CHAPTER 12

A RESCUE

Louis liked to sleep on the lake. At night, after blowing taps, he would waddle down to the sandy beach by the dock. There he removed his slate, his chalk pencil, and his trumpet and hid them under a bush. Then he shoved off into the water. As soon as he was afloat, he would tuck his head under a wing. For a while he would doze and think about home and his parents. Then he would think about Serena—how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. Pretty soon he would be fast asleep. When daylight came, he would swim ashore and eat a light breakfast of water plants. Then he’d put on his things, climb onto the flat rock, and blow reveille. The boys, hearing the trumpet, would wake and rush to the dock to swim before breakfast.

After supper at night the campers would often play volleyball. Louis loved the game. He couldn’t hop around as fast as the boys, but he could reach far out with his long neck and poke the ball into the air and over the net. It was very hard to get a ball past Louis—he could return almost any shot. When the boys chose sides at the start of the game, Louis was always the first to be chosen.

The boys loved camp life in Ontario. They learned how to handle a canoe. They learned to swim. Sam Beaver took them on nature walks and taught them to sit quietly on a log and observe wild creatures and birds. He showed them how to walk in the woods without making a lot of noise. Sam showed them where the kingfisher had his nest, in a hole in the bank by a stream. He showed them the partridge and her chicks. When the boys heard a soft co-co-co-co, Sam told them they were listening to the Sawwhet Owl, smallest of the owls, no bigger than a man’s hand. Sometimes in the middle of the night the whole camp would wake to the scream of a wildcat. Nobody ever saw a wildcat during the entire summer, but his scream was heard at night.

One morning when Sam was playing tennis with Applegate Skinner, Sam heard a clanking noise. He looked behind him, and there, coming out of the woods, was a skunk. The skunk’s head was stuck in a tin can; he couldn’t see where he was going. He kept bumping into trees and rocks, and the can went clank, clank, clank.

“That skunk is in trouble,” said Sam, laying down his racquet. “He’s been to the dump, looking for food. He poked his head into that empty can, and now he can’t get it out.”

The word spread quickly through camp that a skunk had arrived. The boys came running to see the fun. Mr. Brickle warned them not to get too close—the skunk might squirt them with perfume. So the boys danced around, keeping their distance and holding their noses.

The big question was how to get the can off the skunk’s head without getting squirted.

“He’s going to need help,” said Sam. “That skunk will starve to death if we don’t get that can off.”

All the boys had suggestions.

One boy said they should make a bow and arrow, tie a string to the arrow, and shoot the arrow at the can. Then, when they hit the can, they could pull the string and the can would come off the skunk’s head. Nobody thought much of that suggestion—it sounded like too much work.

Another boy suggested that two boys climb a tree, and one boy could hang by his feet from the other boy’s hands, and when the skunk walked under the tree, the boy who was hanging by his feet could reach down and pull the can off, and if the skunk squirted, the perfume wouldn’t hit the boy because he would be hanging in the air. Nobody thought much of that suggestion. Mr. Brickle didn’t like it at all. He said it was extremely impractical and furthermore he wouldn’t permit it.

Another boy suggested that they get a block of wood, smear it with glue, and when the skunk knocked against it, the can would stick to the block of wood. Nobody thought much of that suggestion. Mr. Brickle said he didn’t have any glue anyway.

While everybody was making suggestions, Sam Beaver walked quietly to his tent. He returned in a few minutes with a long pole and a piece of fishline. Sam tied one end of the fishline to the pole. Then he tied a slipknot in the other end of the line and formed a noose. Then he climbed to the roof of the porch and asked the other boys not to get too close to the skunk.

The skunk all this time was blundering around, blindly bumping into things. It was a pitiful sight.

Sam, holding his pole, waited patiently on the roof. He looked like a fisherman waiting for a bite. When the skunk wandered close to the building, Sam reached over, dangled the noose in front of the skunk, slipped the noose around the can, and gave a jerk. The noose tightened, and the can came off. As it did so, the skunk turned around and squirted—right at Mr. Brickle, who jumped back, stumbled, and fell. All the boys danced around, holding their noses. The skunk ran off into the woods. Mr. Brickle got up and dusted himself off. The air smelled strong of skunk. Mr. Brickle smelled, too.

