E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)

He jerked backward with all the strength he could summon

UNDER
BOY SCOUT COLORS

BY

JOSEPH B. AMES

Author of “Pete, Cow-Puncher,” “The
Treasure of the Canyon,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY

WALT LOUDERBACK

APPROVED BY THE
“BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA”

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1917

Copyright, 1916, 1917, by

The Century Co.

Published September, 1917

TO
THE MEMBERS OF TROOP FIVE

FROM A GRATEFUL SCOUTMASTER

UNDER
BOY SCOUT COLORS

UNDER BOY SCOUT COLORS

CHAPTER I
THE LIVE WIRE

Dale Tompkins slung the bulging bag of papers over one shoulder, and, turning away from the news-stand, walked briskly down the main street of Hillsgrove. The rain had ceased, and the wind that had howled fiercely all day long was shifting into the west, where it tore to tatters the banks of dun gray clouds, letting through gleams and patches of cold blue sky tinged with the pale, chill yellow of a typical autumn sunset.

The cold look of that sunset was well borne out by a keen nip in the air, but Dale was too thankful to have it clear at all to complain. Besides, he wasn’t exactly the complaining sort. Turning up the collar of a rather shabby coat, he thrust both hands deep into his trousers’ pockets and hurried whistling along, bent on delivering his papers in the quickest possible time.

“I ought to get home by seven, anyhow,” he thought calculatingly. “And if Mother’ll only give me a hurry-up snack, I’ll be in time for meeting.”

He rolled the last word under his tongue with the prideful accent of a novice. Then, with a sudden start, one hand jerked out of his pocket and slipped between the buttons of the thread-bare coat. For an anxious moment it groped there before the fingers closed over a metal badge, shaped like a trefoil, that was pinned securely to the flannel shirt. A somewhat sheepish grin overspread the freckled face, and through an open gate Dale shot a paper dexterously across the porch to land accurately in the middle of the door-mat.

“I’d hate to lose it the very first week,” he muttered, with a touch of apology. Mechanically he delivered another paper, and then he sighed. “Gee! A month sure seems an awful long time to wait when you know about all the tests already. I could even pass some of the first-class ones, I bet! That handbook’s a dandy, all right. I don’t guess there was ever another book printed with so much in it, exceptin’, maybe–”

The words froze on his lips, and he caught his breath with a sharp, hissing intake. From somewhere in the next block a scream rang out on the still air, so shrill, so sudden, so full of surprise and pain and utter terror that Dale’s blood turned cold within him, and the arm, half extended to toss a folded paper, halted in the middle of its swing, as if encountering an invisible obstacle. The pause was only momentary. Abruptly, as if two hands were pressed around a throbbing throat, the cry was cut off, and in the deathly silence that followed, Dale hurled the paper hastily, but accurately, from him, and turned and ran.

Eyes wide and face a little white, he tore across the road, splashing through puddles and slipping in the soft mud. Whirling around the corner into Pine Street, he saw a woman rush bareheaded out of a near-by house and two men come running down an adjacent alley. Rather, he noted them with that odd sense of observation which works intuitively, for his whole being was concentrated on the sight of that slight, boyish figure lying motionless in the roadway.

For a second Dale stared blankly, unable to understand. His first thought was that some human agency had done this thing, but almost as swiftly he realized that there was no one in sight who could have struck the child unconscious, nor had there been time for such an assailant to get away. Then, as he hurried closer through the gathering dusk, he caught sight of a trailing wire gripped convulsively in the small hands, and in a flash he realized the truth. In a flash, too, he realized that the body was not as motionless as he had supposed. A writhing, twisting movement, slight but ceaseless, quivered through the helpless victim, from his thin, black-stockinged legs to the blue lips. To the white-faced lad bending over him it seemed to tell of great suffering borne, perforce, in silence–and he was such a little kid!

From Dale’s own lips there burst a smothered, inarticulate cry. Every idea, save the vital need of tearing loose that killing grip, vanished from the older boy’s mind. Heedless of a warning shout from one of the men, he bent swiftly forward and caught the child by one shoulder.

What happened then Dale was never afterward able to describe clearly. It was as if some monstrous tingling force, greater, stranger than anything he had ever known, struck at him out of the air. In a twinkling it tore him from the boy on the ground and hurled him almost the width of the street. He crashed against the stone curbing and for a second or two lay there, dazed and blinking, then climbed painfully to his feet.

“I oughtn’t to have–touched him–with my bare hands,” he muttered uncertainly. “I must have got nearly the whole charge!”

He felt faint and sick and wobbly. From the horrified group gathered helplessly around the unconscious boy across the street, a woman’s hysterical cry beat on his brain with monotonous iteration: “What can we do? What can we do? It’s terrible! Oh, can’t you do something?”

“If we only had rubber gloves–” murmured one of the men, vaguely.

“Where’s a ’phone?” interrupted another. “I’m going to get ’em to shut off the current!”

“You can’t,” some one replied. People were constantly rushing up to gasp and exclaim, but do nothing. “The power-house is clear over at Medina. It’ll take too long to get the connection.”

“I’m going to try, anyhow,” was the sharp retort. “It’s better than doing nothing.”

As he dashed past Dale and disappeared into a neighboring house, the boy moved slowly forward. He splashed through a puddle, and something he had read, or heard, came back to him. Water was a perfect conductor, and he had been standing in a regular pool of it when he grabbed the child. No wonder he had been shocked.

“Insulation,” he murmured, his head still swimming. “That’s it! The handbook says–”

The bag of papers bumped against his thigh, and somehow Dale’s numbed brain began to clear swiftly. How could he have forgotten that paper was a non-conductor as well as silk or rubber? Rubber! Why, the bag itself was made of some kind of waterproof stuff. He thrust aside a half-grown, gaping youth.

“Give me a show, can’t you?” he cried almost fiercely. Thrilled, exhilarated with a sudden sense of power, he jerked the bag off his shoulder. “The kid’ll never live if he waits for you fellows to do something.” With extraordinary swiftness he pulled out several thicknesses of newspaper and wrapped them about one hand and arm. Similarly swathing the other, he dropped the rubber-coated bag to the ground and stepped squarely on it. His eyes were wide and almost black with excitement. “Oh, cut that out!” he snapped over one shoulder to a protesting bystander. “Don’t you s’pose I know what I’m doing? I’m a scout!”

A second later he had gripped the unconscious child again by an arm and shoulder. This time there was no shock, only a queer, vibratory tingling that Dale scarcely noticed, so intent was he on doing the right thing. He must not bungle now. He remembered perfectly what the book said about releasing a person in contact with a live wire. It must be done quickly and cleanly, without unnecessary tugging, or else the shock and burning would be greatly increased. Dale braced his feet and drew a long breath. Then, suddenly, he jerked backward with all the strength he could summon. The next thing he knew he was sitting squarely in a puddle with both arms around the child, whose grip on the deadly wire he had broken.

Instantly the hitherto inactive group was roused to life and movement, and amidst a Babel of talk and advice they surged around the unconscious lad and his rescuer. Before the latter realized what had happened, some one had snatched the little chap from him and started swiftly toward one of the near-by houses. After and around them streamed a throng of men, women, and children, pitying, anxious, or merely curious, but, now that the danger was past, all equally voluble with suggestions or advice.

Dale rose slowly to his feet, and stood for a moment staring after them with a troubled frown. “Why don’t they give him air?” he said. “If only they wouldn’t bunch around him like that–”

He paused hesitatingly, watching the procession mount the steps and cross a wide veranda. The stress and excitement that had dominated him till now seemed to have vanished, and a reaction set in. He wondered whether folks wouldn’t think him too “fresh” for thrusting himself forward as he had done. The remembrance of the man to whom he had talked back made him wriggle uncomfortably; it was one of his oldest customers. “Gee!” he muttered, with a touch of uneasiness; “I reckon I must have sassed him pretty well, too!”

Dusk had given place to night. Under a flaring gas-light at the curb two early arrivals, who had stayed behind to guard the deadly, dangling wire, were busy explaining the situation to several wide-eyed later comers. They formed an animated group, and Dale, standing in the shadow behind them, felt curiously out of it and alone. The wind, sweeping up the street, struck through his wet clothes and made him shiver.

“Time I was getting started,” he thought. “It must be awful late.”

As he bent over to pick up his bag, the movement set his head to throbbing afresh. His exploring fingers encountered a lump, where he had hit the curb, that felt about the size of an ostrich-egg. Dale’s forehead wrinkled, and he opened the bag mechanically, only to find the remaining papers were soaked through and ruined. Those he had wrapped around his hands lay in the mud at his feet, soggy masses of pulp. And he had delivered only four out of the lot!

Dale tried to smile, but his lips only quivered. With a second, more determined, effort, he clenched his teeth tightly, slung the empty bag over his shoulder, and started back toward the news-stand. But he went in silence. Somehow the usual whistle was impossible.

CHAPTER II
THE NEW TENDERFOOT

It was close to half past seven before Dale delivered his last paper. He had been delayed in the beginning by old Jed Hathaway’s having to know all about it, and insisting on hearing every little detail before he could be induced to provide a second supply. Dale tried to be patient under the cross-examination of the garrulous old newsdealer, but it wasn’t easy when he knew that each minute wasted now was going to make it harder to get through in time for the scout meeting. When he was released at last, he hurried all he could, but the minute-hand of the old town-clock was perilously close to the perpendicular when he got back to the square again.

