The Night of the Moonbow

PART TWO: The Forest Primeval

Proud son of a clever man, Icarus had watched his father, Daedalus, make for them both pairs of wings from feathers, wood, wax, and at his father’s side he had mounted the air upon those makeshift wings, flinging himself into space from the highest promontory, to soar upward and scale the banks of romping clouds, to look from on high upon the earth made small – its rivers and hills, towns and cities, its populace of insect-folk. What jubilation, what wonder, what glorious pride he felt, free as a bird, faring forth as no man before him had ever done. Icarus the darer, Icarus the bold. And yet, he must beware, for with flight comes error; a single miscalculation and the force of gravity takes over, and disaster, death.

Balanced at the edge of the large rock, Leo feels himself unfettered, free to spread his wings and fly, to flash across the sun’s broad shining face. Slowly he raises his arms, extending them outward from his sides like wings; marvel of marvels, they start to quiver, lift lightly, gently, upward, palms cupped as though to touch the supportive, not-quite-touchable element of air. Oh yes – let him try. Now. With a deep breath he launches himself into space. Ah – yes – like this, like this. He is the bird-god, feather-winged, hawk-eyed, sharp-taloned monarch of the air. He soars, leveling out across the vast blue-white garden of clouds, his heart bursting with rapture.

Too late he remembers: Even gods may not fly too high; -too close to the sun their wings may be singed, the wax melt, the feathers loosen, upsetting the delicate aerodynamic balance. He will be dashed to pieces for his folly. Below him the starless void, spiral of darkness, never-ending night. And he is falling, down and down and down and-!

“Leo?”

Appearing as if by magic, Tiger Abernathy came dashing across the meadow to give him a hand up. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Leo wasn’t sure; he felt gingerly of an ankle, an elbow, his neck. “I – slipped.” He laughed sheepishly. What must Tiger think of such crazy behavior? For the life of him he couldn’t remember how he had got to the top of the rock, or how he had slipped from it. He pressed a fist over his heart to calm its wild beat, while Harpo, who had come bounding along behind Tiger, wagged his shaggy tail to a fare-thee-well and with a wet pink tongue passionately washed Leo’s face.

“Harpo! Hey, boy – hey, boy!” He wrestled the dog and hugged him to his chest. “Good dog, good dog!”

Tiger flopped down beside Leo and regarded him quizzically. “What were you doing, flapping your arms like that?”

Leo reddened. “I wanted to fly.” He said it like “I wanted some rice pudding; a new union suit.” How foolish it sounded, put into words. Yet, something told him it was okay, he could express such ideas to Tiger. Flights of fancy served Tiger’s mind, too.

“How did you find me?” Leo asked. “Did Harpo sniff me out?”

“This is where you usually are mornings,” Tiger explained, adding that he himself was on his way to Orcutt’s store at Four Corners; Harpo had trailed along. “Great spot, isn’t it?” he added, looking around.

Leo agreed; Kelsoe’s Pond was indeed a fine spot. That Tiger also considered it such gave him considerable satisfaction. He had discovered the place several days ago, while on a spider hunt. Spurred on by Oats Gurley, who had promised to put Leo’s accumulated arachids on permanent display in the Nature Lodge (and to award him and Jeremiah a generous number of happy points for every new addition), he had visited here several mornings since, slipping away on a solitary “nature walk,” his violin and music case in tow, along with a couple of empty codfish boxes in his canvas knapsack (a loan from Tiger), while the majority of the campers were hard at work in the crafts barn, banging away at copper ashtrays to take home to their Uncle Louies.

“What d’you think of my latest prize?” he asked tentatively, gesturing toward his most recent find, a black-and-gold specimen whose web glittered in the sun like a diamond necklace suspended between twin stalks of milkweed, gossamer filaments spun out of the abdominal workings of a creature the size of a quarter. For the past half-hour the spider had been industriously engaged in this miraculous act of manufacture, tossing out the silken threads to create the delicate design characteristic of her species.

Tiger conceded that the spider was worth Leo’s time and patience, and Leo lay back, fingers laced behind his ears, well pleased. Though Tiger did not share his fascination for spiders – indeed, he had shown a decided aversion to them -this morning, sprawling companionably beside Leo on the turf, he, too, watched closely to see what wonders the little creature would perform next.

A moment more, and her preliminary work was done; she scurried to the upper quadrant of the newly fashioned web, where, camouflaged by the flickering light and shade, she sat waiting for her prey. Before long an errant, pale-winged bug came flitting by, a poor, innocent bug up to no bad, but not a careful bug at all. It bumped into the web head-on, and in a flash the spider abandoned her corner, scrambling down the ladder of her web to pounce on the trapped insect. In ' his notebook, Leo detailed what happened next: the quick injection of paralyzing fluids, the last flutter of hapless wings, the wrapping of the victim in more filament until it resembled a miniature mummy. At last the spider dragged her dinner to the heart of the web, where she deposited it for safekeeping; then, having resumed her corner, she settled down again to wait.

Having rounded out his notes with a quick sketch of the spider’s web, Leo capped his pen and lay back, reaching his hands over his head and stretching his body like a cat. He really was tall for his age, Tiger thought, secretly envying him his height; he wished his own arms and legs were longer; his physical size, or its lack, had always 'been to him a disadvantage, and something told him he’d never see six feet, never be tall like Reece Hartsig. But then, as his dad always said, Napoleon had been forced to deal with the same problem, and look how far he got. You just couldn’t give up on things. “Never Say Die,” that was Tiger’s motto. He had got it from the famous Count Von Luckner, the crafty German naval officer whose ship, the Sea Devil, had wreaked havoc with Allied shipping during the war. When the Count came to Pequot Landing to lecture, Tiger had even got an autograph on a picture of the famous vessel: “Never Say Die, Tiger Abernathy.” Tiger was determined he would not.

“I kept a diary once,” he remarked.

This revelation interested Leo. “Why did you quit?” he asked.

Tiger chuckled. “I was doing so many things every day I never could find the time to write them all down.”

Leo could see how this might be so: a fellow like Tiger Abernathy was always busy, with a dozen irons in the fire. Was there anything he wasn’t interested in? A patrol leader in the Boy Scouts, he was also active in Christian Youth Fellowship and the Junior Grange and the Civic Guard. He had, moreover, a number of time-consuming interests and hobbies – stamp-collecting, model-airplane- and boatbuilding – while the complicated layout of his electric train set was known to fill half the attic. All in all, he was a real powerhouse, with his bright, quick, lighting-up smile, and the gleeful laugh that he made such generous use of. What he lacked in physical size he made up for in character, and compared with him, all the boys Leo had known at the orphanage – even his pal Arnie Kretchmer (“Kretch the Wretch”) – seemed commonplace and lackluster.

