The Underpup Part 1

The Underpup.

by I. A. R. Wylie.

The Penguins were always breaking out with something. Miss Thornton, who had run Camp Happy Warriors for years and still believed there was good in everyone, said it was merely their age. The Penguins were older than the Peewits, who still trailed attenuated clouds of glory; and were younger than the Pelicans, who were beginning to talk mysteriously about Life, Beaux, and Parties--things so far removed from the Peewits that they weren't even interested, but near enough to the Penguins to exasperate them into having marvelous ideas of their own.

So the Penguins were wonderfully set up when they first realized that they had a Social Conscience. They felt that even Priscilla ("Prissy") Adams, their counselor, who generally thought their ideas dreadful, would have to admit that a Social Conscience was a good idea.

Clara VanSittart had brought it to camp with her, just as the previous summer she had brought the first pair of white mice. Clara was a fat, earnest child with spectacles, who would one day be chairman of a Women's Club. Her mother, who was several chairmen already, had discovered the Poor that winter--rather to their consternation--so that Clara knew that at the very moment when the Penguins were sitting round their campfire, surrounded by trees and stars and lakes, and faintly nauseated with toasted marshmallows, there were poor, half-starved children literally gasping for air in New York City's crowded, stifling streets. There was even a place called h.e.l.l's Kitchen, it was so hot and awful. Clara knew all the best words like "underprivileged," and by the time the last marshmallow had been drawn from its p.r.o.ng the Penguins were in tears.

"But it's no use just crying," little Janet Cooper said. She was usually so afraid of everyone, including herself, that they all stared at her. "We ought to _do_ something," she said. And dived back into the shadow like an alarmed young tadpole.

No one had ever accused the Penguins of inertia. They proceeded at once to do something. And the counselors wished afterward that it had been white mice again.

Thus it came about that one April morning the following year Pip-Emma Binns sat at her desk by the cla.s.sroom window and wrote an English composition called "Trees." Or rather she was not writing. She was chewing bits out of a wooden pen-holder and balefully regarding the back of Vittoria Emanuella Perozzi, the cla.s.s' champion essayist.

Vittoria used words which Miss Perkins called metaphors and similes and which Pip-Emma called baloney. If a person looked white, why not just say so? Why bring in sheets? However, Miss Perkins thought a lot of that sort of thing, and so, no doubt, would the dames who were giving a prize of two months' vacation in some swell kids' camp for the best description of trees.

What did a tree look like? In Pip-Emma's opinion it looked like a tree. But she knew that wouldn't get her anywhere--certainly not to Camp Happy Warriors, where Pop and Ma were h.e.l.l-bent on her going. She pulled her dark brows together. She wiped an inky hand over her black hair drawn back into a short defiant pigtail. Then inspiration struck her, too. Very carefully she wrote two sentences. "I can't describe trees. I haven't seen any." And signed it Emma Binns.

It was like a metaphor. It wasn't true. It was baloney. But to Mrs.

VanSittart and her committee it was just too heart-rending. No trees.

Poor little Emma Binns! As for Vittoria Emanuella Perozzi, she had evidently seen so many trees so often and so beautifully that, in the committee's opinion, there was no urgent need for her to see any more of them.

The Happy Warriors were gathered with their counselors and under their respective banners in Grand Central Terminal, and Clara VanSittart inspected the Penguins like a colonel inspecting a regiment before battle. She gave last orders. After all, the Social Conscience had been her idea, and it had to go over with a bang so that even the Pelicans would be impressed.

"Every Penguin," she said, "must remember to be kind. The poor kid won't be able to do the things we do, and I guess she'll do a lot we don't. But you're not to look s'perior or call her down so as to hurt her feelings. We've got to remember we'd be like her if we didn't belong to the Privileged Cla.s.ses." It was a prepared speech and had more than a suggestion of Mrs. VanSittart's firm handling of committees. "And don't laugh at her mother," Clara concluded. "She's sure to be pretty awful."

As it happened, Mrs. Binns, who went out as daily help, had no time to go running round after a lot of queer-sounding birds. She'd given Pip-Emma's new middy costume a final admonitory twitch. "And mind you behave like a lady," she'd said, swallowing her tears, "or I'll sock you."

Mr. Binns, who might have been heavyweight champion of the world if he hadn't busted his hand early in life on the skull of a certain Black Bruiser, drove Emma to the station in the cab of his truck. "Keep yer chin covered, Pip," he said, grinning, "and don't pull your punches."

Pip-Emma, staggering through the unfamiliar immensities of Grand Central under the weight of her suitcase, felt sickish. She hated leaving Pop and Ma. She loathed being a Penguin. She'd seen a penguin once at the zoo, and she'd seen no sense in it. She despised her costume. It would take weeks to live down the jeers and cheers which had greeted and pursued it to the end of 45th Street on Eighth. She hated leaving the Gang. It was her Gang. She ruled it with despotic efficiency. In fact, when she and Clara VanSittart, introduced by a worried Prissy Adams, shook hands, two born chairmen unconsciously locked horns.

