Under Boy Scout Colors Part 3

"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 st.u.r.dy 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 a.s.surance 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-cla.s.s exams as soon as the month is up."

Dale's eyes brightened. "I'll certainly try 'em, anyhow. I can pa.s.s 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 cla.s.smate 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, embarra.s.sed 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 cuc.u.mber 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!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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, pa.s.sed 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 bl.u.s.tered 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?"