TROUBLE AHEAD
In spite of all that had happened that day, Dale did not forget his
appointment with Mr. Curtis. He hurried through supper, and pausing only
to tell his mother where he was going, he slipped out of the house and
started at a trot toward the scoutmaster's house. Mr. Curtis himself
opened the door, greeted the boy cheerily, and ushered him into a room
on the left of the hall, a room lined with books and pictures, with a
fire glowing and sputtering on the hearth and some comfortable arm-chairs
drawn up beside it.
"Well, young man," he said briskly as soon as Dale was seated, "I've been
hearing things about you this afternoon."
Dale flushed, and his fingers unconsciously interlocked. The affair
of the afternoon before had been "rubbed into him" at intervals all
day, so that he almost dreaded further comment. It seemed as if it had
been talked about quite enough and ought now be allowed to fall into
oblivion. He hoped Mr. Curtis wasn't going to ask him to go over all the
details again.
"You seem to have managed admirably," went on the scoutmaster, in a
matter-of-face manner. "What I'd like to know, though, is how you, a
tenderfoot of barely a week's standing, happened to be so well posted
on electricity and insulation and all the rest of it?"
"It--it's in the handbook," explained Dale, haltingly.
"So it is," smiled the scoutmaster; "but it isn't a part of the
tenderfoot requirements. I even doubt whether many second-class scouts
would be up on it. Have you gone through the whole book as thoroughly?"
Dale leaned back in his chair more easily. "Oh no, sir, not all! But that
part's specially interesting, and I--I like to read it."
"I see. Well, it was a good stunt--a mighty good stunt! It's the
sort of thing true scouting stands for, and I'm proud of you." In his
glance there was something that told a good deal more than the words
themselves, but somehow Dale didn't mind that. "I suppose, though,
you've been hearing nothing else all day and must be rather tired of
it, so we'll go on to this drill business. This is only one feature of
our work, and perhaps the least important since we're a nonmilitary
organization. But it helps set a fellow up, it teaches him obedience and
quick thinking, and is useful in a number of other ways, so we've
included it in the program. The movements aren't intricate. Suppose
you take that cane over in the corner, and I'll go through them with you."
Dale obeyed promptly, and, returning with the article in question, stood
facing the scoutmaster, who had also risen. With the feeling of being
under inspection, he had naturally taken a good position, shoulders back
and chin up, and Mr. Curtis nodded approvingly.
"That's the idea!" he said. "With the command 'Attention!' you take
practically that position, heels together, shoulders back, chin up, and
eyes straight ahead. Hold the staff upright with the thumb and first two
fingers of the right hand, one end on the ground and the upper part
against your right shoulder. That's the attitude you return to after
each one of the movements. Now let's try the first one."
There were not more than six or seven of these, and the scoutmaster's
instructions were so clear and explicit that Dale wondered, with a touch
of chagrin, how he could possibly have bungled so on the night of the
meeting. In less than half an hour he had the different evolutions fixed
firmly in his mind and the cane was laid aside.
"You'd better run through them every night for ten minutes or so until
they come intuitively, without your having to stop and think," advised
the scoutmaster. "The main thing is to put snap and ginger into it, so
that the whole line moves as one. How did the football go? You were out,
weren't you?"
"Yes, sir," the boy answered, his eyes lighting. "It was dandy! It's a
crackerjack team, all right, and we're going to work like sixty to get
that pennant."
"That's the idea!" smiled Mr. Curtis. He had returned to his chair, but
the boy remained standing beside the table. "It will mean work to take
the game from Troop One; they've a corking team, you know. But I think
if-- Won't you sit down again, or have you lessons to get?"
Dale hesitated. The pleasant room with its glinting fire was very
tempting. He had glimpsed a number of interesting-looking old weapons
and pieces of Indian beadwork, too, on the walls or arranged along
the tops of the bookcases, which he would like to examine more closely.
But, on the other hand, eight waiting problems in algebra and some
stiff pages of grammar loomed up to dissuade him.
"Thank you very much, sir, but I guess I'd better not to-night," he
finally decided. "I haven't anything done yet for to-morrow."
"You must come again, then," smiled the scoutmaster. "I'm always glad to
have you boys drop in, even when you haven't anything special to talk
over. Good night; and good luck with the football. I may see you at
practice to-morrow."
Dale found it hard to wait for that moment. He was devoted to football,
and he had not really played in almost a year. Small wonder, therefore,
that he looked forward eagerly to even humdrum practice. He did not
propose to stay on the scrub if hard work and constant effort could
lift him to something better. But even if he failed of advancement,
he loved the game enough for its own sake to give to it unceasingly
the best that was in him.
As the days passed it began to look as if the pleasure he got merely
in playing and in the belief that his efforts contributed a little to
the good of the team was to be his sole reward. All that week he played
left tackle on the scrub, save for half an hour or so on Friday when Ward
tried him at right half, only to return him presently to his former
position.
But if Dale was disappointed, he did not show it. He told himself that
it was too soon to expect anything else. Sherman would naturally wish
to try him out in every way before making a change in the line-up. So
the tenderfoot kept himself vigorously to the scratch, growing more and
more familiar with the various formations and carefully studying the
methods of the fellows opposite him.
It was this latter occupation which brought the first faint touch of
uneasiness regarding the strength of the team at large. He could not
be quite sure, for of course ordinary practice seldom brings out the
best in a player, but it seemed as if the fellows were a bit lacking in
unity and cohesion. Of one thing at least he grew certain before he
had been on the scrub two days. Wilks, at left tackle, was hesitating
and erratic, with a tendency to ducking, which would have been even
more apparent but for the constant support and backing of Ranny Phelps.
