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grinning widely at the groans of his teammates and firing the ball back with a vigorous dispatch—usually over third base onto the road.
    I stood unmoved and adamant. He struggled at first with many a “But
Matt
” and a “I
gotta!”
thrown in to bolster his struggle to quit the cabin. I persevered, however, and, finally, failing with the overt method, Tony slumped on his side on the bunk and stared at the wall, occasionally dropping a phrase which, although muttered under breath, still managed to reach me.
    “All right, never mind the cussing,” I said. “Your clothes are filthy. You are a disgrace to the good name of Cabin Thirteen. You will
wash.”
    And, with that, I laid the behemoth bulk of his laundry bag by his side.
    “Come on now,” I said, “either you wash or I go get Sid.”
    Tears in his great, confused eyes; a curl to his lips.
    “I know,” I said, “you’re in beautiful agony. Now are you going to wash your clothes?”
    “I got a
series!”
Vehemently; voice of the betrayed.
    I left to get Sid. When we returned to the cabin, it was empty. The laundry bag was gone too.
    “Well, either he dumped it in the lake or he’s washing,” I judged.
    We found him in Paradise, surrounding by mountains of dirty clothes, cursing heartily while he scrubbed at the sink. As Sid and I entered, the cursing stopped and the scrubbing increased a little. When we reached the sink Tony looked up at Sid with sorrowful pleading in this eyes.
    “Gee, Sid, I got a
series
game.”
    “Tony, until you learn to take care of your clothes, you can’t expect to play ball.”
    Silence, then scrubbing and a muffled, “Don’t know why I came to this lousy goddam camp anyway.”
    I left, hearing, as the screen door closed behind me, those familiar lines from Sid, “Now, look, Tony. Matt is only doing this for your own good.” And the sullen reply, “I know.”
    Later, I returned and found miles of clothes hanging on the lines beside Paradise. None of them were clean, of course, but they were all wet anyway. I felt that was the most I could ask on such short notice.
    When I reached the cabin, Tony was just coming out with his bat.
    “I’m sorry, Matt,” he said. “I’ll try better. I’m gonna wash a little clothes every day and then it won’t pile up.”
    “That’s fine,” I managed. “That’s the stuff, Tony.”
    “Ain’t that the best, Matt? A little clothes every day?”
    “Sure. That’s the best, Tony.”
    He left for his imaginary series game, leaving me in pleasant shock. After less than two weeks, a slight change for the better. He was sorry. He was going to “try better.” It made me feel very good.
    After dinner, came the balancing act.
    Toward the end of the rest period, Mulhausen of Cabin 14 pushed the old wheelbarrow up the hill from the lodge, stopped in front of each cabin and tossed a stack of letters on the face of the poor counselor who was trying to catch a little sleep after knocking himself out for fifty minutes trying to keep the kids quiet.
    I handed out the letters that particular day, noticing that there was one from Tony’s mother. It was the first letter he’d received since camp started and it pleased me to watch him settle down on his bunk and, excitedly, tear open the envelope.
    The cabin was quiet for a few moments as it could only be when the boys were absorbed either in mail or comic books. Then began the inevitable comments.
    “Oh boy!” (From Charlie Barnett) “My mom is sending me two suits. I’m gonna go to the dance next week.”
    “I’m gettin’ my new shirts and my brown sport coat!” (From Marty Gingold)
    “My dad is sending me five bucks!” (Chester Wickerly)
    Tony very quiet, reading, then looking up excitedly.
    “Oh boy! My mom is sending me my blue suit and some shirts and some pants and everything!”
    His remark went unnoticed as did all the rest. The boys didn’t really expect any reception from their little personal remarks. They just wanted to