Leo congratulated himself on his good fortune. On that first evening in camp he hadn’t been at all sure how he would fare at Tiger’s hands. Tiger had been helpful enough, but he’d said so little, seemingly weighing “the new boy” in his mind, pondering whether they would be friends or not. And now they were friends, sort of. Leo felt it was so. Sometimes when he came here to the pond, Tiger would show up – like this morning. Leo frequently asked himself why the most popular boy in camp would bother with the likes of him, an orphan from Pitt Institute. Maybe he just felt sorry for him (Tiger was the kind of guy who always stuck up for the underdog); still, to be singled out for his attention was deeply gratifying, and in the end Leo decided it was probably his music that had won Tiger over (he had laughed a lot at Leo’s rendition of “The Music Goes ’Round and Around”).

Now, grinning his crooked, saw-toothed grin, Tiger said, “So tell me. How come you were trying to fly?”

Leo’s response was simple. “It’s the thing I want most in the world – except for two other things.”

“Like what?”

“First, to own a dog.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Name it.”

“Didn’t you ever have one?”

“Sure. Once.” Leo blew out his cheeks; his eyelids fluttered and closed.

“What happened to him?”

“Got killed.”

“How?”

“Curiosity.”

Tiger thought that was the cat, but before he could comment Leo went on.

“Actually he got run over by a truck.”

“Gee, that’s tough. Hit and run?”

“No. It was my f-father’s truck.”

“Gee, I bet he felt bad.”

“Not so’s you’d notice. If you asked me, I’d say he enjoyed it.”

“What?”

“You had to know him. He never liked Butch. He didn’t like him in the house. Butch knew…”

“Knew what?”

“Butch knew Rudy. That was his name, Rudy. His black heart. Rudy was the only person Butch didn’t like. Rudy knew it. He was just looking for a chance to do him a bad turn.”

“So he deliberately…?”

Leo nodded somberly. “Butch was lying in the driveway. He liked the warm concrete. Rudy backed the truck out and just ran over him as nice as you please.”

“But – maybe he didn’t see him.”

“He saw him all right. Butch was asleep. Rudy gunned his motor and hit him before he could get out of the way.”

Tiger’s eyelids lowered, his lips stretched in a grim line. He remained that way, wondering why Leo had made so personal a confession on such short acquaintance. It was, he decided, one way to cement a friendship.

Leo spoke again. “That night I brushed all the dog hair off of Albert-”

Tiger’s lids lifted again. “You mean – Albert was Butch’s pillow?”

Leo nodded. “I cut the hairs up real fine and whenever I carried the plates in from the kitchen I sprinkled some of them on Rudy’s food.”

“Did it make him sick?”

“Not so’s you’d notice; but it made me feel better.”

Tiger smiled, then grew thoughtful. “How’d he die?” he asked.

“I just told you – oh, you mean Rudy. He had a bad accident. In that same truck he ran Butch over with. The funny thing was,” Leo went on, “I always thought for sure I’d die before Butch did. Then, when I was dead, he would come and lie by me on my funeral pyre. You know – like a Viking’s funeral.”

Tiger nodded; he had read Beau Geste. A Viking always took his farewell of life with a dog at his feet.

“And your mother? How’d she die?”

“She-she-” Leo gulped, and his jaws worked as he tried to articulate the words, but no sound materialized. His face flushed.

“That’s okay,” Tiger said, “let’s skip it.” Raising his wrist, he checked his Ingersoll. “Jeez, I better be getting to the store so I’m back in time for Swim.” He reflected for a moment, then framed a tactful question: “Aren’t you scheduled for ball practice with Coach this morning?” “Mmmm…” Leo nodded, closed his eyes, and lay back. The last thing he wanted to do right now was practice baseball, especially with Hap Holliday. Among the montage of images jumping about under his eyelids was a picture of the coach – “the all-American jockstrap,” as Leo had dubbed him in his journal – glove in hand, waiting for Wacko Wackeem to field a few flies. But Wacko was not Coach’s “kind of guy.” Nor, for that matter, was Coach Leo’s. That red, jolly face seemed to corrugate with consternation and dismay the moment Leo came upon the scene, and what point was there in trying to “measure up” when, where Hap was concerned, the percentages were so low?

All in all, Leo decided, he preferred staying where and as he was. Presently, he heard Tiger steal off, and through slitted lids watched him and Harpo cross the meadow and head for the Old Lake Road, a hundred or so yards away. Leo closed his eyes again, basking in the warm sun. How glorious to lie in a sweet-smelling meadow with nothing to do but make notes on a spider replenishing its pantry. He told himself he should collect the specimen and get back to camp (he was due at baseball practice before Morning Swim), but it was hard giving up such a spot as this; it was so quiet here; that’s what he noticed more than anything. At Pitt the stone hallways forever echoed with the frantic clamor of discontent, dissatisfaction, and despair, 150 boys in their leather-soles clattering up and down, the incessant racket of scores of voices, admonishing, correcting, quarreling, wheedling, whining, complaining, crying, cursing. Seventy-five double-decker wire-spring cots, each with a boy top and bottom, lined up in a brick-walled dormitory with barred windows and a coal stove at the far end, a long low-ceilinged room once used for the drying of hops for beer, a place where the nights resounded with coughing and moans, with whispers and mutterings and outcries, and dreams that flew about on dark wings, like bats.

This was a sweet corner of the world all right, the valley that cradled Moonbow Lake, with its red-siloed barns tucked like so many play-farms amid the softly rolling countryside that unfolded among the Jurassic outcroppings of schist and shale, and its thickly shaded forest glades, the tall, dark fir trees whose tips pointed like village church steeples toward the heavens. Until now, for Leo “the country” had meant only the hot, insect-teeming tobacco fields of upper Connecticut, arid, dusty acreage enclosed by endless miles of suffocating mosquito netting that was worse than a winding sheet for those unlucky fellows destined to spend their years sweating breathlessly beneath it, while so-called fresh air was the stuff you got in the cement-floored, rusty-fenced playground at the Institute, with its jail-like steel-pipe jungle gym and oil barrels to play on.

But this – this was Longfellow land, the forest primeval and its murmuring pines and the hemlocks, and the sweet green meadow where Leo lay was as close to utopia as he was likely to get – his own private domain, as he’d begun to think of it. It was almost as if he had been drawn to it, he decided, because getting here wasn’t easy. This is how you did it: You left Jeremiah and walked up the line-path to the cow-crossing, where the sagging rack of mailboxes defied the force of gravity, then turned left down the Old Lake Road, passing along the northern flank of Indian Woods, laced with a confusing network of paths, a maze that – if you knew its secrets – eventually brought you out at the Wolf’s Cave, where the Senecas held their sacred campfires (and where the uninitiated didn’t dare venture). But if instead of entering the woods you walked on a little farther up the road, past Pissing Rock, you came upon a pair of decrepit posts and, bisecting them, the beginnings of an old trace, a grassy track that ran between two rows of tall pines to form a wide, shaded lane covered with fallen needles, a soft, luxurious carpet under your feet. At the other end of the lane lay the meadow, contained on one side by the pond, and on the others by a palisade of dark fir trees, their apexes piercing the bright-blue sky, seeming now to impale the fleecy clouds, shepherded east to west by a light breeze. The blue-green grass, dotted with buttercups and daisies, grew tall, so that, on his first foray to the meadow, he had almost missed the pond altogether – a body of water no more than five hundred feet in length, half that across, still as glass at the near end, at the far stirring itself and falling into rapid motion where its outlet crossed a weir to fret its way in a noisy babble some fifty yards to the ruins of Kelsoe’s icehouse and the small cove called the China Garden, filled with lotus-like water lilies.

