"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 a.s.sistant 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 manoeuvers 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 repet.i.tion 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 pa.s.s 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.

Sat.u.r.day morning was interminable. Dale tried to forget his worries by attending to the various ch.o.r.es 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 melee, 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!"