Astonished, he turned at the call to see Sherman Ward coming down the school steps. For a moment it seemed as if he must have been mistaken, but the older chap quickly settled that doubt.

“Wait a minute, kid,” he went on; “I want to talk to you.”

In an instant Dale’s interest in the throng at the corner vanished. Surprised, curious, a little on the defensive, he watched the approach of the senior patrol-leader.

“I forgot to speak to you last night about football,” Sherman began at once with brisk, casual friendliness. “You play, don’t you?”

“A–a little,” stammered Dale, dazed by the absence of what he had so fully expected in the other’s manner.

“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 sturdy 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 assurance 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-class exams as soon as the month is up.”

Dale’s eyes brightened. “I’ll certainly try ’em, anyhow. I can pass 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 classmate 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, embarrassed protests sounded intermittently above the din.

“Aw, quit it, fellows! Lay off, won’t you? It wasn’t anything. I–