Clearly, there was no time to go home even for that “hurry up” snack he had been thinking about. There wasn’t even time to get a sandwich from the lunch-wagon, two blocks away. “Have to pull in my belt and forget about it till I get home after meeting, I reckon,” he thought.

In suiting the action to the word he realized that his hurried efforts at the news-stand to clean off the mud had been far from successful. It plastered his person, if not from head to foot, at least from the waist down, and now that it was beginning to dry, it seemed to show up more distinctly each moment. He couldn’t present himself before Scoutmaster Curtis in such a plight, so he raced across the square to his friend Joe Banta’s shoe-cleaning establishment, borrowed a stiff brush, and went to work vigorously.

Brief as was the delay, it sufficed to make him late. Though not at all sectarian, Troop Five held its weekly meetings in the parish-house of the Episcopal church, whose rector was intensely interested in the movement. These were scheduled for seven-thirty on Monday evenings. There was usually a brief delay for belated scouts, but by twenty minutes of eight, at latest, the shrill blast of the scoutmaster’s whistle brought the fellows at attention, ready for the salute to the flag and the other simple exercises that opened the meeting.

Precisely one minute later Dale Tompkins burst hastily into the vestibule and pulled up abruptly. Through the open door a long line of khaki-clad backs confronted him, trim, erect, efficient-looking. Each figure stood rigidly at attention, shoulders back, eyes set straight ahead, three fingers pressed against the forehead in the scout salute, and lips moving in unison over the last words of the scout oath.

“... To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”

“Colors post!” came crisply from the scoutmaster facing the line.

From the shadows of the entry Dale felt a sort of thrill at the precision of the movement and the neatness with which the slim color-bearer, who had faced the line just in front of Mr. Curtis and his assistant, pivoted on his heel and bore the flag, its silken folds gently rippling, past the scouts still standing at attention and on out of sight toward the farther end of the room.

Of course it was only Courtlandt Parker, who was in Dale’s grade at school and a very familiar person indeed. But somehow, in this rôle, he did not seem nearly so familiar and intimate. To the watching tenderfoot it was almost as if he had ceased for the moment to be the airy, volatile, harum-scarum “Court,” whose pranks and witticisms so often kept the whole grade stirred up and amused, and had become solely the sober, earnest, serious color-bearer of the troop.

“A lot of it’s the uniform, of course,” thought Dale. “It does make a whopping difference in a fellow’s looks.” He glanced down at his own worn, still disheveled garments with sudden distaste. “I wish I had mine!” he sighed.

A moment later, still hesitating in the background, reluctant to face that trim, immaculate line, he caught the scoutmaster’s glance,–that level, friendly, smiling glance, which was at once a salutation and a welcome,–and his head went up abruptly. What did looks matter, after all–at least the sort of looks one couldn’t help? He was none the worse a scout because he had not yet saved up enough money for that coveted suit of khaki. Nor was it his fault that he had lacked the time to go home and brush up thoroughly for the meeting. He smiled back a little at Mr. Curtis, and then, with shoulders square and head erect, he obeyed the leader’s silent summons.

There was a faint stir and a sense of curious, shifting eyes when he appeared around the end of the line of waiting scouts. As he passed Sherman Ward’s patrol some one even whispered an airy greeting, “Aye, Tommy.” Though Dale did not glance that way, he knew it to be the irrepressible Courtlandt, now returned to his position as assistant patrol-leader. Court was the only one who ever called him that, and the boy’s heart warmed at this touch of friendliness. Then he paused before the scoutmaster and promptly, though perhaps a little awkwardly, returned the man’s salute.

“I’m glad to see you, Dale,” the scoutmaster said, in a tone which robbed the words of any trace of the perfunctory. “I’d begun to think something was keeping you away to-night.”

The boy flushed a little. “I–I was delayed, sir,” he explained briefly. “I–I–it won’t happen again, sir.”

“Good!” The scoutmaster nodded approval, his glance sweeping meditatively over the three patrols. He was slim and dark, with eyes set wide apart, and a humorous, rather sensitive mouth. The boys liked him without exactly knowing why, for he was not the popular athletic type of scoutmaster, nor yet the sort of man who dominates by sheer force of personality and commands immense respect if nothing more.

“Most of you fellows know Dale Tompkins, our new tenderfoot,” he went on presently, raising his voice a little. “For the benefit of those who don’t, I’ll say that he passed an extra good examination last week, and I’ve an idea he’s going to be a credit to the troop. He will take Arnold’s place in Wolf patrol, which brings us up to our full strength again. That’s the one at the head of the line, Tompkins. Patrol-leader Ranleigh Phelps will take you in charge and show you the ropes.”

Dale’s heart leaped, and a sudden warm glow came over him. He had never exchanged a word with Ranny Phelps, and yet the handsome, dashing leader of Wolf patrol probably had more to do with Tompkins’ becoming a member of Troop Five than any other cause. The boy liked Mr. Curtis, to be sure, and was glad to have him for a scoutmaster, but his feeling for Phelps, though he had never expressed it even to himself, was something deeper than mere liking. To him, the good-looking, blond chap seemed everything that a scout should be and so seldom was. Perhaps one of the reasons was because he always contrived to look the part so satisfyingly. Whenever the troop appeared in public, Phelps’s uniform fitted to perfection, his bearing was invariably beyond criticism, his execution of the various manœuvers was crisp, snappy, faultless. In athletic events, too, he was always prominent, entering in almost every event, and coming out ahead in many. And he was physically so picturesque with his clean-cut features, gray eyes, and mass of curly blond hair, his poise and perfect self-possession, that gradually in the breast of the rugged, unornamental Tompkins there had grown up a shy admiration, a silent, wistful liking which strengthened as time went on almost to hero-worship, yet which, of course, he would have perished sooner than reveal. When he had at length gained his father’s grudging permission to become a scout, it was this feeling mainly which prompted him to make application to Troop Five. He had not dared to hope that Mr. Curtis would actually assign him to Ranny Phelps’s patrol.

“You mean I–I’m to stay in–in Wolf patrol, sir?” he stammered incredulously.

The scoutmaster nodded. “It’s the only vacancy. Both the others are filled. Ranny will show you where your place is, and then we’ll proceed with the drill.”

With face a little flushed, the tenderfoot turned and took a few steps toward the head of the line. Just what he expected from his hero he could not have said. Perhaps he vaguely felt that Phelps would step forward and shake his hand, or at least greet the new-comer with a welcoming smile. But Ranny did not stir from his place. Stiff and straight he stood there, and as Tompkins paused hesitatingly, the shapely lips curled unpleasantly at the corners, and the gray eyes ranged slowly over him from head to heel and back again in a manner that sent the blood surging into the boy’s face and brought his lids down abruptly to hide the swift surprise and hurt that flashed into his brown eyes.

“At the end of the line, tenderfoot,” ordered Phelps, curtly. “And don’t be all day about it!”

The latter words were in an undertone which could not well have reached beyond the ears of the lad for whom they were intended. The chill unfriendliness of the whole remark affected Dale Tompkins much like a douche of ice-cold water. With head suddenly erect and lips compressed, he swiftly took his place at the end of the patrol, next to a plump, red-cheeked boy named Vedder, who, save for a brief, swiftly averted side-glance, gave no further evidence of welcome than had the leader.

In the brief pause that followed while the assistant patrol-leaders procured staves and distributed them, the tenderfoot tried to solve the problem. What was the matter? he asked himself in troubled bewilderment. What had he done that was wrong? Naturally a cheerful, friendly soul, he could not imagine himself, were their positions reversed, treating a stranger with such chill formality. But perhaps he had expected too much. After all, there was no reason why the fellows should break ranks in the middle of meeting and fall on his neck, when not more than a third of the crowd had ever spoken to him before. For a moment he had forgotten that while he had long ardently admired Ranny Phelps from afar, the blond chap had probably never even heard his name before. It would be different when they came to know each other.

Cheered by this thought, Dale braced up and flung himself with characteristic ardor into acquiring the various movements of the drill. These were not difficult, but somehow, try as he might, he could not seem to satisfy his leader. At every slightest error, or even hesitation, Ranny flew out at him with a caustic sharpness that swiftly got the tenderfoot’s nerve and made him blunder more than ever. Yet still he found excuses for the fellow he so admired.

“You can’t blame anybody for not liking to coach up a greenhorn when all the rest of them do it so well,” he said to himself after the meeting was over and the boys were leaving the hall. “It’s the best patrol of the three, all right, and I’ll just have to get busy and learn the drill, so’s not to make a single mistake.” He sighed a little. “I wish–”

“What’s the matter, Dale? Seems to me you’re looking mighty serious.”

A hand dropped on his shoulder, and Dale glanced swiftly up to meet the quizzical, inquiring gaze of Mr. Curtis. He hesitated an instant, a touch of embarrassment in his answering smile.

“Nothing much, sir,” he returned. “I was just thinking what a dub I am at that drill, and wishing–a complete uniform costs six-thirty, doesn’t it, Mr. Curtis?”

The scoutmaster nodded. “Would you like me to order one for you?”

