Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

“What does the sign mean?” Leo asked. “What are Rinky dinks?”

While Eddie described the illegal organization, the Bomber marched over to a wall and paced out a distance along the footing, then knelt and dislodged a stone, from behind which he extracted a coffee can. Bringing it back to the bench, he removed the lid and pulled out a half-empty pack of Old Gold cigarettes, along with a finger-soiled envelope.

“Smoke?” He fished a squashed cigarette from the crumpled pack and lit up.

“Sure, give us a drag,” Eddie said. The Bomber handed over his butt, then watched Eddie draw and choke, expelling the smoke in three gusts through both mouth and nostrils. The Bomber was contemptuous.

“Cripes, Ed, you know somethin’ – you smoke just like an old lady. Why don’tcha learn to inhale like I showed you?”

“It hurts my throat.”

“You got to get it way down into your lungs and then blow it out. See? Like this.” The Bomber offered an eloquent demonstration of this procedure, puffing voluminously, then proceeded to blow three uniform smoke rings that waffled gracefully through the air.

“You want a drag, Leo?” The Bomber held out the fuming butt. “These have ‘latakeeah’ in ’em,” he pointed out.

“Latakeeah’s only a kind of Turkish tobacco, that’s all,” Leo said knowledgeably. He took a drag, inhaled it, then coughed it out in a thick cloud.

“Must be the latakeeah,” the Bomber said with a smirk.

Leo took another puff; the pugeant tobacco was at once heady^ and dizzying. “ 'Kaf kaf,’ said Major Hoople,” he said; Eddie and the Bomber both chuckled. The blowhard major with the Shriner’s fez was a comic-strip favorite.

The three continued puffing on the cigarette, passing it back and forth; while they smoked, the Bomber made Leo privy to the contents of the envelope: half a dozen dog-eared photographs, which he ceremoniously tendered to Leo for perusal.

Leo blushed; he had never gazed upon their like before – though he’d heard of such phenomena often enough at Pitt, the large-buttocked women clad only in black stockings, the gentlemen self-conscious in funny-looking underwear, gartered socks; one of them wore a derby hat, which rendered him ridiculous, given his activity.

“They’re French,” the Bomber explained, about the cards. “From Gay Paree.”

Leo nodded, hoping he appeared sophisticated. He wondered what Kretch would have to say about all this. The Bomber made a sudden move, holding out his hand for silence.

“Cripes!”

“What is it?”

“Sssh. Button up. Somebody’s up there. Hear?”

Leo cocked an ear and, indeed, the Bomber was right. From overhead came the sound of stealthy footsteps. Someone was tiptoeing around up there! Cripes. The Bomber snatched the pictures from Leo’s hand and stuffed them back in the coffee can, then hastily returned it to its hiding place. Leo listened hard, wondering whether to bolt or stay put. Yes, definitely – someone was moving around up there. Now he was wishing they hadn’t visited the cellar – it was a mistake – they should have obeyed the signs and avoided the place like a pesthouse.

Suddenly the silence in the cellar was broken. Bounding toward the hatchway steps, Harpo began to bark. Harpo! His noise was bound to give them away.

“C’mon, let’s scram outta here,” the Bomber said and started toward the hatchway. But before they could gain the stairs, Bullnuts Moriarity came thundering down at them bellowing like a Blue Briton, followed by what seemed to Leo like a horde of savages, all yelling and waving their arms. Among the foe he glimpsed the moon-like features of Moon Mullens; Billy Bosey was there too, and Barty Tugwell, all bent on punishing the boys who had intruded into their sanctum. Leo felt himself slammed from side to side until he came dizzy. Someone gave him a jab in the ribs, while another had got his fingers into Leo’s hair and was trying to yank it out. Then, using brute force, the Bomber muscled his way through, dragging Leo along with him, Eddie in their wake. Before he knew it Leo was out the lower door and scrambling up the hatchway steps to freedom.

At the top he barked his shin on the edge of the stone step. The pain was excruciating and, biting back his moans, he hopped around on one foot, then hobbled off to hide in a clump of sumac bushes. By this time Eddie and the Bomber had reached the road and were nearly around the bend. From the cellar came angry voices, disputing whether or not to give chase. Evidently the decision was against pursuit, for no Rinkydink reappeared. Finally, feeling himself safe, Leo made his way back to the pond to collect his knapsack and violin; then, brushing the leaves from his knees, he headed down the lane to the road where he turned toward camp. When he reached the bend, he glanced back over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure that the house was still there; as he looked, he saw, or had the impression of, a shadowy figure seated in the upstairs window, gazing out – at him or at the view? He could not tell.

Out on the lower playing field the hour was on the cusp, gently poised between the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon, as the campers at Friend-Indeed gathered for the Snipe Hunt. Odd currents of barely stifled excitement whiffled among the knots of spectators and would-be nimrods who stood about conversing, not in giddy boisterousness, but soberly – an indication of the sport’s importance as a Traditional Camp Activity. Observing somberly from the sidelines, Leo wondered what they were saying, the old campers who were exchanging knowing winks and glances. Something was up, definitely.

Leo had no spirit for the evening’s activity, this hunt that the others expressed such a rousing passion for. Frankly, he’d just as soon skip it. As anticipated, his reception upon his return to camp had been on the heated side. Hap Holliday, fuming over the missed practice session, declared that Wacko could go on throwing a ball like Clara Bow for all he cared – he was washing his hands of the chicken-wing. Reece was even more put out and inclined toward stern measures. Having got wind of the illegal visit to the Haunted House, he docked all three malefactors three days’ worth of desserts. Since the Bomber and Eddie were old-timers and knew better than to go near such off-limits places, they were also deprived of their free-swim privileges, while Leo got a private dressing-down from his counselor, who let him know in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to fit into camp life he was going to have to play by the rules; alienating Coach by standing him up – and earning himself five blackies – was no way to get on at Friend-Indeed.

Leo would willingly have borne all without a twitch, if his misadventure hadn’t affected his friendship with Tiger Abernathy. Though Tiger had little to say about the morning’s matters, his very silence spoke volumes, and after dinner he broke a date with Leo to go canoeing; instead, while everyone was getting ready for the Snipe Hunt, he lay in bed reading a book and studiously ignoring Leo.

In the end, however, having decided that the real fault lay with the Bomber for coaxing Leo (and Eddie) into the cellar in the first place, he took pity, and when the other Jeremians left the cabin to join the group on the field, he detained Leo for a personal word. Slipping from his pocket something resembling a watch, he tucked it surreptitiously into Leo’s hand.

“Take this along,” he urged. “In case you need it.”

“What is it?”

“A compass. See?” He unsnapped the case of crocodile leatherette.

“Am I going to get lost?”

“No, but if by any chance you do-” He gave Leo a quick briefing on how to use the instrument. “And here’s a Hershey Bar – you might get hungry.” He slapped the candy bar into Leo’s palm, along with a packet of matches, also “in case,” and. gave him a friendly poke. “C’mon, let’s hop it.”