There was another feature of this place that made it special, however, that in an odd way made it seem to belong to him, to be his personal property. Off to his right, on the far side of the meadow, partly hidden by the stand of sentinel pines, he could make out the bay window in the “tower” of the old Steelyard place, the Haunted House. The house had struck a profound chord in him that first evening when Hank Ives had driven him past it in the jitney. And afterward – there had been something to do with the house in his dream, something connected with Pa Starbuck’s story of the Moonbow Princess, only Leo hadn’t been able to figure out what it was.

What he did know was that there had been just such a turret window in the house over Rudy Matuchek’s butcher shop on Gallop Street. Leo had hated that house – his house – but the window was different. The window had belonged to her, to Emily, his mother – and as he looked over to the Steelyard property now, it was almost as if he' expected to see her sitting up there, just as she used to when he was a child, waiting for him to come home from school, with Butch beside her, waiting too.

Now Butch was buried under a tree behind the garage, and Emily, she was buried – well, Leo didn’t know where, because he’d never seen her grave, or Rudy’s, for that matter; though he knew they were buried somewhere together, somewhere at Saggetts Notch – Mrs Kranze had told him so – hadn’t she? Funny about Mrs Kranze, whose face he’d known so well, but could no longer remember -along with all the other things he had trouble recalling.

He turned from the house and his eye fell on his violin case. The sight of it prodded him: he had promised Miss Meekum that he would practice every day. Carefully he opened the case and lifted out the violin; then, seated there beside the pond, he began to play, softly, for no other ears, his bow moving and angling as it coaxed sweet notes from the hollow heart of the instrument.

He had played for half an hour or so when, suddenly, he stopped, his concentration broken by the rapturous trilling of a bird somewhere above his head. Was it a mockingbird? Certainly it possessed an extraordinary repertoire. Leo craned to find it: yes, there it was, feathered gray and white, perched above him, its throat throbbing with song. How was it that such a plain, un-likely-looking creature could produce such a glorious melody?

“No rhapsodies in this house!”

He heard the detestable voice saying the hated words.

“Shut up!” he shouted, sitting up and addressing the air. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

The cry sprang from his lips before he realized it; he glanced around in embarrassment. Then he threw himself back on the ground and covered his head with his arms, lids squeezed tight, while the same voice rang inside his head.

It grew momentarily chilly and, opening his eyes, Leo shivered as an errant cloud swept across the face of the sun, casting an unwelcome shadow. He peered upward, half-expecting to see a large-winged roc, Sinbad’s roc; but there was no such creature, and he forced himself to relax as the curtain of shadow was raised and he was laved again with gratifying warmth. Easy, pal, he told himself impatiently. There’s no one to hear, no one to make fun of you. But they’d heard him that first night in camp all right, when he’d had the bad dream and waked up hollering his head off. Even now he still hadn’t erased the memory of Pa’s gory tale, of the knife of Misswiss glinting in the moonlight and the scream of the dying maiden, which had become his own scream as he fell… fell, down into darkness.

He had come to blinking in the yellow beam of Reece’s flashlight. While the other Jeremians stirred groggily, trying to dope out what was going on, Reece had accompanied him out to the fountain, where he urged him to drink, then he’d walked him around the baseball diamond, talking quietly, the sound of his voice both soothing Leo and distracting him from his disturbing anxiety.

When he was yawning widely, they had returned to the cabin, where, shamed to silence, Leo wriggled in over the sill and flattened himself under his blankets, while several of his rudely awakened cabin-mates gathered out at Old Faithful. Lying in his bunk, Leo heard his name. on Phil’s lips.

“What was Wacko making such a ruckus for, anyways? Only sissies and twerps have nightmares. Cripes.”

“Cripes yourself,” came Tiger’s retort. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Everybody has dreams.”

In the morning Leo had faced queer looks, especially from Phil and his shadow Wally, as well as from some of the Ezekielites and the Hoseans on either side of Jeremiah, whose rest had likewise been disturbed. But Reece behaved as if nothing had happened and evidently he cautioned the boys to do likewise, for by the time they formed for the march to Sunday chapel the incident seemed to have been forgotten. And by the time services were over even Phil had quit grumbling.

Was it the magic of Pa’s oratory that did the trick? Leo had heard from Hank Ives that when it came to preaching a sermon the Reverend Garland Starbuck was possessed of the golden throat and silver tongue of a William Jennings Bryan, that his words, of honey or of fire, “could turn a Moonbow camper to stone” at the first hearing. And Leo had been impressed by Pa, decked out in his Sunday best (a full-sleeved, blousy shirt of snowiest broadcloth, touched up with a small black clip-on bow tie, a pair of gallused black trousers, seat shiny as a dime, and still shinier high-laced boots whose knob-like toes curled right off the ground), greeting his campers and staffers from his place beside Tabernacle Rock, thereafter speaking out boldly in the name of the Lord God Jehovah, entreating, cajoling, coaxing, and commanding these, his sons (and a single daughter) to bow down and make obeisance to the Maker of us all. (The camp schedule, as Leo had discovered in a few short days, left no doubt that Friend-Indeed was a “Bible camp”: morning chapel worship in the council ring was commonly followed by more prayers in the dining hall, more hymn singing, more Scripture reading, more ecclesiastical homilies bandied about, the saying of Grace at noon, too, vespers observed thrice weekly, as well as impromptu sing-alongs, with eager voices raised in praise of both “The Old Rugged Cross” and “The Old Oaken Bucket.”)

Though the memory of the morning’s embarrassments still caused him to blush, that night Leo had taken heart from the friendly bull session before Lights Out, conducted by Reece himself. The counselor had stretched out on his cot and led the discussion, about what it meant to be a Jeremian – a true-blue member of the team, as he put it – and how they were all looking forward to seeing the Hartsig Trophy emblazoned with their names under the heading “Best Campers of 1938.” And Leo, who had envied his cabin-mates their camaraderie and lighthearted give-and-take, the way Reece kidded around with them (especially Phil and Tiger), and the bonds they had formed through years of close association and shared experience, had felt – actually, physically felt, he thought – those bonds now being extended to include him.

Luckily there had been no bad dreams that night, no disturbances whatever, and next morning he had got up before reveille, ready to attack his first real camping day. He was off to a flying start – well, no, not quite. As a greenhorn at Moonbow he was bound to make a few mistakes, that would have been okay; unfortunately for him he had come a cropper three times in a row, which hadn’t upped his stock with either the Jeremians or their counselor.

First, the camp inspection committee, made up of a revolving panel culled from the Sachems’ Council, showed up in Jeremiah on its twice-weekly rounds, to find that Leo’s cap had been left on his pillow – one demerit – and the contents of his suitcase were not up to standard neatness – a second demerit, making Leo the only Jeremian to receive blackies that day.

