaminate the lake, and we still want to do some swimming.”

  (Laughter and applause. Remark of Herbie Bookbinder to an unidentified neighbor: “You know, Mr. Gauss ain't such a bad guy, really.” Reply of neighbor: “Doggone right.”)

  “No, boys and girls, we don't have to do that to Yishy. We can simply let him drown in the misery of knowing that due to his uncontrollable urge for blackberries (laughter), he has been completely overshadowed by a boy half his size—and you all know who I mean.”

  (Cheers. Cries of “We want Lennie! Stand up, Lennie.” Slight blush in the hero's impassive face.)

  “Yes, boys and girls, King George the Third met his Washington, Caesar met his Brutus, Goliath met his David, and Camp Penobscot met Lennie Krieger! (Cheers) Stand up, Lennie. (Lennie obviously reluctant.) Come on, my boy. We know that heroes are always modest.”

  (Laughter and clapping. Lennie rises. Uncle Sid plays “Bulldog, Bulldog.” Indescribable sensation. Herbie Bookbinder, eyes wet with pride, says to neighbor, “He's my pal. He lives on my block. His father and my father are partners.” Neighbor's reply: “Boy, yer lucky. Wisht I was you.” Mr. Gauss again restores order with upraised hand.)

  “Perhaps you think, boys and girls, that I have singled this young man out for praise at this time solely because of his great display of camp spirit this afternoon. That is not the case. I have had my eye on Leonard Krieger for many years. I have watched him at school and in camp. And I will say here and now that never in all my experience have I observed in a boy more of the sterling qualities that go into that mysterious and all-important thing known as Character. If I would say one thing about Lennie Krieger, I would say he has Character. What is Character? Modesty, cheerfulness, intelligence, good nature, obedience, co-operation, respect of elders, truthfulness, hard work, gentleness—all these things are part of Character, and part of Lennie Krieger. But still that is no definition. I will sum it all up for you. Character is Lennie Krieger! (Applause.)

  “Lennie, give me your hand to shake. Yes, I know, my lad, only your left hand is free. But let me tell you this. I would rather shake the left hand of Lennie Krieger than the right hand of anybody, counselor or boy, in all of Camp Penobscot!”

  With this master stroke of eloquence, Mr. Gauss pumped Lennie's left hand. Handclapping, stamping, and shouting shook the hall. This is not a figure of speech, for the hall was cheaply built and shook easily. Mr. Gauss waited for the enthusiasm to spend itself, and then went on, still holding Lennie's hand:

  “But in praising the character of this perfect camper, let me not appear to minimize his glorious deeds on the field today. You all know what they were, and I shall not expand on them. Suffice it to say that they will stand forever in the annals of Manitou as a symbol of true camp spirit. And there is none of us here who will not wish to thank Lennie from a full heart—with the exception, perhaps—I say perhaps”—and here Mr. Gauss's face creaked painfully into a mischievous expression—“with the exception, perhaps, of our dear good Aunt Tillie.”

  This joke was the high point in Mr. Gauss's long career of oratory. The shrieks, squeals, and whoops of boyish and girlish laughter which followed, the sliding of doubled-over bodies helplessly to the floor, the streaming eyes of the counselors, made an effect he never again equaled.

  Aunt Tillie blushed lobster-red, tried to smile and failed dismally, threw furious glances at Mr. Gauss, and finally, as the screaming mirth continued, got up and walked from the hall. It was a delicious moment for the whole camp. Mr. Gauss, by throwing Aunt Tillie to the lions, gained a real, if temporary, popularity. So Roman rulers used martyrs in their day.

  “Seriously, boys and girls,” he said at last, “I am happier over the events of this day than I would have been had we defeated Penobscot in both games by a hundred to one. What have we lost? Nothing. Mere numbers on a scoreboard. What have we gained? Everything. We have gained a true appreciation of Character. So all hail, campers of Manitou—all hail, with a real ‘Oink-oink, bowwow’ to the young man who embodies Character, who is Character—the young man, moreover, who, whatever the scoreboard says, today gave Camp Penobscot the worst beating of their lives—Leonard Krieger!”

  And Uncle Irish leaped up to cue, and one more animated tribute was paid to the sterling Character of Lennie; after which the hall went dark and the movie began.

  This historic victory speech of Mr. Gauss may serve as a model for the generations to come. In every contest there must be a losing side, and on every losing side a Lennie can usually be found in the dazzle of whose exploits the unpleasant fact of defeat can be obscured by a Mr. Gauss who talks long enough and loud enough. In war and in politics, as well as in children's games, there are Gaussian victories. And it is well that it should be so. Life is full of struggles, and it is not given to everyone to
gain a real triumph; but nearly all of us can manage a Gaussian one.

