Part 2

Pip-Emma peeked out of the tent. The Penguin Circle was near the lake, and she could see the parents, looking better from a distance, lined up on benches along the water's edge. She could pick out Janet's parents because they were younger than the others. They didn't seem to be quarreling. They didn't seem even to be speaking to each other.

"O.K.," Pip-Emma said. She walked beside Janet like a trainer. She gave last instructions. Everyone knew Janet was her Gang. So Janet, who had never won anything, had to win. It was Prissy's opinion that if Janet did win, the Penguins, as a class, were licked. She said sharply to Clara,

"If you feel as bad as you look, you'd better throw up the sponge."

It was an unfortunate suggestion. Clara gulped. But she was game. The prestige of the Penguins, the VanSittarts--one might say the whole Social Register--was in her hands. She mumbled, "I'm a' right," and slid with a smothered moan into the water.

Mr. and Mrs. Cooper waved dutifully to Janet. In her white cap and bathing suit she looked like a pet white mouse in charge of a dark and aggressive field mouse. Both parents had the same thought, with one small but important variation: "If he (she) had made a decent home for the poor child, she might have amounted to something."

"How's the little old complex?" Pip-Emma asked.

"I--I don't know, Pip. I think it's all right."

"Don't think about it. You ain't got it, see? So you're going to win. 'Cause you swim better than any of 'em. You just got to know it, and you'll be fine."

"Honest, Pip-Emma?"

"Honest."

From the water Janet looked up with adoration in her eyes. "I'll try."

"Sure. I got my shirt on you, kid."

Janet paddled to the starting line. It was true that she swam better than the others. She'd learned all the strokes from the best teachers. But it hadn't seemed to help. Everyone knew that anyone could beat Janet Cooper. Now Pip-Emma believed that she was going to win. She'd put her shirt on her. Janet watched the flag. She kept her heart steady, saying to herself, "Pip-Emma's shirt--Pip-Emma's shirt--"

Mr. Cooper looked away as the flag dropped. He couldn't have said why, except that he hated to see the poor little runt left at the post. Gosh, hadn't they fed her every vitamin on God's green earth? He had a dim notion that the dark field mouse had flashed past in front of him yelling like an Indian and that he had a sharp pain in his arm. Mrs. Cooper had pinched him savagely.

"Look!" she said.

Mr. Cooper looked. It was worth looking at. The white cap was level with the leader--it was drawing ahead--smoothly, with clean, rhythmic strokes. The green cap made a game spurt. Probably those last five yards were the bravest effort of Clara VanSittart's life. But everything was against her--ice cream, conscience, and Pip-Emma. She lost her stroke, took a mouthful of lake, and foundered. The watchful Prissy in the motorboat hauled her in like a drowning puppy. The rest of the entry, consternated, gave up the struggle. They were up against the imponderable--sheer inspiration. Pip-Emma's Gang flashed past the winning flag like a silver fish.

The Penguins cheered. Their pride, their self-esteem, had foundered with their leader. But honorable Camp tradition demanded that they should cheer. Pip-Emma collapsed breathless. She saw Janet climb out of the water and her Pop and Ma go to meet her, trying to look as though they weren't fit to burst. Janet threw her wet arms about them both, and then the three of them turned toward the tents, Janet walking in the middle. She walked differently. She had her head up and was swinging her cap and talking hard, like someone accustomed to being listened to.

Pip-Emma stood up. Alone and hidden by the trees, she performed an exultant war dance. She did not know it. But it was Hell's Kitchen dancing on Park Avenue.

* * * * *

To celebrate Miss Thornton's birthday the Happy Warriors went on a two days' hike. The Peewits camped on the other side of the Lake, which gave them the illusion they had hiked an enormous distance. The Penguins were to climb the Little Mountain, and the Pelicans the Big Mountain. Miss Thornton stayed in camp. Having been wakened at the crack of dawn by eager voices singing "Happy birthday, Miss Thornton," she felt justified.

At the last moment one of the Penguin counselors went down with a cold, and Prissy had to take on the Penguins single-handed. Ordinarily she wouldn't have cared. The Penguins, as campers, were almost annoyingly efficient. But they were in bad shape. Their morale was shot to pieces. They had lost faith. They weren't even sure whether they liked hiking, or the Camp, or one another, or themselves. They watched Pip-Emma and wondered anxiously what she thought.

Pip-Emma wouldn't have told them for the world. In fact she didn't really know. But as she climbed up through the cool shadows of the forest, with Janet tagging at her heels, something happened. It was as though she really were seeing trees for the first time. They weren't the dusty, forlorn exiles she had known in Central Park. They weren't even the sheltering, friendly Camp trees. They were free and proud. It was terribly exciting to come out suddenly on an open space and look down on them brandishing their branches in the wind like the spears of a great army.