Next came his introduction to the traditional soap bath. Monday was “wash day,” when first thing in the morning everyone fell out for the weekly soap bath in the lake, and Leo was tugging on his swim suit when he noticed he was getting funny looks from his cabin-mates.

“What are you doing, kiddo?” Phil demanded, wrapping his husky waist in a towel.

Leo gave him a look back; he was putting on his trunks, what else?

“Nobody wears a bathing suit to soap bath.”

“They don’t?”

"No. They go buck-assed naked.”

“Oh.” Leo crimsoned, and, pulling off his trunks, wrapped a towel around his waist. Though he was used to the casualness of dormitory life, the idea of standing around naked in the open air offended his sense of propriety, and when, within minutes, he found himself dockside amid a sea of robust male forms, legs, arms, and pale behinds, a forest of limp penises, of corrugated scrotums drawn up tight as walnut shells in the nippy morning air – all of Pa’s campers gathered to worship Hygeia, goddess of “cleanliness,” with their pious offerings of pink Lifebuoy or green Palmolive soap cakes – he clung desperately to his towel. The result had been a spate of scornful taunts.

“Come on, lily-white, dive in!” “Hey, Wacko, drop the laundry!” “Yeah, screwball, let the world see your dong!” This last from an older, thick-necked camper with a round, pimply, pug-ugly face and a nasty swagger, who wore a tattoo on his forearm, like Popeye. His name, Leo had already learned, was Claude Moriarity – more often known as “Bullnuts,” Leo now perceived, for obvious reasons. The sight of the new boy, covered with goose pimples, knees knocking from the morning chill, seemed to goad him, and he advanced menacingly.

“Okay, you guys!” he boomed. “Let’s get ’im!” And five or six campers had sprung on Leo and stripped away his towel, leaving him trying to cover his nakedness with both hands. This show of modesty further provoked Bullnuts and his pals, who, before Leo realized their full intent, had picked him up and chucked him off the dock into the swim crib, where he landed on his back and got water up his nose. Not knowing what else to do, he paddled helplessly around until the Bomber came to the rescue and loaned him his block of Ivory soap (“It floats”), then dived for Leo’s cake of Lifebuoy (which didn’t).

The third incident of note occurred after dinner that evening, and marked the beginning of Leo’s troubles with Hap Holliday. He had been heading for the Dewdrop Inn, giving a wide berth to the playing field, where late baseball practice was in progress, hoping to go unnoticed by the coach, who Leo was afraid might try to trap him into playing. Swinging madly, Junior Leffingwell had hit a pop fly that sailed across the field and (having been missed by Oggie Ogden, in the outfield) bounced within ten feet of Leo and continued rolling toward him. Leo had stood transfixed, unable to do anything but stare at it, as if to touch it would do him injury.

“Come on, Wackeem, for cripes’ sake, throw the ball!”

This command, from Dump Dillworth, had finally roused him to dazed action. He had picked up the ball and awkwardly launched it toward the plate, but the throw had gone wild, and as Junior rounded third and sprinted for home, the entire field, players and spectators a-like, had erupted in scornful hoots and catcalls (“Woo-woo!” “Chicken wing!” “Hey, Wackoff, where’d you learn to throw, at dancing school?”).

Hap had made no secret of his scorn and mandated this morning’s private practice session, and later Leo had overheard Phil muttering that it looked like the new boy might turn out to be every bit as twerpy as Stanley Wagner. Wally agreed: Leo was twerpy. Tiger, however, had gone to bat for him: just because every Jeremian excelled at some sport or other, even if it was only Ping-Pong, didn’t mean Leo had to. He’d rack up plenty of happy points for Jeremiah other ways, they’d see.

Leo had been grateful – but worried, too. Because the truth was that every true-blue Jeremian made a good showing at athletics; his cabin-mates were not an assortment of wimpy oddballs – not, as Reece pointed out to Leo at that night’s bull session, the kind of boy who had a pillow called Albert and wore a hat that looked like something out of the funny papers. There followed a lecture on the nature of teamwork and about winning. The Jeremians, Reece reminded them, were winners because they operated as a team (led by a leader like himself), and if you played the game properly you came out a winner, too, while, if you didn’t… well, look at Stanley Wagner.

“Yeah, look at him,” said Phil, scowling. Then, tossing his cap by its bill, he led the Jeremians out to Old Faithful to brush their teeth.

“So how do you like it so far, kiddo?” he asked, fetching up beside Leo at the fountain.

Leo replied that he liked it fine so far.

“Well, don’t screw up,” said Phil. “We don’t want any more spuds in Jeremiah.”

“Aw, can it,” the Bomber growled. “He’s going to get us plenty points. And wait till he plays his fiddle at Major Bowes.”

Fifteen minutes later, when taps sounded, Phil’s remark still rankled, but as Leo lay on his bunk, staring up at the molded impression of Tiger’s backside pressed into the canvas overhead, he felt reassured. Stanley Wagner had been a spud, no doubt about that, and Jeremiah had paid the price. As cabin monitor, and second-in-command to Reece, Phil felt responsible, that was all.

Unfortunately, however, that night had been a repetition of the first, with another bad dream that had again disturbed the cabin and left Leo wrung out with imagined horror, as well as the butt of more jokes, especially from Phil, who now let it be known that in his view, the new boy was fast proving that he had inherited not only the bunk of Stanley Wagner but his shoes as well.

Deeply shamed, Leo made feeble apologies, but how could he explain? Whom could he confide in, tell about the dreams that haunted his sleep and woke him up screaming? It was the same old story all over again, only in a new setting.

At the Institute, Superintendent Poe had repeatedly cautioned him: “These dreams of yours are affecting your daily work, my boy. We must do something about them. It doesn’t do to be made prey to foolish fancies. I shall arrange for you to talk to our Doctor Percival, he’ll get you over this childish business quick enough…”

So Leo had seen Dr Percival, who asked him to talk about his dreams.

Leo tried: dark, fearful, frightening, something large and hideous waiting in the dark to seize and devour him.

“What sort of thing?” pursued the doctor. He might as well have asked, Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral? Leo tried to describe it but failed; it was nameless, springing from who knew what hidden corner of his mind. He tried to picture it; couldn’t do that either, just… big and dark and terrifying.

“You must just make up your mind to stop dreaming,” Dr Percival had concluded. “Or simply try to dream nice, pleasant dreams, hm? It’s as easy to dream happy dreams as unhappy ones. Just make up your mind.” He wagged his head sadly. “Until you do, I am afraid you will never grow up. You will always be a boy, with a boy’s thoughts and a boy’s fears. Therefore you must govern your thoughts, discipline yourself, put on blinders and reins.”

But the doctor had no answer when Leo asked him how he was to accomplish this, when every day he could hear the laughter of the boys echoing along those green grim corridors, and the mocking jingle they loved to sing:

Oh my oh me oh, a crazy boy is Leo Oh me oh my oh, his nightmares make him cry-o…

He would have given anything to be able to get away from that chant, to find someplace where no one knew anything about him, someplace where he could forget. And, miraculously, now he had his chance: Moonbow Lake was waiting.

