Chapter 2

THE NEW TENDERFOOT

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Colors post!" came crisply from the scoutmaster facing the line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy flushed a little. "I--I was delayed, sir," he explained briefly. "I--I--it won't happen again, sir."

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

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

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

"You mean I--I'm to stay in--in Wolf patrol, sir?" he stammered incredulously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's the matter, Dale? Seems to me you're looking mighty serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, sir. I was rank."

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

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

"Not a bit. Come any time after seven. You know where I live, don't you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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