Camp Pleasant by Richard Matheson

morning. He was sitting in front of the kitchen door, scrubbing way inside a deep garbage can with his bad hand.
    “What the—?”
    Tony looked up, his face a mask of hate; which softened only a trifle when he saw me.
    “What’s he making you clean garbage cans for?” I asked.
    “Because he’s a
bastard,”
Tony said bitterly.
    “Did you have a fight?”
    “So—I had a fight.”
    “Oh,
Tony
. Who with? Oh, never mind—what’s the difference? Tony, when are you going to stop fighting?”
    “When they stop pickin’ on me,” he said: the story of his life.
    I looked at him a moment, then noticed that there was blood seeping from under the edges of his bandage.
    “How long has it been bleeding?” I asked.
    “What do I care?” he snapped.
    “Can’t you clean the can with your other hand?”
    “I’m a
lefty.”
    Another moment of me returning his truculent gaze. Then I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. He pulled away.
    “Come on, Tony,” I said quietly. “I’m on your side; you know that.”
    “Nobody’s on my side.”
    “Tony.”
    “Well … none o’ ya
do
nothin’!” he said angrily. “Ya all shit in ya pants when that fat slob comes around!”
    “Wait a minute,” I said, turning away abruptly.
    “Sure!” he said. “I got
plenty
o’time! I’ll be here all day!” I heard him fling his wooden brush into the can.

    Ed Nolan looked up from his desk. “Whatta
you
want?” he inquired.
    “Tony Rocca can’t clean those cans any more.”
    “What business is it of yours?”
    “His hand is bleeding. He can’t clean garbage cans in that condition.”
    “I seem t’remember takin’ him out of your cabin,” said Big Ed.
    “Whether he’s in my cabin or not does not alter the fact that his hand is bleeding. His stitches have probably—”
    “I told ya he’s not your concern any more,” he said, his voice rising.
    “You mean you’re going to let him—”
    “And I told you to stay out o’ my way,” he snapped.
    “All right,” I said. “
All right.”
I walked down along the lake edge until I reached Doc Rainey’s tent. I told him about Tony and his face grew worried. He put down his fountain pen and blew out a long, tired breath.
    “You can stop it, can’t you?” I asked.
    “I’m afraid not, Harper. I—”
    “For Christ’s sake, isn’t there
any
stop to his abuses?”
    “Is it really as bad as all that?” Doc asked me. “Don’t you think Ed would stop the boy if he thought he wasn’t well?”
    “No,” I said, “I don’t think it.”
    “Now, son,” he said, “aren’t you being carried away a little?”
    “All right,” I said, “I’m being carried away.” I turned for the tent entrance. “But I’m going to get that kid off that damn detail if I get thrown out of camp for it. I’ve had it.”
    “Son, don’t do anything you’ll be—”
    When he didn’t finish I looked back and saw that he was rising from the table.
    “All right,” he said wearily, “I’ll see what I can do.”
    I stopped off at the dispensary as Doc headed for the dining hall. Ten minutes later, Miss Leiber and I came up to where Ed and Doc were looking at Tony’s hand.
    “He’s all right,” I heard Ed say. “It’s just a little—” He broke off suddenly and glared at me as we came up. I avoided his small eyes as Miss Leiber plucked up Tony’s hand and examined it.
    “Well,” she said in a disgusted voice, “This boy will have to come back to the dispensary again.”
    “Why?” Ed asked.
    “Why?” she said. I had to restrain a grin at the way she spoke to him. “The boy’s stitches have opened, that’s why.
Cleaning garbage cans
!
Uh
!
“
    “You sure?” Ed’s voice was sullen.
    Miss Leiber didn’t answer but, with a hiss, she grabbed Tony’s good hand and said, “
Come on.”
    “Don’ wanna,” Tony said.
    “Would you prefer
bleeding
to death!” she asked, half-dragging him off.
    When I turned back, Ed Nolan was looking at me with an