“Hey, Nutbread, those two old farts want you in administration office pronto.” This from Measles, the head proctor and Pitt tattler, who poked his ugly puss in at the dormitory door, his loud voice echoing in the long, Spartanly furnished room.

Leo had been pasted with the name Nutbread for so long that he answered to it readily enough, and he had leaped from his cot to make tracks to the administration office, where he found thin, prim, dry-as-dust Supervisor Poe seated behind his desk; with him, thinner, primmer, dustier Miss Meekum. Mr Poe eyed him across his glasses rims and inquired starchily how Leo thought he might enjoy spending a few weeks in the country, then without waiting for a reply began explaining how, through the merciful intercession of the Society of the Friends of Joshua, who maintained an affiliation with the Pitt Institute for Boys, a place had been made available at a summer camp on Moonbow Lake.

The matter was settled inside fifteen minutes. Miss Meekum helped him to assemble his paltry possessions and put them into the cardboard suitcase he’d been loaned, with its broken corners and its fake-alligator-paper hide. In addition, two army blankets, stiff with age, had been made up into a bundle along with Albert, without whom he hadn’t slept a night since Butch got killed.

“Regrettably, there is no time to sew nametapes in your things,” she said. “You must take care and not lose them, clothes are hard to replace these days.” And, as though to apologize for the lack of printed identification in his underwear, she pressed on him a fresh cake of Lifebuoy soap, and a celluloid soap “keeper.” “If you are frugal with your soap it should last all summer. It’s really a wonderful opportunity,” she went on, drawing her hanky through her ringless fingers. “Just imagine – a lovely lake and green trees and meadows and…” She paused in her recitation of the charms to be found in the Connecticut wildwood, her wrinkled face sobering while behind her pinched-on steel glasses her eyes, like the eyes of a doe, swam liquidly at the thought of his journeying all of fifty miles away for eight weeks of camping. “You’ll be able to get a fresh start, Leo, in a new place, where you can look forward, not back. And, please, no talk about…” She trailed off, her lids fluttering. He regarded her solemnly, waiting for her to finish her sentence. "… about the bridge and all of that. You must erase life’s blackboard and put the past behind you. Will you do that?”

“Yes,” he had said, thinking how silly she was, Elsie Meekum. Foolish words just seemed to come bubbling out of her like Nehi rootbeer when you shook up the bottle.

But there was a bridge, wasn’t there? And carbonated though she might be at times, Miss Meekum was also often wise and prudent. He must remember.

“And be truthful at all times,” she went on. “You know your penchant for – exaggeration.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And don’t forget to practice your music, practice every day. You’ll be rewarded and the boys will like you for it. Play that pretty Paganini piece you’ve worked so hard on. Promise, now.”

Yes, he promised again. He was always promising her. Following these cautionary words there was further bounty as she presented him with, first, a fake tortoiseshell toothbrush holder, then a blue-covered spiral notebook with lined pages, a fountain pen, and a bottle of Parker blue-black Quink.

“Take these, my dear, and keep a record of the happy time that lies ahead of you,” she said. “A few jottings every day, and long afterward, when you are older, you will be glad to have such a memento.” She thrust out her face to kiss him.

He had shivered at the touch of her withered lips, unused as he was to such intimate contact, and his eye caught the flecks of her pink face powder as they sifted from her cheeks. Poor, shriveled, woebegone Miss Meekum – yet he honored her gende claim on him, for who else was there for him to love?

Besides, he owed her; he knew that. Owed her plenty. Foolish, flat-chested spinster though she was, she’d proved a mother to him when he’d had no other, w ^ r hen his own mother was gone… gone across the L Street Bridge.

Suddenly he was sobbing, his body racked by painful spasms. Stop, he told himself, don’t be such a jerk. She’s dead and gone – dead and gone, and where’s the help for that? Who had the magic to bring her back? He lifted his tearstained face and pulled away bits of straw and grass. This wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a crybaby.

Once more, high in the sycamore tree, the mockingbird offered its lighthearted song, its practiced notes interrupting his thoughts. He stiffened his spine, staring at the violin in his hand. If he wasn’t going to practice baseball he had better practice some more music – not just because he’d promised Miss Meekum he would but because he had been entered as a solo performer in the Major Bowes Amateur Night contest. He was a cinch to take a prize, Tiger had declared, and if he did he’d win extra points for Jeremiah. Extra points meant Reece would be pleased, and if Reece was pleased, everybody would be pleased.

Taking up his violin again, he fiddled an impromptu accompaniment to the mockingbird’s song, and when the singing stopped, Leo went on, segueing into an old favorite: “Poor Butterfly.” Of all the tunes from his earlier years, the ones his mother used to sing to him, this was the song he knew best. It had been her favorite; she’d heard it in a Broadway musical show she’s seen back during the World War. Such a wistful song, too; she always said it made her want to cry. Now, though she was gone, he remembered the song and played it often.

Poor Butterfly!

’Neath the blossoms waiting the words went,

Poor Butterfly!

For she loved him so.

Leo had loved that song from the first moment. He loved watching his mother as she played it, her pale lids fluttering, a little blue vein beating in her temple, her eyes shining – until there would come the brutal knocking from downstairs in the butcher shop; he would be pounding the broom handle on the ceiling, telling Emily to shut up, the noise was driving him crazy.

He rolled over and fingered his wallet out of his back pocket, then wiped his thumb and finger on the roll of his shorts and carefully extracted her photograph from one of the glassine windows. He held it with the utmost delicacy, for one corner was badly dog-eared, and the paper was in danger of cracking. The photo had been taken behind the pleated curtain of the little automatic picture booth by the entrance to Kresge’s 5 amp; 10 – four shots for a quarter, ten cents more for “artistic hand tinting.” “Smile, Mom,” he had told her, but she wouldn’t, she didn’t like showing her uneven teeth. What the camera had therefore captured was this other, gentler, and more tender smile, filled with caring and a pensive yearning – a trifle fearful too, the least tinge of anxiety in the eyes, those large, deep-set eyes.

He could see her still, her face framed in that high curved window that looked down on Gallop Street, watching for him as he came up the street from school, when she would smile and wave behind the glass. She would hurry down the hall stairs, finger to her lips to tell him that he shouldn’t make noise and tip off Rudy, who, if he knew Leo was home, would make him fetch the broom and sweep the butcher shop. “Come upstairs,” she would whisper, and there she’d have a treat waiting, hot chocolate and cinnamon toast on cold days, lemonade and cookies on warm ones.

On rainy days they would sneak up into the attic together, where they would go through boxes and old trunks, or she would read to him, fanciful stories, from Palfrey’s Golden Treasury or Hawthorne’s Tanglewood Tales, while he sat by her side and poured over the colored plates tipped in among the pages and protected by opaque sheets of paper, illustrations of Aladdin with his magic lamp; of Ali Baba in the cave of the Forty Thieves; of Robert the Bruce, whose kingdom hung on the gossamer thread of a single spider; of Daedalus and Icarus, and Theseus killing the Minotaur.

