to win a volleyball game from the Chipmunks of Jaguar Lodge, which had two six-foot-six-inch monsters who kept hammering the ball down our throats, since the rest of us averaged about four foot six. Suddenly, in the middle of the game, a rumpus broke out in the woods back of one of the Beaver cabins.
Biggie had trapped Baxter red-handed with a freshly lit Lucky Strike clamped in his jaw.
“O.K., Baxter, I got you at last! You’re the one that’s been throwin’ them butts around. Hand over that package.”
We crowded around in a big circle as Baxter, his face a rich crimson, his stubbly neck bulging with anger, hauled out a freshly opened pack of Luckies from the pocket of his shorts and handed them over.
“You like cigarettes, Baxter? O.K., buddy boy, you’re gonna get cigarettes. You keep puffin’ until I tell you to stop. You’re gonna smoke every one a’ these coffin nails one after the other. Now, get puffin’. One a’ you guys go get me a bucket from the latrine.”
A Beaver behind me who had obviously been around hissed in a low tone, “My God, it’s the bucket treatment!”
Baxter puffed away sneeringly on the Lucky, while Biggie stood over him. Jake and his scurvy crew mumbled in the crowd, giving bad looks to any Chipmunk who dared to smile. Someone came running back with the mop bucket.
“O.K., Baxter.” Biggie grabbed the bucket and lowered it upside down over Baxter’s head. A murmur swept through the audience. “Now, you puff on that Lucky, y’hear me in there?”
Biggie knocked on the top of the bucket with his knuckles, making a hollow donging sound. Smoke billowed out from under Baxter’s helmet. “Keep puffin’, Baxter. That smoke is gettin’ thin.” Biggie knocked again on the bucket. More smoke billowed out.
“How long can he keep it up?” said the Beaver behind me in an awed voice.
We found out. Baxter cracked at a little over six minutes. A hollow gurgling sound came from under the bucket.
“Had enough, Baxter?” Biggie lifted the bucket. Baxter, his face the color of a rotten cantaloupe, lurched into the weeds, retching violently.
“Watch it there, Baxter. You’re gonna have to police that up.” Biggie rubbed it in. “Hey, Baxter!” he yelled. “What you need is a nice Lucky to calm your nerves.”
There was another storm of retching, then silence.
“All right, you men. Get back to what you were doin’. This ain’t no show.”
We scattered. Another Nobba-WaWa-Nockee legend was born. Naturally, there were repercussions. A Chipmunk who had laughed openly at Baxter’s humilation was mysteriously set upon in the dark one night, depantsed, and found in the latrine, his head protruding from the second hole. He was rescued just in time. Cross-examined for hours in relays by various counselors, he wisely refused to say who had perpetrated the deed. Every Chipmunk in camp knew that Jake Brannigan and Dan Baxter had struck again.
“Come on, you guys, quit screwin’ around. I gotta find my sweater! You heard what old Fartridge said. We got ten minutes to get out by that crummy flagpole before they start this crummy treasure hunt.” Flick was rooting around in his laundry bag as Schwartz and a couple of other guys rolled on the floor, battling over a bag of malted-milk balls they had found cleverly concealed under the fat Chipmunk’s mattress.
“Fartridge,” of course, was Morey Partridge. Because of his complexion, he was also known as “Birdshit” among the Chipmunks. Historically, prisoners of war have always given deserving names to their jailers. Cliffie, for example, was better known as “Violet” or “That Fag” among the green-beanie crowd. It was reported that even Mrs. Bullard herself called the colonel “Old Leather Ass.” Biggie had become “the Tank” or “Lard Butt” and Crabtree had evolved to “Craptree” and finally to “Crappo.” He was even, among the Beavers, known affectionately as “Crabs” in commemoration of a
Biggie had trapped Baxter red-handed with a freshly lit Lucky Strike clamped in his jaw.
“O.K., Baxter, I got you at last! You’re the one that’s been throwin’ them butts around. Hand over that package.”
We crowded around in a big circle as Baxter, his face a rich crimson, his stubbly neck bulging with anger, hauled out a freshly opened pack of Luckies from the pocket of his shorts and handed them over.
“You like cigarettes, Baxter? O.K., buddy boy, you’re gonna get cigarettes. You keep puffin’ until I tell you to stop. You’re gonna smoke every one a’ these coffin nails one after the other. Now, get puffin’. One a’ you guys go get me a bucket from the latrine.”
A Beaver behind me who had obviously been around hissed in a low tone, “My God, it’s the bucket treatment!”
Baxter puffed away sneeringly on the Lucky, while Biggie stood over him. Jake and his scurvy crew mumbled in the crowd, giving bad looks to any Chipmunk who dared to smile. Someone came running back with the mop bucket.
“O.K., Baxter.” Biggie grabbed the bucket and lowered it upside down over Baxter’s head. A murmur swept through the audience. “Now, you puff on that Lucky, y’hear me in there?”
Biggie knocked on the top of the bucket with his knuckles, making a hollow donging sound. Smoke billowed out from under Baxter’s helmet. “Keep puffin’, Baxter. That smoke is gettin’ thin.” Biggie knocked again on the bucket. More smoke billowed out.
“How long can he keep it up?” said the Beaver behind me in an awed voice.
We found out. Baxter cracked at a little over six minutes. A hollow gurgling sound came from under the bucket.
“Had enough, Baxter?” Biggie lifted the bucket. Baxter, his face the color of a rotten cantaloupe, lurched into the weeds, retching violently.
“Watch it there, Baxter. You’re gonna have to police that up.” Biggie rubbed it in. “Hey, Baxter!” he yelled. “What you need is a nice Lucky to calm your nerves.”
There was another storm of retching, then silence.
“All right, you men. Get back to what you were doin’. This ain’t no show.”
We scattered. Another Nobba-WaWa-Nockee legend was born. Naturally, there were repercussions. A Chipmunk who had laughed openly at Baxter’s humilation was mysteriously set upon in the dark one night, depantsed, and found in the latrine, his head protruding from the second hole. He was rescued just in time. Cross-examined for hours in relays by various counselors, he wisely refused to say who had perpetrated the deed. Every Chipmunk in camp knew that Jake Brannigan and Dan Baxter had struck again.
“Come on, you guys, quit screwin’ around. I gotta find my sweater! You heard what old Fartridge said. We got ten minutes to get out by that crummy flagpole before they start this crummy treasure hunt.” Flick was rooting around in his laundry bag as Schwartz and a couple of other guys rolled on the floor, battling over a bag of malted-milk balls they had found cleverly concealed under the fat Chipmunk’s mattress.
“Fartridge,” of course, was Morey Partridge. Because of his complexion, he was also known as “Birdshit” among the Chipmunks. Historically, prisoners of war have always given deserving names to their jailers. Cliffie, for example, was better known as “Violet” or “That Fag” among the green-beanie crowd. It was reported that even Mrs. Bullard herself called the colonel “Old Leather Ass.” Biggie had become “the Tank” or “Lard Butt” and Crabtree had evolved to “Craptree” and finally to “Crappo.” He was even, among the Beavers, known affectionately as “Crabs” in commemoration of a
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