And when at midday the Penguins built a fire and cooked sausages and bacon over the embers, that was fun. Pip-Emma felt that even Ma would think it fun to cook under trees. One day when Pip-Emma was rich and famous, she'd bring Pop and Ma up here and show them how. Pride in herself as a woodsman who knew where you should build a fire and where you shouldn't began to kindle in her. When she got back, she'd tell the Gang. There were a lot of things the Gang didn't know that Pip-Emma knew now. She'd sit on the stoop of the shabby brownstone house, with her face between her fists, and tell them: "Then, one day, we went on a two days' hike. Gee, that was swell!" She wouldn't tell about her Gang, because it consisted of just one Penguin. And the kids wouldn't understand.

* * * * *

They began to climb again. But there was a change somewhere. The wind had died down. They were surrounded by a dense silence. And when they looked at one another, faintly uneasy, they saw that a thin veil hung over them. Prissy saw it first. She didn't like it. But just when she made up her mind that one of the mountain mists was creeping up on them and that they'd better turn back, she put her foot on a hidden root and went down as though she'd been shot. The pain was so bad that she cried out. Only once. Then she set her teeth. But she couldn't get up.

"It's my ankle," she said quietly. "I guess I've broken it."

The Penguins knew all about splints and first aid. Prissy sat very white with the sweat running down her cold face. She'd seen Pip-Emma watching her intently, and not for a king's ransom would she have so much as groaned. In a sort of way she was glad this had happened. She'd show Pip-Emma something.

"One of you had better go back to the Camp for help," she said.

And even as she said it she knew that no one must go. The mist was like a besieging enemy whose scouts having found them defenseless now bore down on them in full force. They could hardly see one another. They'd have to stay together till the fog lifted. Sometimes, if the wind didn't come up, a fog lasted for two days. And their provisions had been sent ahead to their night's camping place.

"Better build a fire," Prissy said calmly.

She was worried and in bad pain. But she mustn't show it. The fire was hard to start. The wood was damp, and they'd used all their kindling. They sat as close as they could get to the sullen, smoky warmth.

Pip-Emma put her arm over Janet's shoulders. Clara sat on her other side. Clara was shivering a little. Almost unconsciously she and Pip-Emma edged closer to each other.

They took turns finding wood. Night added black shadows to the muffling fog. It was getting colder. Pip-Emma had saved one of her sausages, wrapped greasily in a paper napkin. She'd been hungry before--that time Pop and Ma had both lost their jobs. There'd been days and days when Pip-Emma had had this gnawing pain. So it didn't worry her. But fat old Clara must be feeling real bad. She was always hungry anyway.

"Here," Pip-Emma said softly.

Clara VanSittart gave one look at the sausage. Then she shut her eyes tight. "Thanks--I guess I won't, though. The others haven't anything."

Pip-Emma looked at the sausage, too. She glanced anxiously at Janet. Janet shook her head. So Pip-Emma tossed the sausage over her shoulder into the forest. It was no good to any of them. One of the twins grinned at her--a friendly, shy sort of grin. And suddenly Pip-Emma was sorry.

She was sorry she'd made old Clara sick before the race. After all, Clara couldn't help being fat and always hungry. She was sorry she'd taken the kids' beads. Prissy was right--the shell trick was just a trick. So it wasn't fair. Prissy was a good guy. She had guts; she could take it.

The twins had put their extra coats over Prissy. There'd been quite a gay argument about it. Now Prissy leaned exhausted with pain against a tree, trying to smile at them.

"It's a real adventure," she said.

They nodded and tried to laugh back at her. All the same they were just kids. They were scared, too, and awfully cold and hungry. They were fighting back tears. Pip-Emma knew. And suddenly Pip-Emma began to sing.

"We are the happy Penguins-- We play without a care . . ."

At first they just gaped at her. They couldn't believe their ears. She'd never sung their songs. She'd made them feel how silly they were. And now suddenly, joyfully, they understood. Pip-Emma was a Penguin. She was one of them. And with a sensation like the breaking of a bad pain Pip-Emma knew, too. They were all her Gang.

The fog-smothered forest rang with their young voices.

* * * * *

Prissy had fallen into a doze, and Janet lay close to her for warmth. But Clara and Pip-Emma talked softly to each other.

"We gotter do something," Pip-Emma said.

"I bet I could find the way," Clara whispered back, "if you'll come with me."

"Sure. You bet," Pip-Emma said.