The latter seemed not only able to play his own position with dash and
brilliancy, but also to lend a portion of his strength and skill to
support the wavering tackle. Whenever it was possible, he contrived to
take a little more than his share of buffeting in the forward plunge,
to bear the brunt of each attack. There were times, of course--notably
when Ranny himself carried the ball--that this was impossible, and then
it was that Wilks's shrinking became unmistakable.
"He's got cold feet," decided Tompkins, with the mild wonder of one to
whom the game had never brought anything but exhilaration and delight.
"They must be mighty good friends for Phelps to help him out like that!"
He sighed a little wistfully. Ranny was letting no chance slip these days
to show his disapproval of the newest member of the troop. There were
others, too, who followed his example and treated the tenderfoot with
marked coldness. Even stout Harry Vedder, though occasionally forgetting
himself in the heat of play, lacked the good-natured friendliness of
that first day. To be sure, these were far from being a majority. They
included practically only the members of Ranny Phelps's own patrol;
the others had apparently accepted Tompkins as one of the bunch and
continued to treat him as such. But Dale's was a friendly nature, and
it troubled him a little, when he had time to think about it, to be the
object of even a passive hostility.
These moments, however, were few and far between. What with football
every afternoon, with lessons and occasional studying for the
second-class tests, to say nothing of his paper-route and some extra
delivery-work he had undertaken to add to his "suit" money, his days
were pretty full. Besides, that doubt as to the entire efficiency of
the team continued to worry him much more than any small personal trouble.
On Saturday they played Troop Six, and Dale sat among the substitutes on
the side-lines. It was an admirable chance for sizing up the playing
of the team as a whole, and before the end of the second quarter his
freckled forehead was puckered with worried lines. He had no fear of
their losing the game. Their opponents had notoriously the weakest team
in the entire scout league, and already two goals had been scored against
it. The tenderfoot was thinking of next Saturday, and wondering more and
more what sort of a showing the fellows would make then.
Earlier in the season, Dale had watched Troop One throughout an entire
game, and even then he had noted their clever team-work. As individuals,
perhaps, they might not match up to his own organization. There was no
one quite to equal the brilliant Ranny Phelps, the clever quick-witted
Ward, or the dependable Wesley Becker at full. But the boy knew
football well enough to realize that in the long run it isn't the
individual that counts. Freak plays, snatching at chance and the
unexpected, may sometimes win a game, but as a rule they avail little
against the spirit of cohesion when each fellow works shoulder to
shoulder with his neighbor, supporting, backing up, subordinating
himself and the thought of individual glory to the needs of the team.
During the past week Dale had felt vaguely that it was just this quality
Troop Five lacked. Now the certainty was vividly brought home, with all
the advantages of a sharp perspective. The center, alone, seemed fairly
strong and united, with Bob Gibson in the middle "Turk" Gardner at
right guard, and Frank Sanson at left. But Sanson got no help at all
from Wilks, who, in his turn, took everything from Ranny Phelps. Court
Parker made an admirable quarter-back, and Ward and Becker played the
game as it should be played. But Slater at right tackle and Torrance
behind him made another pair who seemed to think more of each other and
of their individual success than of the unity of the team. They were
great chums, Dale reflected thoughtfully, and in Ranny Phelps's patrol.
He wondered if that had anything to do with it. He wondered, too,
whether Sherman realized the situation.
"But of course he does!" he muttered an instant later. "Isn't he always
after them to get together, though sometimes it seems as if he might go
for them a little harder? I--I hope they do--before it's too late."
But somehow he could not bring himself to be very confident. To pull
together a team that has been playing "every man for himself" is one
of the hardest things in the world. Defeat will often do it more
thoroughly than anything, but, in their case, defeat would mean the
loss of all they had been striving for. It would have been better had
they been up against any other team to-day. Pushed hard and forced to
fight for a slender victory, they might have realized something of their
weakness. But the very ease with which goal after goal was scored
brought self-confidence and cock-sureness instead of wisdom.
"I guess we'll grab that little old pennant, all right," Dale heard more
than one declare in the dressing-room. "Why, those dubs actually scored
a goal on Troop One!"
The boy wanted to remind them that this was at the very beginning of
the season, and since then two of their best men had left Troop Six for
boarding-school. But from a raw tenderfoot and inconsidered member of the
scrub any such comment would savor of cheekiness, so he kept silent.
On Monday the practice started out in such a casual, perfunctory manner
that Sherman suddenly stopped the play and lashed out, sparing nobody.
He was white-hot, and not hesitating to mention names, he told them just
what he thought of their smug complaisance, their careless, unfounded
confidence.
"You fellows seem to think all you have to do is to show up on the field
Saturday and the other crowd are going to take to cover!" he snapped.
"You walk through the plays without an idea of team-work, or mutual
support, or anything. That isn't football; it's just plain foolishness!
Why, the lines are as full of holes as a colander--and you don't even
know it! I tell you, unless we get together and stop those gaps and work
for the team _right_, that game Saturday will be a joke."
He hesitated an instant, striving for self-control. When he went on, his
tone was slightly moderated. "Come ahead, now, fellows; let's get into it
and do the thing the way it should be done. We can if we only will."
Unfortunately, the appeal failed more or less because of its very
force. Sherman's one fault as a captain was a certain leniency of
disposition. He was a bit easy-going, and preferred to handle the
fellows by persuasion rather than force. The latter did not realize
that it wasn't the happenings of that day alone which had so roused his
wrath, that these were only the culmination of all their shortcomings
for weeks past, that they had been accumulating until the pressure
became so great that an explosion had to come. A few of the players
understood, but the very ones who needed his advice the most set down
the outburst to whim or temper or indigestion. Either they airily ignored
it, or else grew sullen and grouchy. In either case they failed to
make a personal application of his words, and the situation remained
practically unchanged.