Dale laughed a little wistfully. “I sure would!” he ejaculated fervently. “The trouble is I only have about four dollars and that isn’t enough.”

“Not quite,” The man hesitated an instant, his eyes on the boy’s face. “I’ll tell you what we can do, though,” he went on slowly. “If you like, I’ll advance the difference so that you can have it right away, and you can pay me back whenever it’s convenient.”

For a moment Dale did not speak. Then he shook his head regretfully. “It’s mighty good of you, sir, but I guess I’d better–” He paused abruptly, and a slow flush crept into his face. “Does a fellow have to have one? Would I be–that is, if I didn’t have one for a while, will it–make a lot of difference for the other fellows–will it look bad for the troop?”

Mr. Curtis laughed suddenly, and his hand tightened a bit on the boy’s shoulder. “Bless you, no!” he exclaimed. “Get rid of that notion right away. I thoroughly believe in every scout’s wanting a uniform, and working for it, and wearing it whenever he can, and being proud of it, but I’d hate awfully to have him feel that he was out of place in Troop Five without one. It’s the spirit that makes the scout, not clothes, and I’m just a little glad you didn’t accept my offer, Dale. Keep on saving for it, and, when you’ve enough, come to me. Meanwhile–you say you didn’t get the drill very well?”

“No, sir. I was rank.”

“That’s because you’re new to it, and to the crowd, and everything. It really isn’t hard. If you can come around to my house after supper to-morrow night, I’ll coach you up in half an hour so you can’t make a mistake next Friday if you try. That’ll put you on even terms with the rest of the troop, and make you forget this little matter of clothes. How about it?”

Dale’s eyes brightened. “That would be corking, sir! Of course I can come, only won’t it be a trouble to you?”

“Not a bit. Come any time after seven. You know where I live, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be there, all right; and thank you ever so much for helping me.”

“You needn’t,” smiled the scoutmaster. “It will be a pleasure.” He dropped his hand and was turning away when his glance rested on the boy’s solid-looking shoulders and then traveled on down over the lithe frame. “Play football?” he asked, with a touch of fresh interest.

Dale nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir; as much as I’ve had time for, that is. Do–do you think I’d have any show for the team?”

“I shouldn’t wonder. See Sherman Ward; he’s captain. The season’s half over, but we need weight behind the line, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you’d do. Try it, anyhow. Good night; see you to-morrow.”

Dale found his cap and slipped out of the building, a pleasant glow stealing over him. “He’s corking!” he muttered, as he followed the flagged walk that led past the shadowy bulk of the stone church to the street. “He makes a fellow feel–well, sort of as if he belonged!”

He had been a chump to let himself be troubled by Ranny Phelps’s brusqueness. “Of course he was peeved when I made such a mess of things,” he thought. “Just wait till next Friday, though, and he’ll–”

Dale’s progress along the walk and his train of thought stopped abruptly at one and the same time. He had reached the side of the squat stone tower that faced the street, but was still in the shadow, when the voice of Ranny Phelps, somewhat shrill with temper and unmistakably scornful of accent, smote suddenly on his ears.

“The idea of a mucker like that being in Troop Five–and in my own patrol, too! It’s simply sickening! You saw him to-night; so stupid he couldn’t even learn the drill, and did anybody ever see such clothes? They look as if they’d come out of the rag-bag.”

An indistinguishable murmur in another voice seemed merely to goad the irate patrol-leader to increased frenzy.

“That’s just it–a common newsboy! He’ll be an ornament to the troop, won’t he? He’ll make a fine-looking scout, he will! I can just see what a rotten mess he’ll make of the line if we should have to march in public. Mr. Curtis must be crazy to take in such riffraff, and I’ve half a mind to tell him–”

The rest of the remark was indistinguishable, for the speakers were moving away from the church in the direction of the better class, residential section. Presently, even the rising and falling murmur of voices ceased, but still the figure in the shadow of the church tower did not stir. When at last he moved slowly forward into the circle of an electric light, something of the hard grayness of the stone might almost have come into his face.

“‘A scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other scout,’” he said, half aloud, as he turned in an opposite direction to that taken by Phelps and his companion.

Then he laughed. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant sound. There was no mirth in it; only scorn, derision, and, under all the rest, a note of pain that could not quite be hidden.

CHAPTER III
THE SILVER LINING

“Say, fellows, did you hear about Jimmy Warren’s kid brother?” eagerly inquired Court Parker, skipping up to a group gathered about the school steps next morning.

From force of habit, expectant grins wreathed several faces. “Huh!” grunted Bob Gibson, suspiciously. “What’s the joke?”

“Joke!” repeated the latest comer, indignantly. “There isn’t any joke. What gave you that idea? It came pretty near being serious, I can tell you. One of the electric feed-wires got loose in the storm yesterday, and hung down in front of Jimmy’s house on Pine Street. Before anybody else saw it, that crazy kid Georgie had to go out and grab hold of it with both hands.”

He paused an instant for breath, and a concerted exclamation went up from the crowd that had gathered swiftly about him. “Gee!” exclaimed stout Harry Vedder. “And the current still on, I s’pose?”

“Of course it was! Dad told me how many volts. I forget. Anyhow, Georgie got hold and couldn’t let go. They said he yelled to beat the band, and then went clean out. A crowd got around right away, but nobody seemed to know what to do. One man ran in and started ’phoning for ’em to turn off the current; and while he was gone, what do you think happened? A kid with a bunch of papers came along, and jumped right in and grabbed hold of Georgie to pull him off the wire. They said that when the current hit him it was like being kicked by a horse. He went clean across the street and banged his head an awful whack on the curb. He got up sort of groggy, but he must have been a game one, for he came right back, wrapped some newspapers around his hands, and had Georgie loose in a jiffy!”

“Great!” came in an appreciative chorus. Then one of the third-grade boys piped up curiously. “But what good was the newspaper?”

“Insulation, of course,” spoke up Sherman Ward, from the outskirts of the group. He was tall enough to look over the heads of most of the fellows, and spoke with a certain authority. “If he hadn’t used them he’d have got the shock as he did the first time. That’s some idea, though, fellows. I don’t believe I’d have remembered, right off the bat, that paper was a non-conductor. Who was he, Court?”

“Nobody knows; that’s the funny part of it.” Court thrust back a dangling lock of brown hair with a characteristic gesture. “It was pretty near dark, and everybody was excited, and all that, Mrs. Warren told Dad when he was over this morning. She said she only noticed that he wasn’t so very tall and carried his papers in a bag over one shoulder. She forgot all about him till after they’d got the kid into the house and the doctor had come. Then when she sent somebody out to see, the chap had gone.”

At once the throng of boys was plunged into a fever of interested speculation. The idea of an unknown appearing suddenly out of the darkness, doing his spectacular stunt, and slipping away again without revealing himself appealed tremendously to the imagination. The fact that he was a boy and quite possibly one of themselves vastly increased the interest. One after another the various fellows with paper routes were suggested, but for the most part as quickly dismissed. One was too tall, another delivered in a different part of town, two more were part of the present assemblage and reluctantly denied any connection with the affair.

“Maybe it was that fellow Tompkins,” doubtfully suggested Bob Gibson, when most of the other possibilities had been exhausted. “He goes past Pine Street, doesn’t he?”

A sudden low laugh touched with scorn, from the outskirts of the circle, turned all eyes to where Ranny Phelps leaned against the iron railing.

“You’re quite a joker, aren’t you, Bob?” commented the blond chap, with a flash of his white teeth.

Gibson sniffed. “I don’t see anything so awful funny in that,” he retorted. “He does go past Pine Street about every night; I’ve seen him often.”

“Quite possibly,” agreed Phelps, suavely. “I never said he didn’t, you old grumbler. He probably went past last night, but take my word for it he didn’t turn in. You don’t suppose that thickhead would have the gumption to do what this chap did, or the wit to know about paper being a non-conductor, and all that? Not in a thousand years!”

Bob’s mouth set stubbornly; he was one who never lost a chance to argue. “I don’t see it at all!” he retorted. “Just because you say so doesn’t make him thick. I noticed you picking on him last night, and I tell you right now that anybody might seem–”

“He didn’t seem brainless–he was,” interrupted Phelps with cool, scornful certainty. “A fellow who could manage to fall over his feet as many times as he did in that simple little drill, and make as many breaks–”

He paused suddenly and bit his lips. At the farther edge of the wide circle the face of Tompkins himself had loomed all at once into his surprised consciousness, and something in the boy’s level, unsmiling, somber glance brought a twinge of shame to Ranleigh’s heart. For an instant he stood silent, striving to resume his usual cool nonchalance. Then he turned away with a shrug.

“But after all,” he drawled, “it’s hardly worth while arguing about. Who’s got that seventh problem in Geom? It’s a sticker, all right.”

It was well enough done to deceive most of the fellows about him, particularly since the sound of the last bell started the crowd up the steps and into the school building. But Court Parker had noted the direction of Ranny’s glance, and a gleam of indignation flashed into his eyes. For a moment he stood biting his lips; then his face cleared and he pounced on Tompkins.

“Well, were you, Tommy!” he demanded airily.

“Was I what?” countered the other, briefly.

“The hero–the chap who leaped into the breach and saved Georgie Warren from a–a–an electrocutive finish.” Court’s metaphors might be mixed, but his vocabulary seldom lacked originality. Tompkins merely shrugged his shoulders and frowned a bit.

“Is it likely?” he asked, with a touch of bitterness. “Even if I’d had the chance, I’m too thick to–”

“Rot!” cut in Court, swiftly. As they went up the steps he flung an arm impulsively around the other’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry about anything Ranny Phelps says. Nobody ever pays any attention to him, anyhow. I do wish I knew who that plucky chap was, though. It was a corking thing to do. You haven’t heard any one say, have you, Tommy?”

Tompkins hesitated an instant, an odd indecision in his face. A few minutes ago he might have found a boyish pride and pleasure in his friend’s surprise at learning his part in the affair. Now he merely shook his head. “Those I’ve heard–talking about it, didn’t seem to know,” he returned shortly.

“Humph! Well, I guess I’ll have to start my mighty brain working and do the Sherlock Holmes stunt,” decided Court, philosophically. “Say! Won’t Jimmy be crazy, though, to be away at school with all this happening to his own family. I can just see him squirm!”

As they entered the coat-room his volatile mind leaped to another topic. “There’s one good thing, old top; you can come out for the troop team now. That’ll be great! Don’t forget there’s practice right after school this aft.”

Dale slapped his cap on a hook and turned away. “I’m not coming out,” he said gruffly, making for the door.

Court’s eyes widened. “Not coming out for football!” he repeated amazedly.

“No!”

“Why not, for goodness’ sake?”

“I don’t want to,” was the almost ungracious retort.

Court sniffed incredulously. “Tell that to your grandmother! Haven’t I seen you play often enough to know better? Wait a second.” At the entrance of the coat-room he caught Tompkins by the arm, and, whirling him around, stared into his face. “If you think for a minute,” he went on with some heat, “that anybody– You old idiot! You make me sick with your silly notions. I’ll–I’ll settle you, though.”

With which cryptic and somewhat fragmentary comment, he slapped Dale briskly on the back and slipped into his seat, leaving the other to seek his own place on the farther side of the room, unconsciously heartened a bit by his fellow’s friendliness. But a moment later his forehead wrinkled perplexedly. Court had a little habit of impulsively settling the affairs of nations offhand, and his last remark seemed to indicate that something of the kind was in his mind at present.

“Well, whatever it is, he won’t get me to come out for the team,” decided Tompkins, his jaw squaring stubbornly. “They don’t think I’m good enough for them, and I’m not going to force myself where I’m not wanted.”

Those few words overheard just before had opened afresh the wound of the night before and confirmed Dale’s conviction that he was not wanted in Troop Five. With the exception of one or two of the boys who had been friendly before, he felt that the scouts agreed with Ranny Phelps in resenting his presence in the crack troop of Hillsgrove. Because his father was a working-man, because he himself sold papers to eke out the family income, because, in short, he was poor and had come to meeting in rather shabby clothes instead of a natty uniform, they looked down on him as an interloper who had no business to be there. He would merely be inviting further slights by appearing on the football field and trying for a position on the troop eleven.

“I can just see Sherman Ward’s expression if I did!” he thought bitterly. “He’s the niftiest one of the lot, with his father owning the iron works and about half the town besides. He wouldn’t waste much time on me, I guess!”

Taken all in all, Dale failed to pass either a pleasant or a profitable morning. He tried to keep his mind on the lessons, but that wasn’t easy. He had not yet decided whether or not to remain in the troop, and this question seemed so much more vital and important than arithmetic problems or dates in ancient history that his thoughts returned to it again and again. He hated the idea of staying where he wasn’t wanted, and yet to leave now would look as if he were a coward, afraid to face the jibes and sarcasms of the fellows who didn’t like him.

The end of the morning session found the problem still unsolved. Dale was a little slow putting his books away, and when he came to look for Parker, who usually walked home with him, Court was nowhere to be seen. As he left the building he noticed a bunch of high-school boys from upstairs laughing and fooling on the corner. Ranny Phelps was among them, and several other members of Troop Five, and unconsciously the tenderfoot paused for an instant and half turned as if to seek the other exit. A second later his lips tightened and a dull flush came into his cheeks. He never went home that way, why should he take it now? Swiftly he turned back, and with head high in a desperate effort to look unconscious, he started briskly down the walk. He was within a dozen feet of the jolly group when all at once there came a hail from behind.

“Hi, Dale!”

Astonished, he turned at the call to see Sherman Ward coming down the school steps. For a moment it seemed as if he must have been mistaken, but the older chap quickly settled that doubt.

“Wait a minute, kid,” he went on; “I want to talk to you.”

In an instant Dale’s interest in the throng at the corner vanished. Surprised, curious, a little on the defensive, he watched the approach of the senior patrol-leader.

“I forgot to speak to you last night about football,” Sherman began at once with brisk, casual friendliness. “You play, don’t you?”

“A–a little,” stammered Dale, dazed by the absence of what he had so fully expected in the other’s manner.

“What position?”

“Er–tackle, and–and half-back–sometimes.”

“You ought to be a pretty good back if you’ve got speed,” mused the older chap, his glance appreciatively taking in the boy’s sturdy build and good shoulders. “The season’s well along and the team’s made up, but we need more weight. Troop One’s the only team we’re afraid of, but we’ve simply got to lick them and nab the pennant. I’ll try you out this afternoon. Practice at three-thirty sharp in the field back of my place. We’ll go right over from school. You go this way, don’t you?”

The throng at the corner had broken up, and the two were practically alone. Dale nodded and mechanically fell into step. He had been steeling himself for something so very different that in a second his defenses were swept entirely away. Ward’s perfect assurance of his readiness to play made even hesitation seem the action of a selfish cad unwilling to do his best for his troop. Besides, Dale did not want to refuse–now.

“How is it you never thought of being a scout before?” asked Ward, as they cut across corners toward Main Street. “Wasn’t there any troop where you came from?”

Dale shook his head. “No; and after we got here Father–didn’t want me to join. He–he didn’t seem to understand about it, and so–”

He paused; Ward nodded comprehendingly. “Sometimes they don’t,” he said. “Well, it’s all right now. You’re in, and you don’t look like a chap who’d stay a tenderfoot long, especially with a scoutmaster like Mr. Curtis. He’s a corker, all right, and does everything to help a fellow along. I shouldn’t wonder if you’d be ready for second-class exams as soon as the month is up.”

Dale’s eyes brightened. “I’ll certainly try ’em, anyhow. I can pass a lot of the tests now, I think, and I’m going to bone up on the others hard.”

“That’s the boy!” smiled Sherman. “If I can help you in anything, let me know. Well, this is my corner. So long. Don’t forget practice at three-thirty sharp.”

With a wave of his hand he turned down Main Street, leaving Dale to stare after him for a moment or two, an odd expression on his freckled face.

“Why, he’s–he’s not a bit what I– He’s just like–” He ended with a deep-drawn breath and turned homeward, head high and shoulders squared.

Somehow the blue of the sky seemed suddenly deeper, the sunshine brighter than it had been before. The crisp, clean autumn air had a tang in it he had not noticed until this moment. He drew it into his lungs in great gulps, and his eyes sparkled.

“The pants’ll do,” he murmured to himself; “so will the jersey. I haven’t any decent shoes, but I’ve played in sneakers before. And there’ll be time to deliver the papers after five.”

CHAPTER IV
ON THE GRIDIRON

Ranny Phelps left the school building that afternoon in a distinctly disagreeable mood. He had been feeling vaguely irritable all day, but since noon there had developed grouchy tendencies, as Court Parker termed them, and he was ready to flare up at the slightest provocation. On the way down-stairs he had flown out at Harry Vedder, one of his particular followers, for no other reason than that the stout youth expressed an indolent conviction that the new tenderfoot could play football better than he could drill, and that he would probably show up on the field. The blow-up, instead of relieving pressure, as such things often do, seemed to deepen Phelps’s discontent, and seeing Ward on the walk just ahead of him, he yielded to a sudden impulse and hastily caught up with him.

“Look here, Sherm,” he began hastily, “you’re not really thinking of–of–using that nut Tompkins, are you?”

The football captain glanced sidewise at him–a cool, level stare. “Why not?” he asked briefly. “He’s a member of the troop, isn’t he?”

Ranny realized his mistake, but temper kept him to it. “Oh, yes! yes, of course,” he snapped petulantly. “Unfortunately he is, but I don’t see why you should encourage him. If he’s shown that he–he–isn’t wanted, he may have the wit to–to–”

Conscious of Ward’s prolonged, quizzical glance, the blond chap faltered, and then, furious at himself and with his companion, he went on angrily: “You needn’t look like that. You know yourself he’s the extreme limit. Look at him now!” He waved one hand jerkily toward a group ahead, which included the boy under discussion chatting eagerly with Parker and Bob Gibson. “He’s a disgrace to the troop with that horrible-looking suit, all rags and frayed, and–and his hair brushing all over his collar; I don’t believe it’s been cut in months.”

“Well, what of it?” inquired the taller chap composedly, as Ranny paused for breath. “What’s his hair or his clothes got to do with his being a good scout?”

“Everything!” snapped Ranny, biting his lips and striving to keep down his temper. “A fellow that amounts to anything will–will keep himself decent looking even if he is–poor. Besides he–you saw him last night; couldn’t do the simplest thing without making a show of himself. Take my word for it, he’ll never amount to anything. He’s a dead loss, and I wish– I can’t think what you see in–”

He broke off with grating teeth, maddeningly conscious of the futility and ineffectiveness of his words. It wasn’t at all the sort of thing he had meant to say. He realized that temper had deadened judgment, and that the whole must sound excessively silly and childish. He fully expected his companion to greet the outbreak with open ridicule, but when he looked up, he discovered with mingled annoyance and relief that Ward wasn’t listening at all. Instead, he was staring at the group ahead with an expression of such frank curiosity and interest that instinctively Ranny followed the direction of his schoolmate’s eager glance.

Eight or ten boys, mostly upper-grade grammar-school students and about half of them scouts, were bunched together at the corner of a cross-street. Apparently they had been halted by a man of middle age who was talking with considerable animation, the while keeping one hand on the shoulder of Dale Tompkins, who looked exceedingly sheepish and uncomfortable. As Ranny stared, puzzled, he was amazed to see Court Parker leap suddenly at his classmate with a piercing yell, clutch him about the waist, and execute a few steps of a wildly eccentric war-dance. Then he thumped the tenderfoot violently on the back, and finally the whole crowd flung themselves on the boy in a body. As Ward and Phelps hastily approached, the victim was engulfed by numbers, but his vehement, embarrassed protests sounded intermittently above the din.

“Aw, quit it, fellows! Lay off, won’t you? It wasn’t anything. I– Cut it out–do!”

“Here’s the missing hero!” called Court Parker, shrilly. “Where’s the leather medal?” Suddenly he slid out of the throng and faced the new-comers, his eyes shining. “What do you know about Tommy?” he demanded. “He’s the mysterious guy who rescued Georgie Warren last night. Fact! Mr. Pegram was there and saw him. He was the one who ’phoned the company to shut off the current, you know. Says Tommy was cool as a cucumber and had all kinds of nerve And this morning he never let out a peep about it, even when I asked him. Some kid, eh, Sherm?”

Ward grinned. “The secretive young beggar!” he exclaimed. “By jinks! That ought to mean a medal, sure! And he a tenderfoot only a week!”

“Aw, quit it, fellows! It wasn’t anything”

He moved forward toward the throng, eager for further details. Ranny did not stir. His face was blank, and his mind, usually so active, failed for a second or two to take in the meaning of what he had heard. When at length he realized the truth, a sense of grudging admiration stole over him. From one of those present at the affair last night he had had an unusually vivid account of the accident. He understood the risks the hitherto unknown rescuer had run, and fully appreciated his nerve and resourcefulness. For a flashing second he was filled with an impulse to follow Ward’s example and add his brief word of congratulation to the chorus, but the impulse was only momentary. In a second or two he had crushed it back, passed the noisy group, and headed toward the football field alone.

How absurd he had been even to think of such a thing! The details had probably been greatly exaggerated. Doubtless, Tompkins had merely blundered into the affair and done the right thing through sheer fool luck. At any rate, he still remained precisely the same individual whose presence Ranny had considered a blot on the appearance of the troop and likely to injure its “tone.” There seemed to him no reason why this latest development should alter his treatment of the fellow a particle.

Ward and the rest reached the field not long after Phelps, and no time was lost in commencing practice. Tompkins was started off with the scrub, an organization composed mostly of scouts who were too small or lazy or indifferent or unskilful to make the regular eleven, together with a few outsiders who had been persuaded into lending their aid merely for the fun of the game. It was a motley crowd, and Sherman had his hands full holding them together. One or two, to be sure, were stimulated by the hope, which grew fainter with each day of practice, that they might supplant some member of the regular team in time to play in the game of the season, the struggle with the redoubtable Troop One, which would end the series and decide the championship. But the majority had no such dominating incentive. Their interest flagged continually, and it was only by a constant appeal to their scout spirit, by rebuke and ridicule, interspersed with well-timed jollying, that they could be kept to the scratch. When Dale Tompkins was given the position of right tackle, the boy whose place he had taken openly rejoiced, and not a few of his companions viewed the escape with envy.

The regulars started with the ball, and the first down netted them eight yards. The second plunge through the line was almost as successful; the third even more so. The scrub played apathetically, each fellow for himself. They lacked cohesion, and many of the individuals opposed the rushes half-heartedly and without spirit. Little Saunders, the scrub quarter, while working at full pressure himself, seemed to have grown discouraged by past failures to spur the fellows on. Occasionally he snapped out a rasping appeal for them to get together and do something, but there was a perfunctory note in his voice which told how little faith he had in their obeying.

To Ward, playing at left half on the regulars, it was an old story which had ceased, almost, to fret him. He had come to feel that the utmost he could hope for was to keep the scrub together and gain what practice was possible from their half-hearted resistance. Keeping his eye on Tompkins, he noted with approval that the boy was playing a very different sort of game. He flung himself into the fray with snap and energy, tackling well, recovering swiftly, and showing a pretty knowledge of interference. But it was soon apparent that his work failed more or less because of its very quickness. At every rush he was a foot or two ahead of the sluggish Vedder at guard or the discouraged Morris playing on his right. He might get his man and frequently did, but one player cannot do all the work of a team, and the holes in the line remained as gaping as before.

The regulars scored a touchdown and, returning to the center of the field, began the process anew. There was a sort of monotonous iteration about their advance that presently began to get a little on Sherman’s nerves. The crisp, shrill voice of Court Parker calling the signal, the thud of feet over the turf, the crash as the wedge of bodies struck the wavering line and thrust its way through it and on, on, seemingly to endless distance in spite of the plucky efforts of the boy at right tackle to stop it–it was all so cut and dried, so certain, so unvaried. Now and again would come the tired, ill-tempered snap of Saunders’s “Get into it, fellows! Wake up, for the love of Pete!” Occasionally, from left end, Ranny Phelps would make some sarcastic reference to Ward’s “great find,” to which, though it irritated him, the captain paid no heed. He was still watching critically and beginning to wonder, with a little touch of anxiety, whether Tompkins was going to be engulfed in the general slough of inertia. In this wise the play had progressed half-way toward the scrub’s goal-posts when suddenly a new note was injected into the affair.

“Steady, fellows. Let’s get together. It’s just as easy to fight back as to be walked over–and a lot more fun. Hold ’em, now!”

The voice was neither shrill nor snappish, but pitched in a sort of good-natured urgency. One guessed that the owner of it was growing weary of being eternally buffeted and flung aside. Ranny Phelps greeted the remark with a sarcastic laugh.

“Great head!” he jeered. “You must be quite an expert in the game. Why don’t you try it?”

Dale Tompkins raised his head and dashed one hand across a dripping forehead. “That’s what we’re going to do,” he smiled; “aren’t we, Morris, old man? Come ahead, Vedder; all we need is a little team-work, fellows.”

Stout Harry Vedder merely grunted breathlessly. But somehow, when the next rush came, his fat shoulders dropped a little lower and he lunged forward a shade more swiftly than he had done. Wilks, the weakest point in the opposing line, caught unexpectedly by the elephantine rush, went down, and Tompkins brought the man with the ball to earth by a nice tackle.

“That’s the stuff,” he gasped as he scrambled up. “Good boy! I knew you’d do it. Again, now!”

The regulars scored another touchdown, but it took longer than the first. Insensibly the line in front of them was stiffening. The backs got into the game; the left wing, stirred by a touch of rivalry, perhaps, began to put a little snap into their work. By the time the regulars had forced the pigskin for the third time over their opponent’s goal-line, the scrub seemed actually to be waking up. Vedder grumbled continually, but nevertheless he worked; many of the others blustered a bit to cover their change of tactics. It was as if they were doubtfully testing out Tompkins’s statement that it was more fun to fight back than to be walked over, and finding an unexpected pleasure in the process.

Amazed at first, Sherman Ward lost no time in helping along the good work. After the third down he gave the scrub the ball and urged them to make the other fellows hustle. They took him up with a will. Saunders’s perfunctory bark became snappy and full of life; more than one of the hitherto grouchy players added his voice to the general racket. But through it all, the good-natured urgence of Dale Tompkins, with that underlying note of perfect faith in their willingness to try anything, continued to stir the fellows to their best efforts. The swiftly falling autumn twilight found the regulars fighting harder than they had ever done before to hold back the newly galvanized scrub. To the latter it brought a novel sensation. For the first time on record they were almost sorry to see the end of practice.

Streaking across the field to the shed which had been fixed up for a dressing-room, they laughed, and joked, and vehemently discussed the latter plays.

“Wait till to-morrow!” shrilly advised one of the scrub. “We won’t do a thing to you guys, will we, Tommy?”

“That’s the talk!” agreed Tompkins, smilingly. “We’ll make ’em hump, all right.”

He seemed quite unconscious of having done anything in the least out of the ordinary. On the contrary, he was filled with grateful happiness at the subtle change in the manner of many of the fellows toward him. It wasn’t that they praised his playing. Except Sherman, who briefly commended him, no one actually mentioned that. But instead of Tompkins, they called him Tommy; they jollied and joshed him, argued and disputed and chaffed with a boisterous friendliness as if he had never been anything else than one of them. And the tenderfoot, hustling into his clothes that he might make haste to start out with his papers, glowed inwardly, responding to the treatment as a flower opens before the sun.

From the background Ranny Phelps observed it all with silent thoughtfulness. Quick-witted as he was, it did not take long for him to realize the changed conditions, to understand that he could not longer treat the new-comer with open, careless insolence as a fellow who did not count. But far from altering his opinion of Tompkins, the new developments merely served to strengthen his dislike, which speedily crystallized into a determination to do some active campaigning against him.

“With a swelled head added to all the rest, he’ll be simply intolerable,” decided Phelps. “I guess I’ve got a little influence left with the crowd in spite of all this rot.” His eyes narrowed ominously as they rested on Harry Vedder chatting affably with the cause of Ranny’s ill temper. “I’ll start with you, my fat friend,” he muttered contemptuously under his breath. “You need a good jacking-up before you indulge in any more foolishness.”

CHAPTER V
TROUBLE AHEAD

In spite of all that had happened that day, Dale did not forget his appointment with Mr. Curtis. He hurried through supper, and pausing only to tell his mother where he was going, he slipped out of the house and started at a trot toward the scoutmaster’s house. Mr. Curtis himself opened the door, greeted the boy cheerily, and ushered him into a room on the left of the hall, a room lined with books and pictures, with a fire glowing and sputtering on the hearth and some comfortable arm-chairs drawn up beside it.

“Well, young man,” he said briskly as soon as Dale was seated, “I’ve been hearing things about you this afternoon.”

Dale flushed, and his fingers unconsciously interlocked. The affair of the afternoon before had been “rubbed into him” at intervals all day, so that he almost dreaded further comment. It seemed as if it had been talked about quite enough and ought now be allowed to fall into oblivion. He hoped Mr. Curtis wasn’t going to ask him to go over all the details again.

“You seem to have managed admirably,” went on the scoutmaster, in a matter-of-face manner. “What I’d like to know, though, is how you, a tenderfoot of barely a week’s standing, happened to be so well posted on electricity and insulation and all the rest of it?”

“It–it’s in the handbook,” explained Dale, haltingly.

“So it is,” smiled the scoutmaster; “but it isn’t a part of the tenderfoot requirements. I even doubt whether many second-class scouts would be up on it. Have you gone through the whole book as thoroughly?”

Dale leaned back in his chair more easily. “Oh no, sir, not all! But that part’s specially interesting, and I–I like to read it.”

“I see. Well, it was a good stunt–a mighty good stunt! It’s the sort of thing true scouting stands for, and I’m proud of you.” In his glance there was something that told a good deal more than the words themselves, but somehow Dale didn’t mind that. “I suppose, though, you’ve been hearing nothing else all day and must be rather tired of it, so we’ll go on to this drill business. This is only one feature of our work, and perhaps the least important since we’re a nonmilitary organization. But it helps set a fellow up, it teaches him obedience and quick thinking, and is useful in a number of other ways, so we’ve included it in the program. The movements aren’t intricate. Suppose you take that cane over in the corner, and I’ll go through them with you.”

Dale obeyed promptly, and, returning with the article in question, stood facing the scoutmaster, who had also risen. With the feeling of being under inspection, he had naturally taken a good position, shoulders back and chin up, and Mr. Curtis nodded approvingly.

“That’s the idea!” he said. “With the command ‘Attention!’ you take practically that position, heels together, shoulders back, chin up, and eyes straight ahead. Hold the staff upright with the thumb and first two fingers of the right hand, one end on the ground and the upper part against your right shoulder. That’s the attitude you return to after each one of the movements. Now let’s try the first one.”

There were not more than six or seven of these, and the scoutmaster’s instructions were so clear and explicit that Dale wondered, with a touch of chagrin, how he could possibly have bungled so on the night of the meeting. In less than half an hour he had the different evolutions fixed firmly in his mind and the cane was laid aside.

“You’d better run through them every night for ten minutes or so until they come intuitively, without your having to stop and think,” advised the scoutmaster. “The main thing is to put snap and ginger into it, so that the whole line moves as one. How did the football go? You were out, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered, his eyes lighting. “It was dandy! It’s a crackerjack team, all right, and we’re going to work like sixty to get that pennant.”

“That’s the idea!” smiled Mr. Curtis. He had returned to his chair, but the boy remained standing beside the table. “It will mean work to take the game from Troop One; they’ve a corking team, you know. But I think if– Won’t you sit down again, or have you lessons to get?”

Dale hesitated. The pleasant room with its glinting fire was very tempting. He had glimpsed a number of interesting-looking old weapons and pieces of Indian beadwork, too, on the walls or arranged along the tops of the bookcases, which he would like to examine more closely. But, on the other hand, eight waiting problems in algebra and some stiff pages of grammar loomed up to dissuade him.

“Thank you very much, sir, but I guess I’d better not to-night,” he finally decided. “I haven’t anything done yet for to-morrow.”

“You must come again, then,” smiled the scoutmaster. “I’m always glad to have you boys drop in, even when you haven’t anything special to talk over. Good night; and good luck with the football. I may see you at practice to-morrow.”

Dale found it hard to wait for that moment. He was devoted to football, and he had not really played in almost a year. Small wonder, therefore, that he looked forward eagerly to even humdrum practice. He did not propose to stay on the scrub if hard work and constant effort could lift him to something better. But even if he failed of advancement, he loved the game enough for its own sake to give to it unceasingly the best that was in him.

As the days passed it began to look as if the pleasure he got merely in playing and in the belief that his efforts contributed a little to the good of the team was to be his sole reward. All that week he played left tackle on the scrub, save for half an hour or so on Friday when Ward tried him at right half, only to return him presently to his former position.

But if Dale was disappointed, he did not show it. He told himself that it was too soon to expect anything else. Sherman would naturally wish to try him out in every way before making a change in the line-up. So the tenderfoot kept himself vigorously to the scratch, growing more and more familiar with the various formations and carefully studying the methods of the fellows opposite him.

It was this latter occupation which brought the first faint touch of uneasiness regarding the strength of the team at large. He could not be quite sure, for of course ordinary practice seldom brings out the best in a player, but it seemed as if the fellows were a bit lacking in unity and cohesion. Of one thing at least he grew certain before he had been on the scrub two days. Wilks, at left tackle, was hesitating and erratic, with a tendency to ducking, which would have been even more apparent but for the constant support and backing of Ranny Phelps. The latter seemed not only able to play his own position with dash and brilliancy, but also to lend a portion of his strength and skill to support the wavering tackle. Whenever it was possible, he contrived to take a little more than his share of buffeting in the forward plunge, to bear the brunt of each attack. There were times, of course–notably when Ranny himself carried the ball–that this was impossible, and then it was that Wilks’s shrinking became unmistakable.

“He’s got cold feet,” decided Tompkins, with the mild wonder of one to whom the game had never brought anything but exhilaration and delight. “They must be mighty good friends for Phelps to help him out like that!”

He sighed a little wistfully. Ranny was letting no chance slip these days to show his disapproval of the newest member of the troop. There were others, too, who followed his example and treated the tenderfoot with marked coldness. Even stout Harry Vedder, though occasionally forgetting himself in the heat of play, lacked the good-natured friendliness of that first day. To be sure, these were far from being a majority. They included practically only the members of Ranny Phelps’s own patrol; the others had apparently accepted Tompkins as one of the bunch and continued to treat him as such. But Dale’s was a friendly nature, and it troubled him a little, when he had time to think about it, to be the object of even a passive hostility.

These moments, however, were few and far between. What with football every afternoon, with lessons and occasional studying for the second-class tests, to say nothing of his paper-route and some extra delivery-work he had undertaken to add to his “suit” money, his days were pretty full. Besides, that doubt as to the entire efficiency of the team continued to worry him much more than any small personal trouble.

On Saturday they played Troop Six, and Dale sat among the substitutes on the side-lines. It was an admirable chance for sizing up the playing of the team as a whole, and before the end of the second quarter his freckled forehead was puckered with worried lines. He had no fear of their losing the game. Their opponents had notoriously the weakest team in the entire scout league, and already two goals had been scored against it. The tenderfoot was thinking of next Saturday, and wondering more and more what sort of a showing the fellows would make then.

Earlier in the season, Dale had watched Troop One throughout an entire game, and even then he had noted their clever team-work. As individuals, perhaps, they might not match up to his own organization. There was no one quite to equal the brilliant Ranny Phelps, the clever quick-witted Ward, or the dependable Wesley Becker at full. But the boy knew football well enough to realize that in the long run it isn’t the individual that counts. Freak plays, snatching at chance and the unexpected, may sometimes win a game, but as a rule they avail little against the spirit of cohesion when each fellow works shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor, supporting, backing up, subordinating himself and the thought of individual glory to the needs of the team. During the past week Dale had felt vaguely that it was just this quality Troop Five lacked. Now the certainty was vividly brought home, with all the advantages of a sharp perspective. The center, alone, seemed fairly strong and united, with Bob Gibson in the middle “Turk” Gardner at right guard, and Frank Sanson at left. But Sanson got no help at all from Wilks, who, in his turn, took everything from Ranny Phelps. Court Parker made an admirable quarter-back, and Ward and Becker played the game as it should be played. But Slater at right tackle and Torrance behind him made another pair who seemed to think more of each other and of their individual success than of the unity of the team. They were great chums, Dale reflected thoughtfully, and in Ranny Phelps’s patrol. He wondered if that had anything to do with it. He wondered, too, whether Sherman realized the situation.

“But of course he does!” he muttered an instant later. “Isn’t he always after them to get together, though sometimes it seems as if he might go for them a little harder? I–I hope they do–before it’s too late.”

But somehow he could not bring himself to be very confident. To pull together a team that has been playing “every man for himself” is one of the hardest things in the world. Defeat will often do it more thoroughly than anything, but, in their case, defeat would mean the loss of all they had been striving for. It would have been better had they been up against any other team to-day. Pushed hard and forced to fight for a slender victory, they might have realized something of their weakness. But the very ease with which goal after goal was scored brought self-confidence and cock-sureness instead of wisdom.

“I guess we’ll grab that little old pennant, all right,” Dale heard more than one declare in the dressing-room. “Why, those dubs actually scored a goal on Troop One!”

The boy wanted to remind them that this was at the very beginning of the season, and since then two of their best men had left Troop Six for boarding-school. But from a raw tenderfoot and inconsidered member of the scrub any such comment would savor of cheekiness, so he kept silent.

On Monday the practice started out in such a casual, perfunctory manner that Sherman suddenly stopped the play and lashed out, sparing nobody. He was white-hot, and not hesitating to mention names, he told them just what he thought of their smug complaisance, their careless, unfounded confidence.

“You fellows seem to think all you have to do is to show up on the field Saturday and the other crowd are going to take to cover!” he snapped. “You walk through the plays without an idea of team-work, or mutual support, or anything. That isn’t football; it’s just plain foolishness! Why, the lines are as full of holes as a colander–and you don’t even know it! I tell you, unless we get together and stop those gaps and work for the team right, that game Saturday will be a joke.”

He hesitated an instant, striving for self-control. When he went on, his tone was slightly moderated. “Come ahead, now, fellows; let’s get into it and do the thing the way it should be done. We can if we only will.”

Unfortunately, the appeal failed more or less because of its very force. Sherman’s one fault as a captain was a certain leniency of disposition. He was a bit easy-going, and preferred to handle the fellows by persuasion rather than force. The latter did not realize that it wasn’t the happenings of that day alone which had so roused his wrath, that these were only the culmination of all their shortcomings for weeks past, that they had been accumulating until the pressure became so great that an explosion had to come. A few of the players understood, but the very ones who needed his advice the most set down the outburst to whim or temper or indigestion. Either they airily ignored it, or else grew sullen and grouchy. In either case they failed to make a personal application of his words, and the situation remained practically unchanged.

CHAPTER VI
THE QUARREL

“Great cats and little kittens!” exclaimed Court Parker, stopping suddenly beside the flagpole on the green. “I certainly am a chump.”

“Just as you say,” grinned the tenderfoot. “I’d hate to contradict you. How’d you happen to find it out all by yourself, though?”

They were on their way to the scout meeting, and up to that moment had been deep in a serious discussion of the football situation. But Parker was not one to remain serious for very long at a stretch, so his sudden outbreak failed to surprise Dale, even though he might be ignorant of its cause.

“Why, I had it all planned to coach you up on the drill this week, so you could put one over on Ranny,” explained the volatile youth, as they started on again; “but I clean forgot. Hang it all!”

Dale smiled quietly to himself. “I shouldn’t wonder if I could get it to-night,” he said briefly. “It’s not so awful hard, is it?”

“N-n-o, but you know Ranny; he’s sure to try and trip you up. Oh, well, no use crying over spilt milk! Just don’t let him rattle you, and we’ll have you letter-perfect by next meeting.”

Dale’s lips twitched again, but he made no further comment as they hurried along Main Street and turned in beside the church. It was with very different feelings from the last time that he entered the parish-house, hung up his cap, and joined one of the groups gathered in the meeting-room. He was still the only one present without a uniform, but to-night he wore his best suit, his hair was smooth and glistening, and he could almost see himself in the brilliant polish of his shoes. It all helped to increase his poise and the feeling of self-confidence his knowledge of the drill had given him.

Mr. Curtis was away that night, and Wesley Becker was in charge. The assistant scoutmaster was perfectly capable of conducting the meeting, but being only a year or two older than many of the boys, it was inevitable that discipline should tend to relax slightly. There were no serious infractions, of course; the fellows, as a whole, were too well trained and too much in earnest for that. But now and then a suppressed snicker followed the utterance of a whispered jest, and Wesley had occasionally to repeat his orders before they were obeyed with the snap and precision that invariably followed the commands of Mr. Curtis.

Dale was not one of the offenders, if such they could be called. In the beginning he was too intent on going through the newly acquired evolutions of the drill to have much thought for anything else. Later on, the behavior of Ranny Phelps took all his attention.

The leader of Wolf patrol was far from being in the best of humors. Perhaps the events of the afternoon had soured his temper; or possibly the mere sight of Tompkins standing erect at the end of the line made him realize that his efforts to put the tenderfoot in his place had been more or less of a failure. At any rate, when staves were distributed and the drill commenced, he at once renewed his nagging, critical attacks of the week before.

For a time Dale tried not to notice it, trusting that his careful, accurate execution of the manœuvers would in itself be enough to still the unjust criticism. But presently he began to realize that Phelps was deliberately blind to his improvement, and a touch of angry color crept into his face. In the next figure he made a minor slip, and a snicker from Wilks increased Dale’s irritation.

“Take your time, Tompkins, by all means,” urged Phelps, sarcastically, when Becker ordered a repetition of the movement. “Maybe by the end of the evening you’ll be able to do one of the figures half-way right.”

Dale’s lips parted impulsively, but closed again without a sound issuing forth. A dull, smoldering anger began to glow within him, and one hand gripped his staff tightly. What right had Ranny Phelps to shame and humiliate him before the whole troop? He was doing his best, and he felt that the showing wasn’t such a bad one for a fellow who had been in the troop little more than a week. Any decent chap would have understood this and made allowances, would even have helped him along instead of trying by every means in his power to make him fail. Dale’s chin went up a trifle, and his teeth clenched. By a great effort he managed to hold himself in for the remainder of the drill, but the anger and irritation bubbling up inside resulted in several more errors. When the drill was over and the fellows stood at ease for a few minutes before starting some signal-work, Phelps strode over to the new recruit.

“What’s the matter with you, Tompkins?” he said with cold sarcasm. “At this rate, you’re likely to spend the whole winter getting a few simple stunts into your head.”

Dale’s eyes flashed. “It might not be a bad idea to learn a few of the scout laws yourself,” he snapped back impulsively.

“What’s that?”

Ranny’s voice was cool and level, but his eyes had narrowed and a spot of color glowed on each cheek. The fellows near them suddenly pricked up their ears and turned curiously in their direction.

“I said it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to learn some of the scout laws,” repeated Dale, heedless of everything save the anger and indignation surging up within him. “There’s one about being friendly, and another that says a scout is helpful. Maybe you know them by heart, but I don’t believe–”

“That’ll do!” cut in Ranny, harshly. “I certainly don’t need any advice from you on how to–”

“You mean you won’t take any,” interrupted Dale, hotly.

“Patrols, attention!” rang out Becker’s voice sharply.

Neither of the boys paid any heed; it is doubtful whether they even heard him. Tight-lipped, with fists clenched, they glared at one another from eyes that snapped angrily. In another moment, however, Becker gripped Phelps tightly by the shoulder and whirled him around.

“Cut that out and go back to your place!” he said sternly. “I called for order.”

Ranny glowered at him for a moment, and then, without a word, turned on his heel and strode back to the head of the line. In the hush that followed, Dale drew a long breath and swallowed hard. His face still burned, and the fingers of his right hand were stiff and cramped from the grip he had unconsciously maintained on his staff. With an elaborate attempt at nonchalance, he listened to Becker’s directions about the signaling, but all the while he was wondering what the fellows thought of him and wishing, with increasing fervency, that he had kept his self-control instead of flaring up in that foolish way.

For the remainder of the evening Phelps seemed coolly oblivious of Dale’s existence. He did not even glance at the tenderfoot, though on the way out the two stood for a moment within arm’s-length in the entry. He had apparently quite recovered his composure, but there was a cold hardness about his mouth that brought a queer, unexpected pang to Tompkins.

Not for the world would he have acknowledged it to any one–even to Court, who, with several others, expressed unqualified approval of the way in which Ranny had been “set down.” It is doubtful, even, had he been given a chance to live over the evening, if his conduct would have been any different. But there could be no question of his keen regret that instead of thawing Phelps’s coolness by his increased proficiency at the drill, he had only succeeded in vastly increasing the boy’s animosity.

On Wednesday afternoon Dale was made the unconscious cause of still further adding to Ranny’s ire. After half an hour of play, Ward suddenly ordered Larry Wilks out of the line-up and told Tompkins to take his place.

At the command the tackle started, stared incredulously at Sherman, and then, with lowering brow and an exaggerated air of indifference, turned and walked deliberately off the field. For an instant Ranny stood silent, a deep red flaming into his face. Then he whirled impulsively on Ward.

“Are you crazy, Sherm?” he demanded hotly. “Why, you’ll queer the whole team by sticking in a greenhorn only three days before the game.”

“I don’t agree with you,” retorted Ward, curtly. He spoke quietly enough, but a faint twitching at the corners of his mouth showed that he was holding himself in with difficulty. “Wilks has had plenty of warnings, and has seen fit to disregard them utterly. Besides,” his voice took in a harder tone as his eyes followed the departing player he had counted on using in the scrub, “I’d rather use anybody–little Bennie Rhead, even–than a fellow who shows the lack of spirit he does. Take your place, Tompkins. Frazer, shift over to right tackle on the scrub. Edwards, you come in and play left guard for to-day. Scrub has the ball.”

Ranny Phelps bit his lip, glared ill-temperedly, and then subsided. Tompkins shifted over to the regulars, his mind a queer turmoil of delight at the advancement, and regret and apprehension at this new cause for bickering among the players. Practice was resumed, but there was a notable feeling of constraint among the fellows, which did not entirely pass off as the afternoon wore away. Ranny held himself coldly aloof, playing his own position with touches of the old brilliancy, but ignoring the chap beside him. Torrance and Slater, and one or two of the scrub who were part of the Phelps clique, whispered occasionally among themselves, or darted indignant glances at the tenderfoot as if he were in some way responsible for the downfall of Wilks. Dale tried not to notice it all, and devoted himself vigorously to playing the game, hoping that by the next day the fellows would cool down and get together.

But somehow they didn’t. There had been time for discussion with the disgruntled Wilks himself, and if anything, their animosity was increased. It was so marked, and the effect so disastrous, or so it seemed to Tompkins, to the unity of the team, that after practice the tenderfoot hesitatingly approached Sherman Ward. It was not at all easy for him to say what he had in mind. For one thing, the idea of even remotely advising the captain savored of cheekiness and presumption; for another, he wasn’t personally at all keen to take the step he felt would be for the good of the team. But at length he summoned courage to make the suggestion.

“Say, Sherm,” he began haltingly, after walking beside Ward for a few moments in silence, “don’t you think–that is, would it be better for me to–er–not to play to-morrow?”

Sherman stopped short in surprise. “Not play?” he repeated sharply. “Why, what–” He frowned suddenly. “Don’t you want to?”

“Want to? Of course I do! But it seems to me things would–would go smoother if–I wasn’t in the line-up. You know some of the fellows–”

He paused. Sherman’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s what you mean, is it?” For an instant he stood staring silently at the freckled face raised to his. “You’d be willing to get out for–for the good of the team?” As Dale nodded he reached out and caught the boy almost roughly by one shoulder. “Forget it!” he said gruffly. “I know what I’m doing, kid. You go in to-morrow and play up for all you’re worth. If–if those chumps don’t come to their senses, it won’t be your fault.”

His jaw was square; his lips firm. It flashed suddenly on Dale that Sherman couldn’t very well follow his suggestion and continue to preserve a shred of authority as captain. It would seem as if he were giving in to the delinquents and allowing them to run the team. They would set him down as weak and vacillating, and pay less attention than ever to his efforts to make them get together and play the game right. A sudden anger flamed up within the tenderfoot, and his teeth clicked together.

“Chumps!” he growled to himself, his fists clenching. “Can’t they see what they’re doing? Can’t they forget themselves for a minute and think of the team?”

He wished the suspense was over and the moment for the game at hand. Hitherto the days had fairly flown, making the afternoons of much needed practice incredibly brief, but now the very minutes seemed to drag. Saturday morning was interminable. Dale tried to forget his worries by attending to the various chores about the house, but even in the midst of vigorous woodchopping he found himself stopping to think of the struggle of the afternoon, going over the different plays and sizing up the probable behavior of various individuals.

But at last the waiting was over and he had taken his place in that line which spread out across the field ready for the signal. And as he crouched there, back bent, watching with keen, appraising eyes the blue jersies dotting the turf before him, the tension relaxed a little, giving place to the thrall of the game.

After all, why should he be so certain of the worst? Wasn’t it quite as likely that the fellows would be awakened and dominated, even stung into unity, by the same thrill which moved him? An instant later he lunged forward and was running swiftly, madly, his face upturned to the yellow sphere soaring above his head and rocking gently in its swooping, dropping flight.

When Ranny Phelps made a perfect catch and zigzagged down the field, dodging the interference with consummate skill, the tenderfoot thrilled responsive and mentally applauded. When the blond chap was at length downed and the teams lined up snappily, Dale grinned delightedly to himself at the realization of the fine beginning they had made.

But his enthusiasm was short-lived. Parker ripped out a signal, and the ball was snapped back to Ward. Dale drove forward, bent on clearing the way for Sherman. Beside him Ranny also lunged into the mêlée, but the tenderfoot was instantly conscious of a gap between them that seemed as wide as the poles apart. Into it the solid blue-jerseyed interference thrust itself, and the forward rush stopped as if it had struck a stone wall.

“First down!” shouted the referee when the heap of players disintegrated. “Ten yards to gain!”

CHAPTER VII
IN THE LAST QUARTER

As Dale scrambled to his feet and sought his place again, his face was flaming. He had a feeling that he must be partly to blame for the failure. Perhaps he had been a bit too quick in his forward lunge. As he crouched in the line, head low and shoulders bent, his hands clenched themselves tightly. It mustn’t happen again, he told himself.

But swiftly it was borne upon him that the blame did not lie on his shoulders. A try around right end brought them barely a yard. Something had gone wrong there, too. He could not tell just what it was, but it seemed as if Slater and Torrance had failed somehow to back up Ted MacIlvaine as they should have done. The tackle’s teeth grated, and a flood of impotent anger surged over him. They were playing as they had played in practice, each fellow for himself, without even an effort to get together and tighten up.

With the inevitable kick which gave the ball to Troop One, this fact became even more apparent. Solid and compact, the blue line swept down the field with a machine-like rush that carried everything before it. They seemed to find holes everywhere in the opposing line, and only the handicap of a high wind and the brilliant work of three or four individuals kept them from scoring in the first quarter.

That such a calamity could be long prevented seemed impossible to Dale. He greeted the intermission with a sigh of thankfulness. Brief as it was, it was a respite. Sherman’s bitter, stinging onslaught on the team passed almost unheeded by the anxious tackle. He was thinking of the three remaining quarters with a foreboding that made him oblivious to all else.

To be sure, when play was resumed, the fellows seemed to show a slightly better spirit. It was as if the first dim realization of their errors was being forced upon them. But they had been split apart so long that they seemed to have forgotten how to work together in that close-knit, united manner which alone could make any head against these particular opponents. Time and time again they were driven back to the very shadow of their goal-posts, where, stung by shame or the lashing tongue of their captain, they rallied long enough to hurl back the attack a little, only to lapse again when the pressing, vital need was past.

Then, toward the very end of that second quarter, when Tompkins was just beginning to hope again, the thing he had dreaded came suddenly and unexpectedly. Some one blundered, whether Slater, or Torrance, or Ted MacIlvaine, the boy did not know. With a last swift rush the blue-clad interference charged at the right wing, through it, over it, and, hurling aside all opposition, swept resistlessly over the last six yards for a touchdown. They missed the goal by a hair, but that did not lessen the sense of shock and sharp dismay which quivered through the line of their opponents.

Dale Tompkins took his place after the long intermission, a dull, bitter, impotent anger consuming him. He was furious with the fellows who by their incredible stupidity were practically throwing away the game. He even hated himself for seeming to accomplish so little; but most of all he raged at the blond chap next to him. Some of the others were at least trying to get together, though their lack of practice made the effort almost negligible. But Ranny Phelps remained as coldly aloof, as markedly determined to withhold support and play his game alone as he had been in the beginning.

It made a hole in the line which could not escape the attention of the opposing quarter-back. Already he had sent his formation through it more than once, but now he seemed to concentrate the attack on that weak spot. Time and time again Dale flung himself to meet the rush, only to be overwhelmed and hurled back by sheer numbers. Sometimes Sanson pulled him out of the scrimmage, more often he scrambled up unaided to find his place, sweat-blinded and with breath coming in gasps, and brace himself for the next onset.

Silently, doggedly, he took his punishment, and presently, under the strain, he began to lose track of the broader features of the game. Vaguely he realized that they had been forced back again and again almost against their own goal-posts, and there had rallied, tearing formations to shreds and hurling back the enemy with the strength of despair. Dimly he heard the voice of Ward, or Court Parker’s shriller notes, urging them in sharp, broken phrases to get together. But the real, the dominating thing was that forward plunge, the tensing of muscles, the crash of meeting bodies, the heaving, straining struggle, the slow, heartrending process of being crushed back by overwhelming weight–that and the sense of emptiness upon his left.

Then came a time when things went black for an instant before his eyes. He did not quite lose consciousness, for he knew when the weight above was lifted and two arms slid around him, dragging him to his feet. It was Sanson, he thought hazily–good old Frank! Then he turned his head a little and through the wavering mists looked straight into the eyes of Ranny Phelps!

Wide, dilated, almost black with strain and excitement, they stared at him from out the grimy face with a strange mingling of shame and admiration that sent a thrill through the tenderfoot and made him pull himself together.