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 manœuvers 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