They stood up cautiously. The Penguins roused themselves from their half-frozen torpor to look at them. Clara made an authoritative gesture, silencing them. After all, she was still top Penguin.

"We're going for help," she whispered.

The two slipped out of the clearing. They held hands. They knew that if they let go of each other they would be lost. They had only two ideas--to keep together and to keep going down, hoping that at the bottom they'd strike some familiar landmark. It wasn't much of a hope. They were like blind children, picking their way. Things hit them in the face and clutched at them. And when they stopped, breathless and shivering, they heard soft dreadful sounds. Their clothes were torn. Their hands and faces, though they did not know it, were scratched and bleeding.

"You awfully scared, Clara?" Pip-Emma asked.

"Not awfully--not with you, Pip."

Hell's Kitchen and Park Avenue pushed on together.

And at daybreak the forest ranger opened the door of his cabin to them. He and his wife had been up two nights with a sick child, and he was half-asleep and not at all sure that he wasn't seeing things.

"We're Happy Warriors," Pip-Emma said, "and we're all lost."

It wasn't anyone's fault that the forest ranger's child had the measles and that the Penguins who had never had the chance to catch anything went down with it like ninepins. The Penguin Circle was quarantined, and at night Pip-Emma sat alone by the campfire. The doctor had said: "She'll be all right. She's been exposed probably to every germ known to man. She's a survival of the fittest." So Pip-Emma was allowed to help nurse the Penguins and sit on their beds when they were convalescing and tell them hair-raising stories of Hell's Kitchen. She made up some of them. And the adventures of the mounted-cop uncle grew gorier and gorier. The Penguins seemed to like them gory.

Little Janet was sicker than any of them. But when Pip-Emma held her small feverish hand, she'd fall contentedly asleep.

Except for Janet's feeling so bad it was kind of fun. At night Pip-Emma and one of the Pelicans lighted the Penguin campfire so that the Penguins in their open tents could see the flames dance. And as they got better, Pip-Emma would start them singing--"We are the happy Penguins."

Pip-Emma had a song of her own which she'd learned from Pop, who had sung it on Salisbury Plain:

"I'm 'Enry the Eighth, I am. I've 'ad seven wives before, And I don't mind if I 'ave one more--"

It was a ribald, not very intelligible song. But it had a rousing chorus. Miss Thornton, in her tent writing reassuring letters to anxious parents, looked up at Prissy, who was helping in her wheelchair.

"Is that a Camp song?" she asked.

"No," Prissy said. "But it's all right."

* * * * *

And then came the last night of all. And Pip-Emma sat alone by the campfire for the last time. Everything was packed and ready. Tomorrow they were all going home. Tomorrow Pip-Emma would be back with Pop and Ma and the old Gang. She'd have an awful lot to tell them--about their Great Adventure, and the Camp powwows and singsongs and marshmallow feasts. She'd learned some things, too, that she'd have to break to Pop and Ma very gently--the way you wore your napkin, for instance, and not picking your teeth, or making noises with your soup.

She'd never see Janet again or Clara or Prissy or Miss Thornton or the trees or the stars or the lake shining under them. She wasn't going to cry about it, though.

She was trying so hard not to that she didn't know she wasn't alone any more. There was a little scuffling sound. She looked up. And there were the Penguins, all around her, wrapped in their blankets and looking just like Penguins.

Clara VanSittart was making a speech again. "We want to give you this, Pip-Emma," she said, "and we hope you'll always wear it."

It was the sacred Penguin Badge.

"Gee, you bet," Pip-Emma said huskily.

They were gone, as quickly, as silently as they had come. It was as though they knew how Pip-Emma felt.

But little Janet crouched beside her. "Don't cry, Pip."

"I ain't--I'm not crying."

"Yes, you are. I'm crying, too. Listen, Pip. Next year you're to come back. Miss Thornton says so. 'Cause you're a real Penguin."

"Honest?"

"Honest. And Daddy wrote. He says that was a swell idea about not staying mad in two rooms. He says you must be a swell kid. You're to spend the Christmas holidays with us--and p'raps I can stay with you. Daddy says your Pop and Ma might be able to knock some sense into us all."

Pip-Emma choked. Janet was holding her hand hard.

"Pip--"

"Yes?"

"We're going to be friends always, aren't we?"

"You bet."

Taps sounded. It was a sad, lonely sound in the night. Pip-Emma stood up bravely.

"We gotter go in now," she said.

Because, after all, she was coming back next year, and some day she was going to be top Penguin. So she must keep discipline.

[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: This etext was produced from Good Housekeeping magazine, October 1938. This submission was copyright-cleared under Project Gutenberg's clearance Rule 6. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]