Under Boy Scout Colors Part 4

"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-cla.s.s 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sive hostility.

These moments, however, were few and far between. What with football every afternoon, with lessons and occasional studying for the second-cla.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day they played Troop Six, and Dale sat among the subst.i.tutes 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 c.o.c.k-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 n.o.body.

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 Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 acc.u.mulating 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