THE QUARREL
"Great cats and little kittens!" exclaimed Court Parker, stopping
suddenly beside the flagpole on the green. "I certainly am a chump."
"Just as you say," grinned the tenderfoot. "I'd hate to contradict you.
How'd you happen to find it out all by yourself, though?"
They were on their way to the scout meeting, and up to that moment had
been deep in a serious discussion of the football situation. But Parker
was not one to remain serious for very long at a stretch, so his sudden
outbreak failed to surprise Dale, even though he might be ignorant of
its cause.
"Why, I had it all planned to coach you up on the drill this week, so
you could put one over on Ranny," explained the volatile youth, as they
started on again; "but I clean forgot. Hang it all!"
Dale smiled quietly to himself. "I shouldn't wonder if I could get it
to-night," he said briefly. "It's not so awful hard, is it?"
"N-n-o, but you know Ranny; he's sure to try and trip you up. Oh, well,
no use crying over spilt milk! Just don't let him rattle you, and we'll
have you letter-perfect by next meeting."
Dale's lips twitched again, but he made no further comment as they
hurried along Main Street and turned in beside the church. It was
with very different feelings from the last time that he entered the
parish-house, hung up his cap, and joined one of the groups gathered
in the meeting-room. He was still the only one present without a
uniform, but to-night he wore his best suit, his hair was smooth and
glistening, and he could almost see himself in the brilliant polish
of his shoes. It all helped to increase his poise and the feeling of
self-confidence his knowledge of the drill had given him.
Mr. Curtis was away that night, and Wesley Becker was in charge. The
assistant scoutmaster was perfectly capable of conducting the meeting,
but being only a year or two older than many of the boys, it was
inevitable that discipline should tend to relax slightly. There were
no serious infractions, of course; the fellows, as a whole, were too
well trained and too much in earnest for that. But now and then a
suppressed snicker followed the utterance of a whispered jest, and
Wesley had occasionally to repeat his orders before they were obeyed
with the snap and precision that invariably followed the commands of Mr.
Curtis.
Dale was not one of the offenders, if such they could be called. In
the beginning he was too intent on going through the newly acquired
evolutions of the drill to have much thought for anything else. Later
on, the behavior of Ranny Phelps took all his attention.
The leader of Wolf patrol was far from being in the best of humors.
Perhaps the events of the afternoon had soured his temper; or possibly
the mere sight of Tompkins standing erect at the end of the line made
him realize that his efforts to put the tenderfoot in his place had been
more or less of a failure. At any rate, when staves were distributed and
the drill commenced, he at once renewed his nagging, critical attacks of
the week before.
For a time Dale tried not to notice it, trusting that his careful,
accurate execution of the manoeuvers would in itself be enough to
still the unjust criticism. But presently he began to realize that
Phelps was deliberately blind to his improvement, and a touch of angry
color crept into his face. In the next figure he made a minor slip,
and a snicker from Wilks increased Dale's irritation.
"Take your time, Tompkins, by all means," urged Phelps, sarcastically,
when Becker ordered a repetition of the movement. "Maybe by the end of
the evening you'll be able to do one of the figures half-way right."
Dale's lips parted impulsively, but closed again without a sound
issuing forth. A dull, smoldering anger began to glow within him, and one
hand gripped his staff tightly. What right had Ranny Phelps to shame
and humiliate him before the whole troop? He was doing his best, and he
felt that the showing wasn't such a bad one for a fellow who had been
in the troop little more than a week. Any decent chap would have
understood this and made allowances, would even have helped him along
instead of trying by every means in his power to make him fail. Dale's
chin went up a trifle, and his teeth clenched. By a great effort he
managed to hold himself in for the remainder of the drill, but the
anger and irritation bubbling up inside resulted in several more
errors. When the drill was over and the fellows stood at ease for a
few minutes before starting some signal-work, Phelps strode over to
the new recruit.
"What's the matter with you, Tompkins?" he said with cold sarcasm. "At
this rate, you're likely to spend the whole winter getting a few simple
stunts into your head."
Dale's eyes flashed. "It might not be a bad idea to learn a few of the
scout laws yourself," he snapped back impulsively.
"What's that?"
Ranny's voice was cool and level, but his eyes had narrowed and a spot
of color glowed on each cheek. The fellows near them suddenly pricked up
their ears and turned curiously in their direction.
"I said it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to learn some of the scout
laws," repeated Dale, heedless of everything save the anger and
indignation surging up within him. "There's one about being friendly,
and another that says a scout is helpful. Maybe you know them by heart,
but I don't believe--"
"That'll do!" cut in Ranny, harshly. "I certainly don't need any advice
from _you_ on how to--"
"You mean you won't _take_ any," interrupted Dale, hotly.
"Patrols, attention!" rang out Becker's voice sharply.
