Snyder and I were pissed. Our patrol had scored the lowest at the Camporee. We were responsible for the Troop's getting a B instead of an A rating. No, WE weren't responsible--Snyder and I had done our part: the knots and the Morse code drill had come off just fine. The two tenderfeet in our patrol--Kenny and Wes--had flubbed the fire-building and physical fitness tests and, worst of all, had gotten demerits for running around and making noise after lights out. Mr. Gunn, our Scoutmaster and generally a pretty nice guy, was real disappointed, and we knew our next overnight was going to be a "shape-up" exercise: lots of hiking and work, not much fun if any. All because of those two little brats, Kenny and Wes.
The two were almost peas in a pod. Both had blue eyes, thick, short, blond hair, and slightly snub noses. Kenny was annoying, but with half a chance might turn out all right. Wes Barrett was a world-class brat: lazy, whiny and mouthy. He was too young and small for us to fight with, and Scout rules wouldn't let anyone in the Troop paddle his round little butt, and that was what he deserved if anyone did!
Snyder and I were troop quartermasters. After outings wee had to make sure all the troop equipment was accounted for and stored properly. We were usually the last to leave the building. Today was no exception. Just before shutting the door to the equipment locker I noticed a small Scout shirt among the tents. Examining it, I found (1) the name "Barrett" inside the collar and (2) a pack of cigarettes in the pocket.
"Look!" I showed it to Snyder, expecting him to be as disgusted as I was. I could not understand the broad grin on his face. I asked what was so funny.
"'Is this a dagger which I see before me?'" Snyder asked cryptically. He reads a lot and makes these weird remarks all the time.
"No," I said, "it's a shirt. Why the hell would you think it's a dagger?"
"It's a line from Shakespeare... Macbeth... It means something's up."
"Snyder, why don't you talk like normal people?"
"Because I don't want to be 'normal'--and you don't either. That's why we're friends."
"Right. So, what's funny about cigarettes in Barrett's pocket?"
"Barrett's smoking again! We've nailed him. He's dead meat. The Barretts are my neighbors, remember? Last week I heard his Dad chew him out about smoking. I heard him say he knew he hadn't hit Wes since he was seven, but he swore that if he ever heard of him smoking again he would take a belt to his butt--his bare butt! Oh, shame and disgrace!" (As I said, Snyder reads too much for an eighth-grader, knows too many weird expressions!)
"Now we'll see if he will!" he concluded.
"What are we going to do?"
"What any good Scout would. On the way home I'll just drop Wes' shirt by his house and say he forgot it."
"Will his Dad think you planted the cigarettes?"
"Not a chance. He knows I hate the stuff as much as he does."
"What should I do?" I asked.
"Circle around the block to my back yard. From there it'll be easy enough to watch the Barretts' back porch without being seen. It'll be like having a ringside seat at the circus..."
And so it was. Less than a half hour later, Snyder and I were crouched in his back yard with a perfect view of the Barretts' kitchen door, which soon flew open following a crescendo of fatheryelling and boypleading. Father and son emerged at a fast walk, Mr. Barrett gripping his son's arm with one hand, a thick leather belt in the other.
In an instant Mr. Barrett had Wes' jeans and briefs down to his knees and the boy bent over the porch rail for the ass-whipping of his young life.
"Please, Daddy!" Wes wailed in one final desperate attempt at jailhouse lawyering. "How can you do this to me if you love me?"
"'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways'? Forget the ways--for now just count the licks!" his father answered with finality.
"_d_a_m_n_!" Snyder whispered to me with a smirk. "Now do we get to hear Barrett-Browning?"
"No," I whispered back. "we get to SEE Barrett reddening!"
THE END (FOR WES' END AS WELL AS THE STORY)