She was always thinking of things to amuse him, like taking him to the double bill at the matinee (despite Rudy’s objections), to The Big Trail and Min and Bill, maybe the latest Gold Diggers, or to Cimarron. Sometimes they’d visit the merry-go-round in the park, where a couple of times they’d accidentally happened across a friend of Emily’s, Mr Burroughs, a nice gentleman who bought Leo a balloon and a box of saltwater taffy and suggested that Leo not mention their fun to Rudy. But Leo didn’t need any prompting, because he never told Rudy anything. He hated Rudy. Always, after school, while picking up scraps of fat from the floor, he would watch him, surly and frowning under his trademark straw hat, his strong, hairy hands wielding the sharp-edged cleaver, a cigar butt plugging the corner of his lips like a cork in a jug. The sight of him in his long butcher’s apron, blotched with the blood of dead animals, made Leo sick at his stomach.

Rudy didn’t like Leo either; didn’t want him around, and he resented the time Emily spent with him, accusing her of making a sissy out of the boy. One night, when he went up to bed and failed to find his wife waiting for him, he went to look for her. Hearing voices from Leo’s room, he came rushing in and, yanking her out of the chair, flung her against the wall in a jealous rage, shouting that the boy was a mollycoddle and would grow up worthless. Leaving Emily, he rushed at Leo and dragged him to the window, where he threw up the sash, and turning Leo upside down, dangled him over the windowsill by his heels.

Below Leo, the world was spinning around; he was sure his end had come. The ground seemed to swirl up to meet him, making him sick, and Emily was struggling with Rudy, trying to drag Leo inside. Finally Rudy let go, and Leo felt himself falling! Falling down and down – a moment later he was safe in Emily’s arms. She soothed him and said it would be all right, while Rudy went around kicking the furniture. But when Leo was put to bed again and left alone, the panic rose in him and he lay there sweating, afraid to shut his eyes, for as soon as he did he saw himself looking down from a great height, and then he would start to fall, over and over, endlessly falling, falling… falling

… down into the darkness…

That had been the start of his bad dreams, the dreams that sometimes roused him to screaming wakefulness and brought Emily to his side, calling him, while the awakened Rudy ranted and raged.

Rudy wasn’t Leo’s father; his real father had died when Leo was very young, and Emily had remarried. Why Rudy Matuchek? This was the subject of much speculation among the neighbors, why a sweet, attractive young woman would ever marry “a man like that!” Leo had no answer. All he knew was that he had loved Emily more than anything in the whole world, and now she was dead. He blamed Rudy, and why not, since it was all his fault, making her cross the bridge with him when he knew it wasn’t safe, leaving Leo with nothing but a cold bed in an old hops-drying room.

No, that wasn’t true, not quite. For Emily had left him something beyond price: the music, and her violin.

One day, when Emily had gone upstreet and Rudy was taking care of customers, Leo had sneaked into the front room and lifted down the black case from the shelf. He set it on the floor, unsnapped the catches. The instrument lay in its bed of shiny-worn purple plush, and as he took it out his thumb struck the strings and it made an interesting sound. Turning, he saw his mother in the doorway. He was afraid she would be angry at him for touching her violin, but she had come toward him, smiling, with out-stretched arms and tears in her eyes. She wasn’t angry, she was pleased. She told him about his famous ancestor, the composer and concert violinist Joseph Joachim (the name had since received a minor alteration in spelling), who had played for the Emperor of Austria, and she showed him just how to tuck the instrument in the crook of his neck, moving his hand with her own so the bow slid across the strings, pressing his fingers on the fingerboard – there and there. That had been the start of Leo the violinist, and Emily put all her hopes and dreams of life in him: one day, she said, he would be a famous concert artist like Jascha Heifetz or Yehudi Menuhin.

Every afternoon, she gave him a lesson the same way her father had taught her, until he became technically proficient. She was patient and dogged, Leo was clever and persistent. He learned quickly. She called him her “prodigy,” her “little Paganini,” and she took him next door to Mrs Kranze, where he offered up “Poor Butterfly” for the old woman who lived in the back room, whose husband had played the viola with the Boston Symphony. The old woman kissed Leo’s cheek and said, “]a, gute, gute, sehr gute. ”

But when he was old enough to help out in the shop, the lessons stopped. “We need a butcher here,” Rudy barked, “not a music man. No rhapsodies in this house! Hear me?” That was when Leo learned just how determined a person his mother was. Before sending him off to school next morning she told him everything would be all right, and Leo divined that she intended he should continue with his lessons. But not here, not in the house. He must now begin with a professional teacher.

There was only one teacher of the violin in the whole of Saggetts Notch, a Mr Schneidermann, who occupied the quarters over the law offices in the Wooster Block at the end of L Street, on the other side of the river. Three days a week, after school, Leo would get on the trolley car and ride the length of L Street to the corner shop, where he would get off for his lesson. Emily told Rudy that Leo had gone to the YMCA branch for a swim lesson, and to put him further off the scent Leo would leave the empty case on the shelf and sneak the violin out under his jacket. Mr Schneidermann was a kind man and would never give Leo away, while – this was a happy coincidence – the lawyer on the street floor proved to be the same Mr Burroughs who’d bought Leo the saltwater taffy at the park, and he was happy to let Leo sneak up the back way, safe from prying eyes.

Soon the trip on the green trolley to Mr Schneidermann’s became a regular part of Leo’s routine. As he passed over the bridge he would gaze from the streetcar window down into the river thirty feet below, where Mr Kranze and his crew (Mr Kranze was a foreman on the state bridge-and-highway commission) were working to replace some badly rusted beams in the old king span. The view both exhilarated and repelled Leo. He knew he was safe on the streetcar – the gong went ding-ding, the wheels went rattle-and-clank, and on the overhead wire the little wheel that ran along gave off bright sparks – yet what if the bridge were to give way? Two years before, the thaw-swollen Cataraugus River had overflowed its banks and risen to street level, carrying away entire houses. And though the bridge itself had held, a woman and her child had been drowned in the flood, and Leo imagined that the woman was Emily, he the child, and that the bridge actually did give way and they both drowned in the foaming torrent.

Sometimes, when Rudy was too busy in the shop to miss her, Emily would go upstreet on the trolley car with Leo, to listen to him play. And sometimes, while Leo went upstairs for his lesson, Emily would wait downstairs in Mr Burrough’s office – she could hear perfectly well, she assured Leo – and when the lesson was over, Mr Burroughs, who said to call him John, would offer Leo taffy treats wrapped in colored waxed paper.

For a time Leo – and Emily – had been content in the belief that they were getting away with their subterfuge. Rudy seemingly paid no attention to their comings and goings (he was giving them enough rope to hang themselves, Leo later decided), all he cared about was his butcher shop. Then Leo had exciting news: John Burroughs arranged for Leo to travel by bus to Hartford to play an audition at the music school in that city, and Leo played so well that he was offered a special scholarship to continue his music education.