  Strangely enough, the speech of the owner of Camp Penobscot, welcoming his returning teams that night, was very much shorter, and the rival camp was full of buoyant hilarity for days after the contest, all unaware that they had undergone such a Gaussian trouncing. That is the unique charm of a Gaussian victory. It elates the “winning” side, and does not in the least depress the other.

  The Black Pirate was a happy dream of sailing, fighting, and love-making in “natural color.” It lasted an hour and a half, and then the lights were switched on, the reeled-up dream was dropped into a tin can, and the blinking children found themselves in the dingy wooden social hall of Camp Manitou once more.

  It seemed less cheerful than ever to Herbie this evening. The naked electric bulbs dangling overhead on black cords, the unpainted rough boards of the walls and rafters, the threadbare brown curtain of the stage, the rows of boys and girls, dressed alike, rubbing their eyes and yawning—how dreary, how dreary! He became aware of the rhythmic song of the crickets that filled the night outside the open windows, and realized with a little shock that he had become so used to the sound that he no longer heard it except at moments like this. And yet it was a very loud noise. A wave of homesickness came over him, and he longed for the hot, humid night of Homer Avenue under the brilliant street lamps, the boys and girls in city clothes, eating ice-cream cones and chaffing in front of Borowsky's candy store, the parked automobiles, the trolley cars clanging and rumbling around the corner on Westchester Avenue, the vacant lots where a cricket was a rare, fascinating thing, and, most of all, the climb up the stone steps to Apartment 3A, and his mother and father sitting in the kitchen, eating fruit from the basket made of the shell of an armadillo, talking about the Place. These things seemed bathed in a rich amber light as he saw them in his mind's eye. What was he doing among strangers in this barn on the shore of a nameless swamp, a hundred miles from home?

  But Mr. Gauss was on his feet before the empty white sheet, speaking again.

  “—celebrate our boys' splendid showing tomorrow night,” he was saying, “by a dance for the boys and girls who want to dance, and a wiener roast on the beach for the rest of the camp!”

  Evidently Herbie was not the only camper caught in depression. The announcement of a wiener roast or a dance would ordinarily have touched off a jubilee, but the response was only mild applause. Celebrating the Gaussian victory seemed to have drained the children of enthusiasm for the night.

  “And now,” said the camp owner, beaming benevolently, “we shall have ten minutes of—ah—shall we say, socializing among the boys and girls, before we all retire for a well-earned rest.”

  This boon brought the dull assembly to life. Jumping up from their benches, the ranks of boys and girls quickly melted into one jumble in the aisle, chattering, laughing, pushing and waving. Herbie, who had been unable to note Lucille's place in the benches, began threading through the crowd. It struck him again how unattractive girls were as a species. In camp clothing they looked worse than otherwise. Once or twice it had appeared to him that the radiance of Lucille herself flickered when he beheld her in loose white blouse and flopping blue bloomers.

  A pair of soft hands suddenly came from behind him and covered his eyes. Overjoyed, he peeled them off and turned to discover Felicia. His joy subsided.

  “Hello, my darling brother. Bet you thought I was someone else.”

  “I sure did. See you later, Fleece.” He started to move on. She caught his hand.

  “Gosh, won't you talk to me for a minute even? We hardly ever see each other. I may not be Lucille, but I'm your sister.”

  Herbert was startled by the tone of appeal in which she said this. He looked more carefully at Felicia. In an indefinable way she was prettier and older. He became aware, with a touch of shame, that he never thought of her.

  “Sure, Fleece. I didn't know you felt like talking to me.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Well, I'd like to talk to you, too.”

  Thereupon they both became tongue-tied, and looked at each other sheepishly for half a minute.

  Said the sister at last, “You having a good time, Herbie?”

  “Sure,” said Herbie in an injured way, as though she had accused him of some obscure offense. “Aren't you?”

  “Well, of course. Aunt Dora is just wonderful.”

  “Uncle Sid is a big ol' dope, but my bunk is O.K.”

  “How is it living with Lennie? Does he pick on you?”

  The aura of Character was strong around his tormentor in Herbie's mind. “Who, Lennie? Naw! He's all different now. He's been swell.”

  Felicia looked happy at this. “He's the big hero now, isn't he?”

  “Yeah. Camp is great for a guy like him.”

  “And he's great for the camp,” said the girl.