“Congratulations, Sam!” said Mr. Brickle. “You have aided a wild creature and have given Camp Kookooskoos a delicious dash of wild perfume. I’m sure we’ll all remember this malodorous event for a long time to come. I don’t see how we can very well forget it.”

“Ko-hoh!” cried Louis, lifting his trumpet. The lake echoed with the sound. The air was heavy with the rich, musky smell of skunk. The boys danced and danced, holding their noses. Some of them held their stomachs and pretended to throw up. Then Mr. Brickle announced it was time for the morning swim.

“A swim will clear the air,” he said, as he walked away toward his cottage to change his clothes.

After lunch each day, the campers went to their tents for a rest period. Some of them read books. Some wrote letters home, telling their parents how bad the food was. Some just lay on their cots and talked. One afternoon during rest period, the boys in Applegate’s tent began teasing him about his name.

“Applegate Skinner,” said one boy. “Where did you get such a crazy name, Applegate?”

“My parents gave it to me,” replied Applegate.

“I know what his name is,” said another boy. “Sour Applegate. Sour Applegate Skinner.” The boys howled at this and began chanting, “Sour Applegate, Sour Applegate, Sour Applegate.”

“Quiet!” bellowed the tent leader.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” said Applegate.

“His name isn’t Sour Applegate,” whispered another boy. “His name is Wormy Applegate. Wormy Applegate Skinner.” This suggestion was greeted with screams of laughter.

“Quiet!” bellowed the tent leader. “I want quiet in this tent. Leave Applegate alone!”

“Leave Rotten Applegate alone!” whispered another boy. And some of the other boys had to pull their pillows over their heads so their snickering couldn’t be heard.

Applegate was sore. When the rest period was over, he wandered down to the dock. He didn’t like being made fun of, and he wanted to do something to get even. Without saying anything to anybody, he slid a canoe into the water and paddled out into the lake, heading for the opposite shore a mile away. No one noticed him.

Applegate had no business taking a canoe out alone. He had not passed his swimming test. He had not passed his canoe test. He was disobeying a camp rule. When he was a quarter of a mile from shore, in deep water, the wind grew stronger. The waves got higher. The canoe was hard to manage. Applegate got scared. Suddenly, a wave caught the canoe and spun it around. Applegate leaned hard on his paddle. His hand slipped, and he lost his balance. The canoe tipped over. Applegate found himself in the water. His clothes felt terribly soggy and heavy. His shoes dragged him down, and he could barely keep his head above water. Instead of hanging on to the canoe, he started swimming toward shore—which was a crazy thing to do. One wave hit him square in the face, and he got a mouthful of water.

“Help!” he screamed. “Help me! I’m drowning. It’ll give the camp a bad name if I drown. Help! Help!”

Counselors sprinted to the waterfront. They jumped into canoes and rowboats and started for the drowning boy. One counselor kicked his moccasins off, dove in, and began swimming toward Applegate. Mr. Brickle raced to the dock, climbed to the diving tower, and directed the rescue operation, shouting through a megaphone.

“Hang on to the canoe, Applegate!” he shouted. “Don’t leave the canoe!”

But Applegate had already left the canoe. He was all alone, thrashing about and wasting his strength. He felt sure he would soon go to the bottom and drown. He felt weak and scared. Water had got into his lungs. He couldn’t last much longer.

The first boat to get away from the dock was rowed by Sam Beaver, and Sam was pulling hard at the oars, straining every muscle. But things didn’t look good for Applegate. The boats were still a long way from the boy.

When the first cry of “Help” was heard in camp, Louis was coming around the corner of the main lodge. He spied Applegate immediately and responded to the call.

“I can’t fly out there,” thought Louis, “because my flight feathers have been falling out lately. But I can certainly make better time than those boats.”

