Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

“Okay for you,” he said aloud, tossing a pebble into the water, and returned his attention to Elsie, who had labored on without letup. In the end he felt compelled to take her; she was probably the last spider he would add to his exhibit before leaving camp. More happy points for Jeremiah: what a joke that was. He fished out a codfish box from his knapsack, pulled back the lid,'and, using his pen, flicked the creature inside and slid the top home.

It was not until the following morning, after cabin cleanup, while they waited for inspection, that he remembered “Elsie.” The Robert the Bruce spider had passed a supper-less night, and it was with some trepidation that Leo now removed her box from the knapsack to have a look. Elsie lay on her back, her eight legs bent and shriveled up. But when Leo gave the inert form a shake, she miraculously revived; her legs straightened, she flopped onto her belly, and began to scramble frantically around her prison.

“Yikes! It’s alive!” cried Peewee (having “dropped by” as usual), as the spider crawled up the side of the box. Leo tried to contain her by reinserting the panel into its grooves, but he wasn’t fast enough and she escaped, describing an arc through the air to land near Reece’s footlocker, where Tiger sat sewing on the button that had popped off his polo shirt during the last ball game.

“Look out – look out!” shouted Peewee, dancing up and down like a dervish. “It’s on you! It’s on your leg!”

Tiger was frozen in place, staring at the spider clinging to his thigh.

“Don’t worry,” Leo said. “It’s not going to hurt anybody.” Slowly he put out his hand to seize the towel hanging at the end of Eddie’s bunk, and with a quick pass brushed the spider from Tiger’s leg into the box.

“You ought to keep those dumb things out of here,” Phil said darkly as Leo slid the top shut.

“Yeah,” said Dump. “What if he’d got bit? We’ve got a game tomorrow, you know.”

“It wouldn’t matter if he did,” Leo said. “The spiders around here aren’t poisonous.”

“How do you know?” demanded Phil.

“Because there are only two venomous spiders in the whole United States, and neither is indigenous to Connecticut.” “Aw, screw you and your fifty-cent words, Wacko,” Phil sneered. “You think you know everything.”

“I know which spiders are dangerous and which aren’t, and that’s a lot more than you seem to know.”

“Spiders can bite, even if they’re not poisonous,” Monkey argued.

“I think it did,” Tiger said, with a sheepish laugh. As the others crowded around, he indicated a small red mark visible on the inside of his thigh. Leo got down on his knees and inspected the bite.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he said finally. “But just to be on the safe side, maybe you should go let Wanda take a look at it.”

“Naw, forget it,” Tiger said, without looking at Leo. “I’ll just put some stuff on it.” He found a half-dollar-size tin of Campho-Phenique and dabbed some on the mark, and let it go at that.

By the next morning, however, the mark had enlarged and turned purple. “Now I go see Wanda,” Tiger announced, and after breakfast off he went to the infirmary, while the other Jeremians waited at the cabin. A scowling Phil let Leo know just where the boys – and their counselor -stood on matters.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Phil said grimly, while Dump and Monkey muttered about “Wacko’s spider,” making Leo feel worse than he already did. Fortunately, when Tiger came back, the bite washed and dressed with a square gauze pad fastened by adhesive tape, he reported that Wanda’s diagnosis was that there was nothing to worry about: he was still good for today’s game.

Later, just before powwow Leo came in from the cottage, where he’d been listening to records with Fritz, to find Tiger sitting in his bunk discussing with Phil the results of the game (Red Sox 9, Cards 2; Abernathy slammed three homers, putting Jeremiah in the lead for the Trophy at last). Leo looked at the bandage on Tiger’s leg, wanting to say something, but unable to find the right words. In the adjoining bunk the Bomber was thumbing through a dog-eared copy of National Geographic, studying a bevy of bare-breasted maidens. Suddenly he sat up.

“Hey, watch it, guys, here comes H ^ eart l ^ ess›” he said, and, stuffing the magazine under his pillow, he hopped out the side of the cabin to hang his wet towel and trunks on the line, while inside Jeremiah, Reece greeted his boys, then sat down on his footlocker and shucked off his tennis shoes. Removing his sweaty socks, he folded them neatly before dropping them into his laundry case. One foot crossed over a knee, he dusted his toes with foot powder before donning fresh socks.

“How’s the bite?” he asked Tiger offhandedly.

“Okay,” came the reply.

“Let’s have a look anyway.”

“No, really, it’s okay.”

“So let me see,” Reece insisted.

“It’s bandaged,” Tiger demurred. “Wanda said not to take it off.”

Reece scowled. “Look, Kemo Sabe, I want to check it, okay? So hop down here toot sweet and let’s have a look at it.”

Knowing better than to argue when Reece’s mind was set, Tiger jumped down from his bunk, hitting the floor hard. “It’s okay, I’m telling you,” he said.

“Good,” Reece declared. “But I still want to make sure. Jeremiah may be ahead on points, but we’ve got to stay that way if we’re going to cop that Trophy.” He drew Tiger to him and, using his fingernails, he lifted' away the adhesive strips so the gauze pad hung down like a miniature trapdoor. Leaning closer, he whistled softly.

“Whoa, now, fellah, this doesn’t look so good.” What had been a small red mark had now developed an angry-looking whitehead of pus at its center.

“Jeez, I thought you said it was clearing up,” Phil said. “It doesn’t hurt,” Tiger returned stolidly.

Reece got up and rummaged around in his footlocker. “If it’s come to a head, that just means it needs lancing, to get the pus out.”

“That’s okay, I’d rather have Wanda do it,” Tiger protested, trying to tape the pad back in position.

“Sure, sure, I know; but she’s not here.” It was true: Fritz and Wanda had driven into Putnam to see a movie show. Reece brought out his canvas sewing kit and unrolled it, slipped a needle from among several others, then meticulously rerolled the kit. He took the needle, produced a matchbook and, using his last match, passed the tip through the flame. He laid aside the burnt match and empty book, blew on the needle to cool it, then began to probe the head of the pustule.

Tiger squirmed. “Ouch, that hurts.”

“Come on, hold still, can’t you? Stop fidgeting.”

“I just wish you’d quit,” Tiger said.

“It’s got to be done, camper, if you’d just – godarn it!” lie exclaimed, as the needle escaped his fingers. He retrieved it quickly and, steadying his hand, broke the skin of the pustule, releasing the fluid. “There – see, all done!” He milled a tissue from the Kleenex packet on his shelf and blotted up the leakage, then deftly restored Wanda’s gauze |›. id with its adhesive strips as the other Jeremians burst into the cabin. liy all rights this impromptu job of surgery should Itave done the trick; unfortunately, it did not. Next day, when Tiger reported to the infirmary to have the dressing i lunged, there was a degree of increased inflammation that i iiused Wanda to wonder, but she washed the infection thoroughly, dressed it, and applied a fresh bandage.

“Better lay off the swimming for a day or two,” she advised. “And check back with me this afternoon.”

Though Tiger did his share of grousing, he heeded Wanda’s advice and stayed out of the water, morning and afternoon. But by the following morning he was limping, and, he announced, his leg had begun to throb. The boys watched as he peeled down the tapes and dropped the gauze pad. Overnight the inflamed area had enlarged to the size of a quarter, and there were Scarlet lines extending above and below the infected area. Again Tiger headed for the infirmary.