Free Camp Pleasant by Richard Matheson Page A

camp to gather up the unwilling complement of my club of glee.
    It was about an hour later amidst struggles with a wounded and dying
Onward Christian Soldiers
that the screen door of the dining hall wailed open and heavy, sneakered footfalls intruded. I glanced over and saw Big Ed approaching. About the same time, the boys saw him too and, in piecemeal fashion, stopped singing.
    There was a vengeful look in Ed Nolan’s eyes as he came up to me.
    “You were told t’take
care
o Rocca,” was the first thing he said.
    A spasm of fear contracted my stomach muscles; not fear of Ed’s displeasure but fear for Tony. “What happened?” I asked quickly.
    “I found him up at the
ball
field,” he said testily. “That how you take care of him?”
    “You mean he—”
    “He’s s’posed t’be in his cabin!”
    “Is there anything wrong with him?”
    “Anything wrong? Naw, naw, not a thing. He’s only got a bandaged foot and a bandaged hand!”
    “I don’t mean that,” I said. “I mean have his stitches opened or anything like—”
    “Never mind,” said Big Ed.
    I realized suddenly that little pitchers with grandiose ears were absorbing the entire scene. “All right,” I asided to them, “all of you wait outside till—”
    “That’s enough
singin’,”
Ed immediately countermanded. “Go get some sun and exercise.”
    “Yay!” A general cheer, a general, floor-shaking exodus around my fuming self.
    “I can’t very well improve their singing without practice,” I said irritably to Ed when the sound of running and screen door slappings had abated.
    “Never mind that,” he shunted me aside again. “Let’s get somethin’ clear right now, Harper. You’re responsible for your cabin—
twenty-four hours a day!”
    “Mister Nolan, was Tony Rocca playing ball?”
    “He probably would’ve at any second,” he answered. “That would’ve
really
taken care of his hand.”
    “Mister Nolan,” I said, “I knew Tony Rocca was up there. He—”
    “You
knew
it!”
    “Will you let me finish?” I snapped, catching him flat-footed. “I gave him permission to go up there on the stipulation that he wouldn’t do anything besides sit there and watch.”
    His repressing of anger was plainly visible but he managed it. A look of contempt crossed his features.
    “And you believed him,”
he said.
    “Yes,”
I said, “I believed him. I thought it was time somebody had a little faith in the kid.”
    “You know
all
about him, don’t ya?”
    “I know enough,” I said, not thinking.
    The lines of his face tensed into lines of hard curiosity. “
How
d’ya know?” he demanded suddenly. “Who told ya?”
    “Tony,” I said.
    “Did
Goldberg
tell ya?”
    “No. Tony told me.” I had to swallow but I didn’t.
    “I don’t like lyin’ from my counselors, boy,” he said. “If I find out ya been lyin’….”
    He left it unfinished, potential. There was silence a moment, each of us staring at the other. Then he turned away, and casually, dropped behind him these words.
    “Go help Rocca pack. He’s bein’ transferred.”
    “What?”
I started forward with a jerky movement. “Transferred? What for?”
    He stopped and whirled. “Because you don’t know how t’take care of him, that’s why!” he stormed.
    I shuddered back, thrown off balance by the vehemence of his attack. “That’s not true,” I said. “It’s not true at all.”
    “I s’pose ya call lettin’ him get cut t’
pieces
takin’ care of him!”
    “These things weren’t my fault,” I said. “Besides, they’re not the important—”
    “Aaah, get out o’ here!” he snarled. “You’re like all of ‘em; you so- called brainy boys. All talk and no sense. You’re bluffs,
all
o’ ya!”
    “Sure,” I said flatly. “Whose cabin is Tony going to?”
    Was that a smile? “MacNeil’s” said Big Ed Nolan.
    I turned away. “That’s
swell,’”
I said.
    Walking back to the cabin, I wondered why Ed hadn’t fired me. The only