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 role,
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.