Emily was ecstatic. Her dream, she said over and over, was to have Leo play for the great conductor, Toscanini, and someday to be accepted into his radio orchestra, so she could tune in the program and hear Leo play. There was no doubt in her mind that she was raising a true musical prodigy, like Mozart or Chopin, and she craved the same sort of fame for her son.

But it was not to be. One day Rudy discovered the box of saltwater taffy John had given Leo, and he forced from him the truth about where the candy had come from. He cursed the name of Burroughs and swore he’d kill the man. He dragged Emily by the hair into the bedroom and berated her. Then he beat her mercilessly, until the terrified Leo ran down the stairs, out through the door, and over to Mrs Kranze. She called the police, who came and took Rudy away in the wagon, and Emily had a mouse in her eye for nearly a week, and an ankle she’d fallen on that had to be taped for her to walk.

When they let Rudy out of jail he came home sullen and unchastened, and snicked his belt out of his loops and bent Leo over his knee. And if the punishment failed to fit the crime, what did Rudy care? Leo was sent to bed without his supper and Emily wasn’t allowed near him. He cried himself to sleep and awoke to cloudy skies: that day the rains came and the river began to swell – the river that would free him from Rudy’s tyranny, but lose Leo his beloved mother as well.

He returned the photograph to his wallet, then rolled over on his stomach, feet crossed in the air, chin propped in his palms, as he regarded what he could see of the Haunted House: its yellow-painted clapboards and mermaid’s scales aged to an unappealing mustard shade, its tall, narrow windows bare of shutters, the glass broken out long ago, so that the empty oblongs stared out with a grim sort of blindness. Not surprising, Leo thought, when they had only a weed lot and a heap of coke cinders to gaze upon. Strange, the feeling the house gave him. What was it? Terrible things had taken place in those empty rooms that reminded him of

– what? What did it remind him of?

He shut his eyes tight, trying to squeeze out the dark thought that was like a slippery fish, an eel, maybe; it came swimming out of the black ooze, to dart past his eyes in a bright flash, then, before he could catch it, to be swallowed up again in the inky blackness. It was like fishing at the bottom of the sea, where stinging, paralyzing creatures lurked, anemones that bloomed like flowers and then shocked you to death.

A piece of the puzzle was missing, something he needed to put it all together, but like the little fish it eluded him. Perhaps it was better this way; sometimes it didn’t do to pry into these matters too much. Lift up a rock and you never knew what might crawl out. Maybe that was why people got amnesia, so they wouldn’t remember what they wanted so badly to forget. Leo knew a thing or two about amnesia. He remembered the doctor’s face, not Dr Percival at the Institute, but the other doctor – Epstein was his name

– who wore the white coat with the row of pens and pencils picketing the edge of his starched pocket. Eagle pencils they were, funny how Leo could remember a minor detail like that when he couldn’t remember – again that little fish of thought swam into his ken, but though he baited a hook he had no luck.

Resettling himself in a more comfortable position, he took his pen and notebook and began writing. Miss Meekum had been right: the notebook would give him a record of his Moonbow summer, one he’d cherish at a later time, and he’d been not only jotting down accounts of his day-to-day activities, and making notes on spiders, but trying his hand at stories, and character sketches of some of the campers he’d met so far – the ones he didn’t care for, bullies like Bullnuts Moriarity, and some of his cronies from High Endeavor, and the ones he did, like the other Jeremians, especially Tiger and the Bomber, and, next door in Ezekiel, Junior Leffingwell and Emerson Bean and Dusty Rhoades, who had been friendly toward him.

His concentration was broken as he heard a Tarzan yell, and, looking up he saw Tiger and Harpo charging across the meadow; with them came Eddie Fiske and the Bomber, venting the throaty cry of the born Berserker, charging at Leo head down, arms spread like airplane wings, palms flattening the tops of the Queen Anne’s lace. He threw himself down beside Leo, narrowly missing the violin case, which Tiger yanked from destruction only at the last moment.

“Cripes, spud, watch where you’re dumping that big can of yours, will ya?”

The Bomber looked around him. “I didn’t do nothin’. Jeez…”

“You would’ve crushed it if you’d sat on it.”

“But I din’t sit on it!”

“Yeah, but you almost did.”

“Nerts.”

The Bomber made himself comfortable, then pulled an Oh Henry! bar from his pocket and began peeling off the wrapper. The three boys had met up at Orcutt’s and made their purchases together. Tiger spilled out between his bare knees the contents of a small paper sack: flat squares of brightly wrapped bubble-gum packets, each one containing a card bearing a portrait of either a befeathered Indian chief or a famous baseball player. He offered Leo his choice of the packets to start his own gum-card collection: Leo got Lefty Gomez.

“Hey, Leo, aren’t you supposed to be at Sandbag College?” the Bomber asked, munching on the Oh Henry! bar.

Tiger darted Leo a look that said he agreed with the Bomber. It wouldn’t do to rile Coach, who was already down on Leo because of his chicken-wing.

“That’s okay,” Leo said, more unwilling than ever to tear himself away from the meadow now that his friends had come. “I’d rather stay here. Besides, there’s time. I can practice with Coach during swim.”

Tiger still looked doubtful – Coach didn’t like changes in his plans, and Leo needed swim practice, too – but the Bomber, having consumed the remains of his candy bar at a bite and licked his sticky fingers, chose that moment to insert them into Harpo’s mouth to finish the job.

“Come on,” said Tiger, disgusted. “He’s not a napkin, you know, he’s a dog.”

The Bomber looked properly chagrined, while the dog went on licking his chops. For a moment they were quiet. The stream bubbled over the weir, the birds sang in the trees, the scene was properly bucolic. In the distance they could hear the sound of the Moonbow Maid, Doc Oliphant’s new Chris-Craft.

“I bet that’s Heartless and Honey,” Eddie said, and they all jumped up for a better look. Out on the water they saw the bright flash of chrome, and the glossy red mahogany hull of the gorgeous speedboat creating a feathery wake as it spanked across the water. And even at a distance they could make out the bare-chested figure of their counselor, a jaunty white yachting cap on his head and his pipe clenched in his mouth. He was lounging on the back of the seat, piloting the boat with his bare toes, and, beside him, her golden hair flying, looking curvy and kissy in a yellow bathing suit, was Honey Oliphant.

For a while it looked as if the boat might be headed for the China Garden – the icehouse was reputed to be a Heartless rendezvous – and the boys prepared to make themselves scarce. But Reece evidently had other things in mind: the boat went speeding off toward the opposite shore.

As the sound of the motor faded, Eddie ventured a question. “Do you think he and Honey – I mean – you know what the guys are saying – about going all the way?” he asked, his eyes rounding with the possibilities. The Bomber also probed them. Honey Oliphant was a walking, breathing, ugly-duckling story. For years here was this scrawny kid, flat as a bed slat, with her chopped-off hair sticking out all over her head, and wowie! This summer the whole camp had been astonished by the incredible transformation, duckling into swan.

“She’s sure got a build on her,” the Bomber said fondly. Leo agreed. In his brief stay at camp he had already suffered through several manifestations of that ineffable vision, whose name, it seemed, was upon the lips and in the heart of every camper over the age of six. Honey, to use Reece’s phrase, was a four-point-oh girl.

