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for?”
    “Eyes.”
    Finally, she just grunted and performed the examination in wordless haste. After it was over, Tony Rocca walked beside me as we headed toward the lake for swimming tests.
    “I wasn’t scared when she stuck that stick in my mouth,” he told me.
    “No, of course not.”
    “Did you see that kid cryin’?”
    “No.”
    “He was cryin’ ‘cause he was yella. I didn’t cry.”
    “You’re not yella.”
    “Damn right,” he said.
    The buoy-enclosed swimming area of the lake was white-spumed with splashing campers as we walked out onto the dock. The test for proof of swimming ability required a relatively serene trip out to the float and back again. Three rowboats sculled about en route, two counselors in each one, one rowing, the other with an oar, ready to haul in sputtering hopefuls who couldn’t quite make it. Mack was one of them with an oar.
    None of my first five boys had any trouble. They splashed out to the float and back with the assurance of Weismullers in the rough. Nor could it be said that David Lewis had any trouble. When his name was called he simply informed Jack Stauffer that he couldn’t swim and was assigned to the Beginner’s Group, which group practiced their paddling in the roped-off shallows.
    All through the tests, Tony Rocca stood beside me shivering.
    “I can swim,” he kept assuring me, “I’m a good swimmer.”
    “Fine,” I said.
    “I ain’t scared.”
    “Of course not,” I agreed.
    “I’m a good swimmer.”
    When his name was called, I saw the pupils of his eyes expand suddenly and, with a tightly twisted mouth, he lunged forward and flopped off the dock into the choppy water. He disappeared for a moment, then appeared on the surface, dark hair plastered over his forehead, arms and legs flailing as if he were fighting off a crocodile. Mack saw that it was obvious Tony couldn’t swim and stuck the oar down for him.
    Tony wouldn’t take it. Gasping for air, swallowing mouthfuls of lake and gagging, he kept on, arms windmilling, legs kicking spastically at the water, then finally had to be dragged out.
    “I can swim!” he yelled as they pulled him on the dock. “Leggo! I can swim, I can swim! God damn it,
leggo!”
    “Beginner,” drawled Jack Stauffer, while Sid Goldberg lectured Tony on the subject of proper language.
    When we left the dock, the other boys were laughing and Tony shivered and looked sick as he stumbled back up the hill to our cabin.
2.
    On my way down to the Nolan cabin with Bob, Sid Goldberg stopped me for a moment. Bob went on while I sank down on the camp chair beside Sid. It was just getting dark.
    “How’s Tony Rocca getting along?” he asked me.
    “Pretty good,” I said. “He doesn’t take care of his clothes, of course. He eats like a starving longshoreman and he has rather an advanced vocabulary for one of his tender years. But, outside of that—”
    Sid didn’t smile back. He nodded his head slowly, looking out at the dark woods.
    “I think you ought to know about Tony,” he said. “Ed doesn’t think I should tell you but—” he gestured vaguely with one hand—”well, this is strictly on the q.t.”
    “All right,” I said, nodding once. “Anything you say.”
    “Tony’s a charity case,” Sid said. “The camp board is paying for his summer here.”
    “Oh?” I said, wondering if that was the dreadful secret.
    Sid drew in a slow breath. “Tony spent last year in a mental institution,” he said. “No!”
    He nodded sadly. “Tried to kill somebody.”
    “Who?”
I asked.
    “I don’t know,” he answered. “Ed didn’t tell me. And I don’t care. What counts is that we make the kid forget, see that he has a nice summer. I don’t mean let him do anything he pleases; but—well, temper your discipline with a little extra understanding. In other words, handle him with kid gloves.”
    I sat there, wordlessly disturbed.
    “That’s about it,” Sid said. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep it in mind.