Camp Pleasant by Richard Matheson Page B

cabin?” I asked. “Why should I be in my cabin, Ed?”
    “Thought ya might want t’tell your boys some stories,” said Ed, winking at Mack. Mack snickered.
    “No, I’m not as good as Merv was,” I said. I could feel Bob looking at me.
    “I bet you’re not,” Ed said, hopelessly unbland. “Loomis was good at lots o’ things, wasn’t he?”
    “Yes
. He was. That’s because he was so intelligent.”
    Ed and Mack exchanged a man-of-the-world look. “That’s because he was so intelligent,” said Ed to Mack.
    “Oh, is that why?” Mack said. “I thought it was somethin’ else.” They both chuckled.
    “No,” I said. “It was because he was so intelligent. What did
you
think it was?”
    “Not a thing,” said Mack, exchanging a grin with Ed. “Not a thing.” Snicker.
“Dear boy.”
    “Oh,” I said. Loudly.
“I
see. I thought maybe you had something intelligent to offer the conversation.”
    Even Mack couldn’t miss that. I sat looking at his glowing face, thinking about the rain check.
    “You lookin’ for trouble?” Arthur MacNeil asked me.
    “Who, me?” I said. “No, not me. I never look for trouble. I like peace and quiet.”
    “I thought ya would,” Mack said scornfully.
    “Would
what
, Mack?”
    “Wouldn’t want no trouble.” He glanced aside to a pleased Ed Nolan.
    “Trouble, Mack?” I said, my voice getting harder. “That’s my middle name, Mack. Didn’t you know that?” I stared into the eyes of Arthur MacNeil without blinking.
    He put down his cards.
    “I think you’re all bull,” he said. “What d’ya think o’ that?”
    “Ed.”
Ellen’s voice was faint, lost in the shuffle.
    “I don’t think anything of it,” I said. “It isn’t worth thinking about. Have you got something in your files that’s
worth
thinking about?”
    “Ya wanna step outside!” Mack flared.
    “Now that’s worth thinking about,” I said.
    “Listen, you—”
    “Awright,
hold
it!” Ed ordered. He looked over at me. “Are ya just blowin’ off gas as usual, boy, or have ya got the guts t’back up all your noise?”
    “No, I have no guts,” I said. “I’m scared to death. I’m quaking in my boots. All of us fellas who have an I.Q. of over
forty
always quake in our boots at the thought of a fight.”
    “I thought s—” he stared, then figured it out. Red splotches moved up his cheeks and he stood up suddenly. “Maybe y’don’t wanna fight, Harper,” he said, “but you’re gonna.”
    “Ed.”
Ellen unheard.
    “Is that right?” I said. “Who do you have in mind, Ed?”
    Mack was standing now beside Ed.
    “Get your ass off that chair, Harper,” Ed said furiously, “and get outside.”
    “Ed,
pleasel
” Ellen said.
    “That’s enough, El,” Ed told her. He gestured with his head toward the kitchen. “Go on.
Getl
You’re gonna
fight
!
“
    “Fight!” I said. “Fight! The very thought appalls me. We fellas who read books never fight! We fellas who like good music and have a vocabulary of more than twenty words are scared to
death
of fighting! We fellas who can conceive of anything in the world that isn’t brutish and ignorant and vicious and cruel!” A deep, shuddering breath emptied my lungs. “We never fight,” I said, “except—” I glared at Mack—”Maybe once in a while.” I flung off Ed’s arm. “
Let go,”
I said in a low voice, “I’m fighting him. You don’t have to escort me.”
    “Ed,
stop
it,” Ellen begged, following. “You can’t let—”
    “Stay
out o
this, El,” Ed demanded. “This jaybird’s been askin’ for it a long time. Now he finally talked himself into it.”
    “Looks like it,” I said. “Sure looks like it.” I wasn’t feeling quite as flippant as I sounded. I took off my jacket. “Hold this, will you?” I asked Ed. He showed teeth. “Oh,” I said, “I thought you’d like to hold it.” I tossed it to a tight-faced Bob, then turned back to Mack.
    “All right, Mack,” I said, “let’s get into high