  “You bet.”

  After a pause during which Felicia studied her brother's face, she said, “Herbie, I'm surprised you like camp. There's so much ball playing.”

  “Aw, I get to read a lot,” said Herbie.

  “Just like you did at home.”

  “Yeah, only under a tree.”

  “Same old bookworm.”

  The brother and sister exchanged a smile of unusual warmth. Herbie felt that perhaps he should talk to his sister more often. Then he remembered Lucille, and began to glance around impatiently.

  “Oh, go ahead and find her,” snapped Felicia, seeing his eyes stray. “Honest, the way you go after that red-headed little thing someone would think you were fifteen years old.”

  “Herbie, rather flattered at being thus described as a mature lover, said, “I'll be back in a minute, Fleece,” and plunged in among the milling children. He came upon Lucille almost at once, in no very pleasing circumstances. She was one of a cluster of perhaps eleven girls around Lennie. Only the hero's face was visible, the rest of him being obscured by the girls' heads, white blouses, and blue bloomers. Herbie hovered near the circle, trying to catch Lucille's eye. It was a couple minutes before he succeeded. When she saw him she smiled very brightly and came to him.

  “H'lo, I was searching all over for you,” said she. Herbie hadn't detected any symptoms of search while he was watching her, but her smile erased the inconsistency.

  “Swell movie, wasn't it?” he said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Come on over by the window a minute.”

  “Well, I have to go back to my counselor right away.” But she followed him. They leaned on the sill and looked out at trees, lake and stars.

  “Listen to them crickets,” Herbie was inspired to remark, after a while.

  “I don't like them. I wish they would all go away.”

  “Yeah, so do I. Say, that wienie roast is gonna be fun. Ted says the boys and girls get to sit around two by two and build their own little fires. Won't that be swell?”

  The girl said cautiously, “Wouldn't you rather go to the dance?”

  “Heck, no. Dancing is for dopes.”

  “Well, I love it.”

  “Well, I think it's dopey.”

  “Go on. You know it's fun.”

  “Yeah. For lunatics.”

  Herbie was making the mistake of ridiculing something beyond his power to do. Few errors make one appear more foolish. Lucille gave him a cool, appraising look which caused him much discomfort. At the age of eleven a girl is not likely to be deceived in these matters by a boy of eleven and a half.

  “Can you dance?” she said.

  “Naw, and I ain't never gonna learn, neither. Jumpin' around like an ape.”

  “All the counselors dance.”

  “Sure, they're all apes.”

  One remark more feeble than the rest: this was the course Herbie was sliding down, having taken his false position. He thrashed around for a straw to arrest his tumble.

  “Boy, do I love wienies! I really love 'em. Wienies! Yum!”

  “I like marshmallows better,??
? replied Lucille.

  “Not me. Shucks, I'd rather eat one roasted wienie than dance for a million years. And fires an' everything. I can't hardly wait for tomorrow night.”

  “Fires!” said the girl scornfully. “Fires are for babies.”

  Now, the word “baby” among adults is a pleasant, even an endearing term. But in the present company it was the ultimate printable insult. Herbie found nothing more to say.

  “Well,” said the little red-headed beauty after a graceless silence, “I gotta go back to my counselor. G'by.”

  “See you at the wienie roast?” said Herbie as she turned away.

  Lucille halted, and stood fingering the starched hem of her blouse.

  “I told you, Herbie, I just don't like wienies. I'd rather stay in bed than go to a rotten old wienie roast. So I guess I'll go to the dance. 'By.”

  “Yeah,” jeered Herbie at her retreating back, “just 'cause Lennie Krieger'll be there.”

  Lucille turned on him swiftly.

  “That's right, smarty, 'cause Lennie'll be there. What did you do that was so wonderful today, that you have the right to make fun of Lennie? If you wanna know something, he asked me to go, with ten other girls standing around—some of them Seniors. An' I didn't even say I would, 'cause I was waiting to see if you were going. But as long as you're being such a baby I will go. There now. And I hope you eat so many wienies that you bust.”

  And off she flounced, or came as near flouncing as anyone can in blue bloomers.

  There was a mournful hush in Bunk Thirteen that night after taps, in place of the usual pleasant whispering. Lennie's bed was empty; the young man of Character was spending the night in the infirmary. Herbie had ample cause for misery, but he wondered a little at the silence of his bunkmates. At last Ted said hoarsely, “Hey, guys, ain't ol' Gauss a real bag o' hot air?”

  “You bet! An' how! What a stinker!” came a husky chorus in reply.