Dropping his slate and his chalk pencil and his trumpet, Louis splashed into the water and struck out, beating his wings and kicking with his great webbed feet. A swan, even in summer when he can’t fly, can scoot across the water at high speed. Louis’s powerful wings beat the air. His feet churned the waves, as though he were running on top of the water. In a moment he had passed all the boats. When he reached Applegate, he quickly dove, pointed his long neck between Applegate’s legs, then came to the surface with Applegate sitting on his back.

Cheers came from the people on the shore and in the boats. Applegate clung to Louis’s neck. He had been saved in the nick of time. Another minute and he would have gone to the bottom. Water would have filled his lungs. He would have been a goner.

“Thank God!” shouted Mr. Brickle through his megaphone. “Great work, Louis! Camp Kookooskoos will never forget this day! The reputation of the camp has been saved. Our record for safety is still untarnished.”

Louis didn’t pay much attention to all the shouting. He swam very carefully over to Sam’s boat, and Sam pulled Applegate into the boat and helped him into the stern seat.

“You looked pretty funny, riding a swan,” Sam said. “And you’re lucky to be alive. You’re not supposed to go out alone in a canoe.”

But Applegate was too scared and wet to say anything. He just sat and stared straight ahead, spitting water out of his mouth and breathing hard.

At supper that night, Mr. Brickle placed Louis at his right, in the place of honor. When the meal was over, he rose and made a speech.

“We all saw what happened on the lake today. Applegate Skinner broke a camp rule, took a canoe out alone, and upset. He was drowning when Louis the Swan, rapidly outdistancing all other campers, reached his side, held him up, and saved his life. Let us all give Louis a standing ovation!”

The boys and the counselors stood up. They cheered and clapped and beat on tin plates with spoons. Then they sat down. Louis looked embarrassed.

“And now, Applegate,” said Mr. Brickle, “I hope the rescue has caused you to change your opinion of birds. The first day you were here in camp, you told us you didn’t care for birds. How do you feel now?”

“I feel sick at my stomach,” replied Applegate. “It makes you sick at your stomach to almost drown. My stomach still has a lot of lake water in it.”

“Yes, but what about birds?” asked Mr. Brickle.

Applegate thought hard for a moment. “Well,” he said, “I’m grateful to Louis for saving my life. But I still don’t like birds.”

“Really?” said Mr. Brickle. “That’s quite remarkable. Even though a bird saved you from drowning, you don’t care for birds? What have you got against birds?”

“Nothing,” replied Applegate. “I have nothing against them. I just don’t care for them.”

“O.K.,” said Mr. Brickle. “I guess we’ll just have to leave it at that. But the camp is proud of Louis. He is our most distinguished counselor—a great trumpet player, a great bird, a powerful swimmer, and a fine friend. He deserves a medal. In fact, I intend to write a letter recommending that he be given the Lifesaving Medal.”

Mr. Brickle did as he promised. He wrote a letter. A few days later, a man arrived from Washington with the Lifesaving Medal, and while all the campers watched, he hung the medal around Louis’s neck, alongside the trumpet, the slate, and the chalk pencil.

It was a beautiful medal. Engraved on it were the words:

TO LOUIS THE SWAN, WHO, WITH OUTSTANDING COURAGE AND COMPLETE DISREGARD FOR HIS OWN SAFETY, SAVED THE LIFE OF APPLEGATE SKINNER

Louis took off his slate and wrote, “Thank you for this medal. It is a great honor.”

But he thought to himself, “I’m beginning to get overloaded with stuff around my neck. I’ve got a trumpet, I’ve got a slate, I’ve got a chalk pencil; now I’ve got a medal. I’m beginning to look like a hippie. I hope I’ll still be able to fly when my flight feathers grow in again.”

That night when darkness came, Louis blew the most beautiful taps he had ever blown. The man who had brought the medal was listening and watching. He could hardly believe his ears and his eyes. When he returned to the city, he told people what he had seen and heard. Louis’s fame was growing. His name was known. People all over were beginning to talk about the swan that could play a trumpet.