witnesses, and they agree in every detail."
Tom Schell would not meet Quantrill's glance, though Atkinson and Cameron were more than happy to. Ted, angrily: "Do they all agree they'd nearly drowned Ray Kenney?"
"I'm sure Ray Kenney would say anything you told him to," sighed Little, and went on to describe a fictional scene as though he had seen it. Ray, running from a harmless splashing by a good-natured Eagle scout; Wayne, alone, brutally attacked from behind; Joey, trying to reason with the vicious Quantrill after Wayne's aloof departure; Ted Quantrill, hurling stones from shore at the innocent Joey. "It was the most unworthy conduct I have ever encountered in all my years of scouting," Little finished.
"You didn't encounter it at all, Mr. Little," Ted flashed. Anger made him speak too fast, the words running together. "It didn't even happen."
Little swayed his head as if dodging a bad smell. "Oh, Quantrill, look at the lads! I'm sure you'd like to think none of it happened. You may even need—psychological help—to face it," said Little, leaning forward to brush Ted's shoulder with a pitying hand. "But we can't have that sort of violence—mental imbalance—in a scout troop, Quantrill." Almost whispering, nodding earnestly: "It all happened, son. But we can't let it ever happen again. The best thing I can do is to let you resign from the troop on your own accord.
Wouldn't that be easiest for you? For all of us?"
A sensation of enervating prickly heat passed from the base of Ted Quantrill's skull down his limbs as he let Little's words sink in. Fairness, he saw, was something you gave but should never expect to receive. In the half-light of the single chemlamp he noted the simple deluded self-justification on Joey Cameron's face, the effort to hide exultation on Wayne Atkinson's part. Tom Schell fidgeted silently, staring upward . Ted showed them his palms. “What else can I do, Mr. Little? You wouldn't believe me or Ray. Maybe I should resign. Then I won't have to watch Torquemada Atkinson hit on my friends."
"You're the hitter, Quantrill," Joey spat.
Quantrill's head turned with the slow steadiness of a gun turret. "And don't you ever forget it," he said carefully, staring past Joey's broken nose into the half-closed eyes.
Purvis Little jerked his head toward a movement at the tent flap. "Go away, Thad; this doesn't concern you, son."
"Durn right it does," sniffled Thad, pushing his small body into the opening. Behind him, Ted saw, other boys were gathered in the near-darkness. “We been listening, Mr. Little."
A wave-off with both hands from Little: "Shame on you boys! Go on, now—"
"Shame on them ," Thad blubbered, pointing an unsteady finger at the patrol leaders. He ducked his head as if fearful of a blow but, now helplessly crying, he rushed on: “I seen part of it today an' Teddy's right, those bastids is liars, you don't know diddly squat about what happened—what those big guys been doing all along!"
A chorus of agreement as others streamed into the tent, some crying in release of long-pent frustrations.
Little had to shout for order, but he got it. Thad disabused him of some errors, and Ray's version was similar. The Calhoun twins, Gabe Hooker, even the shy Vardis Lane all clamored to list old injuries; reasons why the nickname 'Torquemada' had stuck. The sum of it shed little glory and less credibility on Wayne Atkinson, who still hoped to brazen his way out.
Finally, Little turned openmouthed toward his patrol leaders, awed by his own suspicions. Joey saw Wayne's steady glare of denial and aped it until—"Wayne lied, Mr. Little," Tom Schell said quietly. He did not bother to add that he had endorsed every syllable. Maybe no one would notice.
"That's right," said Joey. If Tom was flexible, Joey could be flexible.
"I see," said Purvis Little; and the glance he turned on Ted Quantrill brimmed with hatred. Holding himself carefully in check: "I misjudged you, Quantrill—and some others,
Tom Schell would not meet Quantrill's glance, though Atkinson and Cameron were more than happy to. Ted, angrily: "Do they all agree they'd nearly drowned Ray Kenney?"
"I'm sure Ray Kenney would say anything you told him to," sighed Little, and went on to describe a fictional scene as though he had seen it. Ray, running from a harmless splashing by a good-natured Eagle scout; Wayne, alone, brutally attacked from behind; Joey, trying to reason with the vicious Quantrill after Wayne's aloof departure; Ted Quantrill, hurling stones from shore at the innocent Joey. "It was the most unworthy conduct I have ever encountered in all my years of scouting," Little finished.
"You didn't encounter it at all, Mr. Little," Ted flashed. Anger made him speak too fast, the words running together. "It didn't even happen."
Little swayed his head as if dodging a bad smell. "Oh, Quantrill, look at the lads! I'm sure you'd like to think none of it happened. You may even need—psychological help—to face it," said Little, leaning forward to brush Ted's shoulder with a pitying hand. "But we can't have that sort of violence—mental imbalance—in a scout troop, Quantrill." Almost whispering, nodding earnestly: "It all happened, son. But we can't let it ever happen again. The best thing I can do is to let you resign from the troop on your own accord.
Wouldn't that be easiest for you? For all of us?"
A sensation of enervating prickly heat passed from the base of Ted Quantrill's skull down his limbs as he let Little's words sink in. Fairness, he saw, was something you gave but should never expect to receive. In the half-light of the single chemlamp he noted the simple deluded self-justification on Joey Cameron's face, the effort to hide exultation on Wayne Atkinson's part. Tom Schell fidgeted silently, staring upward . Ted showed them his palms. “What else can I do, Mr. Little? You wouldn't believe me or Ray. Maybe I should resign. Then I won't have to watch Torquemada Atkinson hit on my friends."
"You're the hitter, Quantrill," Joey spat.
Quantrill's head turned with the slow steadiness of a gun turret. "And don't you ever forget it," he said carefully, staring past Joey's broken nose into the half-closed eyes.
Purvis Little jerked his head toward a movement at the tent flap. "Go away, Thad; this doesn't concern you, son."
"Durn right it does," sniffled Thad, pushing his small body into the opening. Behind him, Ted saw, other boys were gathered in the near-darkness. “We been listening, Mr. Little."
A wave-off with both hands from Little: "Shame on you boys! Go on, now—"
"Shame on them ," Thad blubbered, pointing an unsteady finger at the patrol leaders. He ducked his head as if fearful of a blow but, now helplessly crying, he rushed on: “I seen part of it today an' Teddy's right, those bastids is liars, you don't know diddly squat about what happened—what those big guys been doing all along!"
A chorus of agreement as others streamed into the tent, some crying in release of long-pent frustrations.
Little had to shout for order, but he got it. Thad disabused him of some errors, and Ray's version was similar. The Calhoun twins, Gabe Hooker, even the shy Vardis Lane all clamored to list old injuries; reasons why the nickname 'Torquemada' had stuck. The sum of it shed little glory and less credibility on Wayne Atkinson, who still hoped to brazen his way out.
Finally, Little turned openmouthed toward his patrol leaders, awed by his own suspicions. Joey saw Wayne's steady glare of denial and aped it until—"Wayne lied, Mr. Little," Tom Schell said quietly. He did not bother to add that he had endorsed every syllable. Maybe no one would notice.
"That's right," said Joey. If Tom was flexible, Joey could be flexible.
"I see," said Purvis Little; and the glance he turned on Ted Quantrill brimmed with hatred. Holding himself carefully in check: "I misjudged you, Quantrill—and some others,
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