Clara said, "How d'you do?"

And Pip-Emma said, "I'm fine."

It was one of those social blunders that Clara had foreseen and that had better be dealt with at once. Clara said kindly: "I'm so glad you're fine. But I didn't really want to know, you know."

"Why not?" Pip-Emma asked.

In the perceptible silence a Peewit was heard to t.i.tter, and the outrageous sound startled Clara out of her poise. She said, "Just because I don't," quite rudely.

And Pip-Emma, remembering Pop and Ma, retorted that it was dumb to ask questions if you didn't want to know the answers.

It was a short but sharp encounter--Mr. Binns would have described it as a feint with the left followed by a nice right to the jaw. Clara VanSittart had a blinking, winded look, and all the Penguins said, "How d'you do?" as though they couldn't help themselves.

Only little Janet added very timidly, "I hope you'll have a swell time."

And Pip-Emma said, "Sure," much too much as though she were sure.

But she stayed right by Janet. If you find yourself among a bunch of strange kids, you gotta get yourself a Gang. You gotta pick out some poor mutts that don't know how to hold their end up and sock anyone who jumps on 'em. Then they're your Gang. Pip-Emma knew on sight that Janet couldn't hold her end up to save her neck, and that sooner or later she, Pip-Emma, would have to sock the fat girl in the eye.

Clara VanSittart did not know this. She sat next to Emma Binns in the Pullman, determined, without heat or anger, to explain Social Usages and Camp Customs. But Pip-Emma did not seem to want to listen. From her middy pocket she had produced three small sea sh.e.l.ls and a tiny flexible rubber ball, and she was doing things with them on the back of her suitcase. It was Mr. Binns' favorite method of getting himself a free drink, and Pip-Emma was no slouch herself. Also if you're getting a Gang, you don't run after it. You let it come to you. If kids saw you up to something they didn't understand, they flocked round like a bunch of hungry sparrows. Gradually the Penguins' excited chatter died down. They were watching her. They were beginning to flock. Pip-Emma knew without looking at them. There was a lot Pip-Emma knew, though she didn't always know she knew it.

"I don't see what you're doing," Clara said fretfully. "What is it? A game?"

"Sure. I put the ball under one of the sh.e.l.ls--like that--and you bet where it is."

"All right. I bet. It's there."

"But you haven't betted anything."

Clara blushed hotly. As a well-bred Penguin, she found it impossible to explain that all the Penguins had sacrificed their first week's pocket money to the maintenance of Emma and their Social Conscience.

"I can't. I--I haven't anything."

"You gotta bead necklace."

"All right. I bet it."

It was incredible. Her eyes had deceived her. Pip-Emma took the necklace. Other Penguins, shocked at their leader's failure and convinced of their own right-sightedness, backed their guesses with small gold rings and other detachable possessions. Janet Cooper, who hadn't anything else, bet her Penguin Badge, which was like pledging the family Bible. But, as it happened, Janet won. She was the only winner. Pip-Emma nodded approval of her.

"You're not such a dumb cluck," she said.

Some Peewits, perched respectfully on the outskirts, burst into disrespectful squeaks, and the Penguins refused to meet one another's eyes. At that moment Prissy bore down on them. She was kind but firm.

"What a clever trick, Emma! But it is a trick, isn't it? It wouldn't be quite fair to bet about it, would it? Besides, Happy Warriors don't bet."

Pip-Emma handed back her winnings. She was thoughtful and deliberate.

She made no protest. But the Pullman, usually the scene of such happy tumult, sank into an oppressive silence.

But on the bus ride from the station to the Camp the Penguins began to preen their damp feathers. They loved the Camp. They were proud of the big dining room built like a woodman's cabin and the open sleeping tents circled with military precision round the campfires. They were proud of themselves. They got up to the bugle on the coldest mornings and made their beds and fetched water and built fires. They were strong and brave, as Happy Warriors should be. When Emma Binns saw how wonderful it all was and what a fine bunch they were, she'd feel pretty small. And they'd have to be awfully nice to her and not rub things in.

So they felt better and began to sing. And the twins, Pauline and Claudine Bennett, bounced joyfully in their seats.

It was Pip-Emma's longest journey. She was getting tired and homesick.

She'd never been homesick before. It was like toothache in the wrong place. Right now Pop and Ma would be sitting down to Ma's special steak and onions. Afterward, it being Sat.u.r.day, they'd go to an early show at the movies and finish up with a Pineapple Temptation or maybe a Banana Royal at Hader's drugstore. They'd be feeling pretty mean, too. They hadn't really wanted her to go. They'd wanted her to have a swell time and live like the rich kids did, with butlers waiting on you behind your chair and maybe breakfast brought you on a tray, like in the movies. Because one day Pip-Emma, who was smart as a whip, was going places, so she'd better know how things were done before she got there.

The Gang would be out now in force. Pip-Emma's heart contracted. Maybe they were missing her. Maybe, though, if she sent them post cards showing the swell way she was living, they'd be kinda sunk. She'd tell 'em she had a Gang of her own already and that they were swell kids.