Despite his occasional proximity to the luscious creature, however, Honey remained a mystery to Leo (he had yet to address a syllable to her, or she to him). Still, as he imagined the scent of the traces of perfume that she must surely leave trailing behind her, he also imagined what it would be like to hold her in his arms and kiss her and hear her say, “I love you, Leo Joaquim.” But who was he kidding? And at this point his feelings about Reece became more complicated – for, along with the classy Nancy Rider, whose snapshot graced Reece’s mirror, Honey Oliphant was the sole and exclusive property of the counselor of Cabin 7.

Now the others began kidding about Reece, about how he was a real Don Juan, a sailor with a girl in every port, who always kept a couple of prophylactics (he favored Trojans, the red-and-black pack) in the glove compartment of the Green Hornet “just in case.” Leo enjoyed the notion of his counselor being a wolf – certain romantic exploits just made a man that much more to be admired and envied – but when it came to Honey Oliphant, he wasn’t so sure.

The talk dwindled away and for a few minutes the four boys again fell silent. Then, “You all set for the big hunt, Leo?” Eddie asked, referring to the annual Snipe Hunt, which was to take place that evening.

“I still don’t get what it’s all about,” Leo said. “I mean, what exactly do we do?”

“You’ll find out,” Eddie replied mysteriously.

Leo felt a creeping suspicion. “Just where do we hunt these famous snipe?” he asked.

“Over in Indian Woods,” said Tiger, sitting up.

“They build their nests there,” the Bomber added.

Leo looked from one to the other, assaying their expressions. “If you ask me, I think there’s something screwy about this whole deal,” he said. “These birds must be awfully stupid. Why don’t they just fly away?”

Tiger shook his head. “They can’t. They’re like penguins, their wings aren’t big enough.”

Leo was not impressed. “I still think there’s a catch to it,” he insisted.

“Sure there’s a catch,” the Bomber said. “A catch of snipe.” He rolled over and presented his amiable features to Leo. “Whyn’tcha play somethin’ for us?” he urged, changing the subject.

Obligingly, Leo again opened his case, and took out the violin.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” the Bomber asked, looking into the open lid, which showed a label of frayed gold silk printed with the words “Heindorp Briider. Leipzig.” “That’s the name of the people who made the violin,” Leo replied, adding that the Heindorp brothers were famous in Leipzig.

“What about them initials?” The Bomber indicated the almost worn-off gilt letters stamped on the forward rim of the case.

“My mother’s,” Leo said. “This was her violin. What would you like to hear?”

Before the Bomber could respond, Tiger put in his request.

“How’s about ‘The Music Goes ’Round and Around’?” Fair enough. Taking up the violin, Leo began fiddling up the corny melody in a mock heroic style with lots of exaggerated swoops and arpeggios, making the ditty sound comical, yet performing in the most straight-faced manner possible, with no trace of humor or mischief in his face. As he sawed off the “Whoa-ho-ho-ho” part his listeners laughed, then joined in on the bridge.

I push the middle valve down.

The music goes down around below, below,

Dee-dle-dee ho-ho-ho,

Listen to the ja-azz come out

Then, without finishing the piece, Leo segued into the Mendelssohn “Spring Song,” for a fillip adding a clever bird-whistle. The boys were impressed; this was what music-making was all about. But it was getting on toward Morning Swim – time to head back to camp – and at the conclusion of the piece Leo laid his violin again in its case, shut the lid, and snapped the catches. When he looked up, he saw the Bomber trotting off, not in the direction of the road, but heading for the Haunted House, Harpo sniffing in his footsteps.

“Here, boy,” Tiger called, but the dog paid no attention as he tracked the Bomber’s spoor. When Tiger started off toward the Old Lake Road, Leo got up, tapped the spider from its web into the codfish box, slid the panel shut, then gathered up the remainder of his gear.

“Hey, you guys, you cornin’?” the Bomber called impatiently as he made his way around a clump of pricker bushes and marched across a patch of weeds to the line of trees separating the house from the meadow.

Leo shot a querying glance at Tiger, who shook his head. The fact of Leo’s failure to attend baseball practice ought not to be compounded by any illegal activity, and the Steelyard house and property were strictly off limits. “Skip it,” Tiger said, “let’s hop it,” and went on toward the road, while an irresolute Leo lagged behind with Eddie, both of them darting looks to where the Bomber was just disappearing among the trees.

Eddie winked at Leo. “Want to…?”

Leo was staring at the house now, at the window in the tower. “It’s against the rules…” he said halfheartedly; part of him would go, part stay.

“Oh, sure, but that doesn’t stop anybody,” Eddie replied blithely. “Come on, one look won’t hurt. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I better get going.” Leo was feeling guilty: Tiger had reached the road and Leo should be with him.

“There’s time,” Eddie coaxed as he started away. For another moment Leo stood undecided; then, knowing he should go back to camp, he left his knapsack and violin in a hollow at the foot of the sycamore tree and followed Eddie toward the house.

As they threaded their way through the screen of trees to the backyard, Leo’s eye fell on the sealed-up well.

“Did somebody really put a dead body down there?” he asked.

“That’s the story,” Eddie replied.

“What’s the rest of it?”

“You’re gonna have to wait and hear it from Hank Ives on ghost-story night. It’s a wowzer. Come on,” he added, leading the way past the well to the front of the house. The Bomber was on the porch, peeking through a window.

“Hey, you guys – get a load of this-” he called over his shoulder.

“Whatcha got?” asked Eddie.

“Wait’ll you see,” said the Bomber, his tone inviting their participation.

Leo hung back, his heart suddenly pounding, but Eddie sprang nimbly onto the porch. “Screw off, Jerome, I bet it isn’t anything.”

“That’s what you think. Have a look.” He pointed to the window. “There’s a dead body in there.”

“Aw, come on, Fat Stuff. Can it, willya?”

“If you don’t believe me, see for yourself. There’s a stiff in that room: it’s lyin’ right there on the floor, a real live dead body. If you don’t see no corpse in that room I’ll let you have my desserts for a whole week.”

Eddie, whose great weakness was desserts, was snared. He crossed the porch, leaned on the windowsill, and looked inside. What he saw provoked a scornful exclamation, and as he yanked his head back he banged his crown against the sash.

“So, wasn’t I right?” the Bomber crowed. “Didn’t you see a dead body?”

“It’s only a bird,” Eddie said.

The Bomber gloated. “So what? Dead’s dead, ain’t it? I win.”

“The heck you do,” Eddie declared. “That’s not a fair bet.”

Eddie’s indignation fell on deaf ears as the Bomber dropped to the ground and gave Leo an elbow and a wink, then made his way along the side of the house. Harpo, ever curious, went bounding after him. By the time Eddie and Leo came around the corner, the Bomber was waiting on the top step of the cellar hatchway. Were they actually going down there?

Eddie tossed Leo an encouraging nod and disappeared after the Bomber and Harpo, leaving Leo staring at the gaping hatch. Once again his heart was pounding. Over the low doorway was a crudely crayoned legend: