Under Boy Scout Colors

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

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

“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

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.

“Take it easy,” came in gruff, unnatural accents. “You want to get your wind–old fellow.”

“I–I’m all right,” muttered the tenderfoot.

He passed one hand vaguely across his forehead. Some one brought a tin dipper, from which he rinsed his mouth mechanically. His head was clearing, but he couldn’t seem to understand whether the transformation in the chap beside him was real or only a creation of his bewildered brain. But when he took his place again and dropped his shoulders instinctively, another shoulder pressed against him on the left, and that same hoarse, unfamiliar voice sounded in his ears:

“Together now, kid; we’ll stop ’em this time!”

The words seemed to give Dale a new strength. Stirred to the very fiber of his being, he dived forward to meet the onward rush. Still with that new, stimulating sense of support where none had been before, his outstretched hands gripped like tentacles around sturdy legs. There was a heaving, churning motion; then the compact mass of players toppled over, and he knew that they had succeeded.

Nor was it a solitary advantage. Unobserved by Tompkins, the whole line had been slowly stiffening. Slowly, gradually, the other holes had been closed up and the advance checked. When the kick put the ball in their possession, a new spirit animated Troop Five. Scattered no longer, but welded by stern necessity into a single unit, they forgot their handicap, forgot that the minutes of the final quarter were speeding in mad flight, forgot everything but the vital need of breaking through that line of blue and carrying the fight toward those distant goal-posts that loomed so far away.

Forming up swiftly, they swept forward for a gain of eight yards. Before the opposition recovered from their surprise, they had passed the fifty-yard line.

Here the blues rallied, and for a space the two lines surged back and forth in the middle of the field. It was a period of small gains and frequent punts, when neither side held the ball long, nor the advantage. Thrilled by their success, exhilarated by that strange new sense of comradeship with the boy beside him, Dale fought fiercely, heedless of the shock of bodies, of pain, of weariness, of blinding sweat, or hard-won breath. His only worry was a growing fear that they would not have time to score, and this had only just begun to dominate him when the unexpected happened.

They were battling on the enemy’s forty-yard line. It was Troop One’s ball, and they had tried to force a gain through center. Shoulder to shoulder, Ranny and Dale plunged forward to meet the rush. The advance checked, Tompkins gained his feet swiftly and thrilled to see the precious ball rolling free not a dozen feet away.

With a gasp he lunged for it and scooped it up without slackening speed. At almost the same instant Ranny Phelps shot out of the scrimmage as if propelled from a catapult, and a moment later the two were thudding down the field, a stream of players trailing in their wake.

Dale caught his breath with the stinging realization that their chance had come–their only chance! There were but two men between them and the coveted goal, the full-back, and nearer, another player bearing swiftly down on them, who must instantly be reckoned with. That would be Ranny’s task. He must stop the fellow, while Dale took his chance alone with the other.

Dale glanced sideways at his companion, and his heart leaped into his throat. Phelps was limping; something had happened to him in that last scrimmage. His face showed white even through the grime and tan; his under lip was flecked with crimson.

“Ranny!” gasped Dale, in a panic. “What– Can you–”

“Don’t–worry–about–me,” came indistinctly through the other’s clenched teeth. “I’ll–block–this fellow–somehow. You get the other–you’ve got to!”

Taking a fresh grip on the ball, Dale spurted on. He was aware that Ranny had sheered off a little to the right, and knew that he meant to stop the boy racing up from that direction. But actually he saw nothing, and even the crash of meeting bodies came to him as something far away and unimportant. His clearing brain was fixed on the looming figure ahead, the full-back, who alone stood between him and victory.

He must be passed–but how? A thought of hurdling flashed into his mind, to be dismissed as too hazardous. There was only one way left. Without slackening speed, he tore on, his heart thumping like a trip-hammer. To the breathless onlookers it seemed as if he meant actually to run down the opposing player. Then, in a flash, when he was almost within reach of the hooking arms, he swerved suddenly to one side, whirled, darted the other way, eluded the other’s frantic clutch by the merest hair, and with a sob of joy ran on, free, the ball still cupped in the curve of his arm.

CHAPTER VIII
THE GOOD TURN

Tompkins smiled back at him, but did not speak. He was luxuriating in the restful peace which comes after strenuous physical action and the consciousness of successful accomplishment. A feeling of intense pride in the troop filled him. “They’re a corking lot of fellows–corking!” he said more than once under his breath as he looked around the room with shining eyes. “How they did get after that bunch in the last quarter! I–I wouldn’t belong to any other troop for–for anything!”

Now and then, to be sure, his eyes strayed to the farther end of the room, where Ranny Phelps was having his swollen ankle bandaged by two of the most skilful exponents of first aid, and a faint touch of questioning crept into them. Since that breathless moment on the field when Ranny’s efforts had left the way free for Dale, he had not spoken to the tenderfoot nor by so much as a glance recognized his existence. Dale wondered whether his mind was merely taken up with his injury, or whether the change that had come over him in the heat of the game had been only a temporary thawing.

As the days passed, the latter suspicion became a certainty. At their very first meeting, in fact, the tenderfoot found Ranny as aloof as ever. To be sure, Dale noticed that he no longer seemed to try to impress his attitude on the others in his patrol. Apparently without rebuke, stout Harry Vedder became quite friendly, and even Rex Slater and one or two others in the clique treated him with a good deal more consideration than they had before the game. But the leader himself made no effort to disguise his coolness toward the new-comer, and Dale presently found it hard to believe that the helping hand, the friendly voice, the touch of that muscular shoulder as they fought side by side on the field in the furious struggle against odds had been real.

He did not brood over it, because he was not of the brooding sort. More than once he found himself regretting that impulsive action which had so increased the other boy’s antagonism, but for the most part he contented himself with the unqualified friendship of most of the troop, and entered with zest into the various scout activities.

Perhaps the most interesting of these were the long hikes and week-end camping-trips. Mr. Curtis was a great advocate of the latter, and as soon as the end of football made Saturdays free again, he announced his intention of undertaking them as often as the weather permitted.

Unfortunately, there were not many sites around Hillsgrove which combined the ideal qualifications for a camp–good drainage, wood, and water. The latter was particularly scarce. There were one or two brooks–small, miserable affairs with only a foot or two of depth, and a muddy, half-stagnant mill-pond or so; but the single body of water which would have been perfect for the purpose was definitely and permanently barred to them.

It was a small lake, half a mile long and varying from two to four hundred feet in width, that lay some four miles out of town. There was a good bottom, depth in plenty even for diving, and the banks on one side, at least, sloped back sharply and were covered with a fine growth of pine and hemlock, interspersed with white birch and a good deal of hard wood. The boys had often looked on it with longing eyes, but the owner was a sour-faced, crotchety old man who was enraged by the mere sight of a boy on his property. He had placarded his woods with warning signs, kept several dogs, and was even reputed to have a gun loaded with bird-shot ready for instant use on youthful trespassers.

Perhaps the latter was a slight exaggeration; certainly no one had ever been actually peppered with it. But the fact remained that old Caleb Grimstone, who lived alone and had a well-established reputation for crankiness, had stubbornly refused all requests to be allowed to camp or picnic on his property even when pay was offered, and at length all such effort had been abandoned. As Court Parker remarked, no doubt with a vivid recollection of sundry narrow escapes: “You can steal a swim on the old codger if you keep a weather-eye peeled and don’t mind doing a Marathon through the brush; but when it comes to anything like pitching a tent and settling down–good night!”

Under such circumstances, it may be imagined that the announcement made one morning to the group gathered about the school entrance that old Grimstone had fallen through the hay-shoot and broken an arm did not elicit any marked expressions of regret.

“Serves him right, the old skinflint, after the mean way he’s kept us away from the lake!” growled Bob Gibson.

“Yes, indeed!” sniffed Harry Vedder. “He’s a regular dog in the manger. It wouldn’t hurt him to let us swim there in the summer, or camp once in a while. He doesn’t use it himself.”

“Use it!” exclaimed Frank Sanson. “Why, they don’t even cut ice off it.”

“He’s just downright mean, that’s all!” put in Rex Slater. “Say, fellows, what a chance this would be to get ahead of the old chap and camp out Friday or Saturday–if Mr. Curtis would only let us.”

“He won’t,” said Sherman Ward, decidedly. “Besides, it’s a lot too cold and looks like snow. How did he manage, Ted? Living alone with only those dogs, it must have been some stunt to get word to anybody.”

“He got out to the road and waited for the first team that came along,” explained Ted. “The people took him into the house, and then sent Dr. Maxwell out from town. He wanted somebody to come and look after him, but old Grimey wouldn’t hear of it. Said he couldn’t stand the expense.”

“The old miser! How does he manage to get his meals and look after the stock?”

“Eats bread and milk and canned stuff, I guess. Bud Hinckley comes in night and morning, I understand, to look after the horse and cow and wash dishes and all that, but you know what Bud is.”

“So lazy he’d like somebody else to draw his breath for him!” said Court Parker, promptly. “Whew! What a lovely time the old man must be having–and to-morrow Thanksgiving!”

As they trooped into school, the last words lingered in Dale Tompkins’s mind. To-morrow would, indeed, be Thanksgiving–the day of turkey, and mince-pie, and good cheer generally. He had no more cause than the others for sympathizing with Caleb Grimstone, but somehow the mental picture of the soured old man sitting alone in his slovenly kitchen, one arm in a sling, and eating bread and milk, with perhaps a can of lukewarm tomatoes or corn, when every one else was feasting merrily in company, made him vaguely uncomfortable.

He forgot it, however, in the excitement of a brisk game of land-hockey up at Sherman’s that afternoon, but after supper the picture returned with renewed vividness, and with it something the scoutmaster had said when he passed his second-class examinations a few days ago.

“Never forget the daily good turn, Dale, or let it slump into a perfunctory sort of thing such as you would have to do anyway whether you were a scout or not. A fellow can’t always find big things, of course; but when the opportunity comes, he isn’t a true scout if he cannot sacrifice his own comfort or pleasure or inclination to bring help or happiness to some one who really needs it.”

Dale squirmed a little at the recollection and tried to go on with the book he was reading. But the tale had lost its savor, and presently he raised his eyes from the printed page and frowned.

“Nobody else thought anything about it!” he muttered rebelliously. “Besides, to-morrow’s Thanksgiving; that’s different from any other day.”

A little later he put away the book, said good night, and went up to his room. Having closed the door, he opened his closet and took out his scout suit. It had come only the day before; already he had looked at it more than twenty times, but the novelty had not yet worn off. He wondered if fellows who had theirs merely for the asking felt half as proud of it as he, who had worked for every penny of its cost. He passed one hand caressingly over the smooth olive khaki, and then an odd thought popped suddenly into his head.

He had tried it on, twice, but as yet he had not actually worn it. Mightn’t it mean even more to him if he wore it first in the performance of a good turn that really counted?

Though the boy felt it only vaguely, and formulated it not at all even in his mind, it was something of that spirit of consecration that of old dominated the young candidates for knighthood, guarding their armor through the long night-watches. Dale’s face took on an expression of determination, and as he put away his things his mind was oddly lightened.

Next morning he sallied forth, a trifle self-conscious in all the glory of his new khaki, but warmed by the look in his mother’s eyes as she waved good-by from the door-step. Taking the shortest cut, he proceeded to the rectory, and when Mr. Schofield appeared he saluted punctiliously.

“May I have one of the baskets, sir?” he asked.

The rector smiled. “Ah! You’re going to take it to–” He paused questioningly an instant; then his smile deepened. “Certainly,” he said cordially. “They’re over in the parish-house. The ladies are packing them now. Tell Mrs. Mason I said you were to have a good one.”

Ten minutes later Dale was making his way briskly toward the Beldon Turnpike, a large market-basket on one arm. The legs of a plump fowl protruded from the covering; there were vegetables within, a can of soup, celery, oranges, bananas, and a small pie. The weight was not a light one, but Dale whistled cheerfully as he strode along.

He reached the turnpike without meeting any of the fellows, and after ten or fifteen minutes’ tramping along the straight, level road he paused to shift the basket to the other arm. It was heavier than he thought. Overhead the gray sky was a bit dispiriting, and the sharp, chill wind, blowing across the open fields, made him glad he had buttoned his sweater beneath the khaki coat.

Presently he began to speculate on what sort of reception he would have, and for the first time the possibility occurred to him that his welcome might not be altogether cordial. You never could tell what point of view the cranky old man would take. He thought of the dogs, too, especially after he had left the main road and turned into the less frequented one leading past Grimstone’s place. More than once people had been chased by them, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant to picture them rushing out at him in a body the moment he set foot in the lane.

Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to turn back. He had set out with a definite purpose, and he meant to carry it through. To be sure, just before reaching the lane he cut himself a stout stick, and as the old, weather-beaten frame house came in sight he unconsciously made his approach as noiseless as possible. He was surprised and not a little relieved to see no signs of the animals, but when he set down his basket and knocked briskly on the back door, the snarling uproar that instantly arose inside plainly advertised their whereabouts.

Dale tightened his grip on the stick and strained his ears for other sounds. He had raised his hand for a second knock when the barking suddenly lessened a little, and above the racket came a growling admonition in Grimstone’s harsh tones:

“Wal, come in, can’t you? Are you deaf?”