THE SILVER LINING
"Say, fellows, did you hear about Jimmy Warren's kid brother?" eagerly
inquired Court Parker, skipping up to a group gathered about the school
steps next morning.
From force of habit, expectant grins wreathed several faces. "Huh!"
grunted Bob Gibson, suspiciously. "What's the joke?"
"Joke!" repeated the latest comer, indignantly. "There isn't any joke.
What gave you that idea? It came pretty near being serious, I can tell
you. One of the electric feed-wires got loose in the storm yesterday,
and hung down in front of Jimmy's house on Pine Street. Before anybody
else saw it, that crazy kid Georgie had to go out and grab hold of it
with both hands."
He paused an instant for breath, and a concerted exclamation went up from
the crowd that had gathered swiftly about him. "Gee!" exclaimed stout
Harry Vedder. "And the current still on, I s'pose?"
"Of course it was! Dad told me how many volts. I forget. Anyhow, Georgie
got hold and couldn't let go. They said he yelled to beat the band, and
then went clean out. A crowd got around right away, but nobody seemed to
know what to do. One man ran in and started 'phoning for 'em to turn off
the current; and while he was gone, what do you think happened? A kid
with a bunch of papers came along, and jumped right in and grabbed
hold of Georgie to pull him off the wire. They said that when the
current hit him it was like being kicked by a horse. He went clean
across the street and banged his head an awful whack on the curb. He got
up sort of groggy, but he must have been a game one, for he came right
back, wrapped some newspapers around his hands, and had Georgie loose
in a jiffy!"
"Great!" came in an appreciative chorus. Then one of the third-grade boys
piped up curiously. "But what good was the newspaper?"
"Insulation, of course," spoke up Sherman Ward, from the outskirts of
the group. He was tall enough to look over the heads of most of the
fellows, and spoke with a certain authority. "If he hadn't used them he'd
have got the shock as he did the first time. That's some idea, though,
fellows. I don't believe I'd have remembered, right off the bat, that
paper was a non-conductor. Who was he, Court?"
"Nobody knows; that's the funny part of it." Court thrust back a dangling
lock of brown hair with a characteristic gesture. "It was pretty near
dark, and everybody was excited, and all that, Mrs. Warren told Dad
when he was over this morning. She said she only noticed that he wasn't
so very tall and carried his papers in a bag over one shoulder. She
forgot all about him till after they'd got the kid into the house
and the doctor had come. Then when she sent somebody out to see, the
chap had gone."
At once the throng of boys was plunged into a fever of interested
speculation. The idea of an unknown appearing suddenly out of the
darkness, doing his spectacular stunt, and slipping away again without
revealing himself appealed tremendously to the imagination. The fact
that he was a boy and quite possibly one of themselves vastly increased
the interest. One after another the various fellows with paper routes
were suggested, but for the most part as quickly dismissed. One was
too tall, another delivered in a different part of town, two more were
part of the present assemblage and reluctantly denied any connection
with the affair.
"Maybe it was that fellow Tompkins," doubtfully suggested Bob Gibson,
when most of the other possibilities had been exhausted. "He goes past
Pine Street, doesn't he?"
A sudden low laugh touched with scorn, from the outskirts of the circle,
turned all eyes to where Ranny Phelps leaned against the iron railing.
"You're quite a joker, aren't you, Bob?" commented the blond chap, with
a flash of his white teeth.
Gibson sniffed. "I don't see anything so awful funny in that," he
retorted. "He does go past Pine Street about every night; I've seen him
often."
"Quite possibly," agreed Phelps, suavely. "I never said he didn't, you
old grumbler. He probably went past last night, but take my word for
it he didn't turn in. You don't suppose that thickhead would have the
gumption to do what this chap did, or the wit to know about paper being
a non-conductor, and all that? Not in a thousand years!"
Bob's mouth set stubbornly; he was one who never lost a chance to argue.
"I don't see it at all!" he retorted. "Just because you say so doesn't
make him thick. I noticed you picking on him last night, and I tell you
right now that anybody might seem--"
"He didn't _seem_ brainless--he _was_," interrupted Phelps with cool,
scornful certainty. "A fellow who could manage to fall over his feet
as many times as he did in that simple little drill, and make as many
breaks--"
He paused suddenly and bit his lips. At the farther edge of the wide
circle the face of Tompkins himself had loomed all at once into his
surprised consciousness, and something in the boy's level, unsmiling,
somber glance brought a twinge of shame to Ranleigh's heart. For an
instant he stood silent, striving to resume his usual cool nonchalance.
Then he turned away with a shrug.
"But after all," he drawled, "it's hardly worth while arguing about.
Who's got that seventh problem in Geom? It's a sticker, all right."
It was well enough done to deceive most of the fellows about him,
particularly since the sound of the last bell started the crowd up the
steps and into the school building. But Court Parker had noted the
direction of Ranny's glance, and a gleam of indignation flashed into his
eyes. For a moment he stood biting his lips; then his face cleared and
he pounced on Tompkins.
"Well, were you, Tommy!" he demanded airily.
"Was I what?" countered the other, briefly.
"The hero--the chap who leaped into the breach and saved Georgie Warren
from a--a--an electrocutive finish." Court's metaphors might be mixed,
but his vocabulary seldom lacked originality. Tompkins merely shrugged
his shoulders and frowned a bit.
"Is it likely?" he asked, with a touch of bitterness. "Even if I'd had
the chance, I'm too thick to--"
"Rot!" cut in Court, swiftly. As they went up the steps he flung an
arm impulsively around the other's shoulders. "Don't you worry about
anything Ranny Phelps says. Nobody ever pays any attention to him,
anyhow. I do wish I knew who that plucky chap was, though. It was a
corking thing to do. You haven't heard any one say, have you, Tommy?"
Tompkins hesitated an instant, an odd indecision in his face. A few
minutes ago he might have found a boyish pride and pleasure in his
friend's surprise at learning his part in the affair. Now he merely
shook his head. "Those I've heard--talking about it, didn't seem to
know," he returned shortly.
"Humph! Well, I guess I'll have to start my mighty brain working and do
the Sherlock Holmes stunt," decided Court, philosophically. "Say! Won't
Jimmy be crazy, though, to be away at school with all this happening to
his own family. I can just see him squirm!"
As they entered the coat-room his volatile mind leaped to another topic.
"There's one good thing, old top; you can come out for the troop team
now. That'll be great! Don't forget there's practice right after school
this aft."
Dale slapped his cap on a hook and turned away. "I'm not coming out," he
said gruffly, making for the door.
Court's eyes widened. "Not coming out for football!" he repeated amazedly.
"No!"
"Why not, for goodness' sake?"
"I don't want to," was the almost ungracious retort.
Court sniffed incredulously. "Tell that to your grandmother! Haven't
I seen you play often enough to know better? Wait a second." At the
entrance of the coat-room he caught Tompkins by the arm, and, whirling
him around, stared into his face. "If you think for a minute," he went
on with some heat, "that anybody-- You old idiot! You make me sick with
your silly notions. I'll--I'll settle you, though."
With which cryptic and somewhat fragmentary comment, he slapped Dale
briskly on the back and slipped into his seat, leaving the other to
seek his own place on the farther side of the room, unconsciously
heartened a bit by his fellow's friendliness. But a moment later his
forehead wrinkled perplexedly. Court had a little habit of impulsively
settling the affairs of nations offhand, and his last remark seemed
to indicate that something of the kind was in his mind at present.
"Well, whatever it is, he won't get me to come out for the team,"
decided Tompkins, his jaw squaring stubbornly. "They don't think I'm
good enough for them, and I'm not going to force myself where I'm not
wanted."
Those few words overheard just before had opened afresh the wound of the
night before and confirmed Dale's conviction that he was not wanted
in Troop Five. With the exception of one or two of the boys who had
been friendly before, he felt that the scouts agreed with Ranny Phelps
in resenting his presence in the crack troop of Hillsgrove. Because his
father was a working-man, because he himself sold papers to eke out the
family income, because, in short, he was poor and had come to meeting in
rather shabby clothes instead of a natty uniform, they looked down on him
as an interloper who had no business to be there. He would merely be
inviting further slights by appearing on the football field and trying
for a position on the troop eleven.
"I can just see Sherman Ward's expression if I did!" he thought bitterly.
"He's the niftiest one of the lot, with his father owning the iron works
and about half the town besides. He wouldn't waste much time on me, I
guess!"
Taken all in all, Dale failed to pass either a pleasant or a profitable
morning. He tried to keep his mind on the lessons, but that wasn't
easy. He had not yet decided whether or not to remain in the troop, and
this question seemed so much more vital and important than arithmetic
problems or dates in ancient history that his thoughts returned to it
again and again. He hated the idea of staying where he wasn't wanted, and
yet to leave now would look as if he were a coward, afraid to face the
jibes and sarcasms of the fellows who didn't like him.
The end of the morning session found the problem still unsolved. Dale was
a little slow putting his books away, and when he came to look for
Parker, who usually walked home with him, Court was nowhere to be seen.
As he left the building he noticed a bunch of high-school boys from
upstairs laughing and fooling on the corner. Ranny Phelps was among
them, and several other members of Troop Five, and unconsciously the
tenderfoot paused for an instant and half turned as if to seek the
other exit. A second later his lips tightened and a dull flush came
into his cheeks. He never went home that way, why should he take it now?
Swiftly he turned back, and with head high in a desperate effort to look
unconscious, he started briskly down the walk. He was within a dozen
feet of the jolly group when all at once there came a hail from behind.
"Hi, Dale!"
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."