Neither of the boys paid any heed; it is doubtful whether they even heard
him. Tight-lipped, with fists clenched, they glared at one another from
eyes that snapped angrily. In another moment, however, Becker gripped
Phelps tightly by the shoulder and whirled him around.
"Cut that out and go back to your place!" he said sternly. "I called for
order."
Ranny glowered at him for a moment, and then, without a word, turned on
his heel and strode back to the head of the line. In the hush that
followed, Dale drew a long breath and swallowed hard. His face still
burned, and the fingers of his right hand were stiff and cramped from the
grip he had unconsciously maintained on his staff. With an elaborate
attempt at nonchalance, he listened to Becker's directions about the
signaling, but all the while he was wondering what the fellows thought
of him and wishing, with increasing fervency, that he had kept his
self-control instead of flaring up in that foolish way.
For the remainder of the evening Phelps seemed coolly oblivious of
Dale's existence. He did not even glance at the tenderfoot, though
on the way out the two stood for a moment within arm's-length in the
entry. He had apparently quite recovered his composure, but there was a
cold hardness about his mouth that brought a queer, unexpected pang to
Tompkins.
Not for the world would he have acknowledged it to any one--even to
Court, who, with several others, expressed unqualified approval of the
way in which Ranny had been "set down." It is doubtful, even, had he
been given a chance to live over the evening, if his conduct would have
been any different. But there could be no question of his keen regret
that instead of thawing Phelps's coolness by his increased proficiency at
the drill, he had only succeeded in vastly increasing the boy's animosity.
On Wednesday afternoon Dale was made the unconscious cause of still
further adding to Ranny's ire. After half an hour of play, Ward suddenly
ordered Larry Wilks out of the line-up and told Tompkins to take his
place.
At the command the tackle started, stared incredulously at Sherman,
and then, with lowering brow and an exaggerated air of indifference,
turned and walked deliberately off the field. For an instant Ranny stood
silent, a deep red flaming into his face. Then he whirled impulsively
on Ward.
"Are you crazy, Sherm?" he demanded hotly. "Why, you'll queer the whole
team by sticking in a greenhorn only three days before the game."
"I don't agree with you," retorted Ward, curtly. He spoke quietly enough,
but a faint twitching at the corners of his mouth showed that he was
holding himself in with difficulty. "Wilks has had plenty of warnings,
and has seen fit to disregard them utterly. Besides," his voice took
in a harder tone as his eyes followed the departing player he had counted
on using in the scrub, "I'd rather use anybody--little Bennie Rhead,
even--than a fellow who shows the lack of spirit he does. Take your
place, Tompkins. Frazer, shift over to right tackle on the scrub.
Edwards, you come in and play left guard for to-day. Scrub has the ball."
Ranny Phelps bit his lip, glared ill-temperedly, and then subsided.
Tompkins shifted over to the regulars, his mind a queer turmoil of
delight at the advancement, and regret and apprehension at this new
cause for bickering among the players. Practice was resumed, but there
was a notable feeling of constraint among the fellows, which did not
entirely pass off as the afternoon wore away. Ranny held himself coldly
aloof, playing his own position with touches of the old brilliancy, but
ignoring the chap beside him. Torrance and Slater, and one or two of
the scrub who were part of the Phelps clique, whispered occasionally
among themselves, or darted indignant glances at the tenderfoot as if
he were in some way responsible for the downfall of Wilks. Dale tried
not to notice it all, and devoted himself vigorously to playing the
game, hoping that by the next day the fellows would cool down and get
together.
But somehow they didn't. There had been time for discussion with the
disgruntled Wilks himself, and if anything, their animosity was
increased. It was so marked, and the effect so disastrous, or so it
seemed to Tompkins, to the unity of the team, that after practice the
tenderfoot hesitatingly approached Sherman Ward. It was not at all
easy for him to say what he had in mind. For one thing, the idea of even
remotely advising the captain savored of cheekiness and presumption;
for another, he wasn't personally at all keen to take the step he felt
would be for the good of the team. But at length he summoned courage to
make the suggestion.
"Say, Sherm," he began haltingly, after walking beside Ward for a few
moments in silence, "don't you think--that is, would it be better for
me to--er--not to play to-morrow?"
Sherman stopped short in surprise. "Not play?" he repeated sharply. "Why,
what--" He frowned suddenly. "Don't you want to?"
"_Want to?_ Of course I do! But it seems to me things would--would go
smoother if--I wasn't in the line-up. You know some of the fellows--"
He paused. Sherman's eyes narrowed. "Oh, that's what you mean, is it?"
For an instant he stood staring silently at the freckled face raised
to his. "You'd be willing to get out for--for the good of the team?"
As Dale nodded he reached out and caught the boy almost roughly by one
shoulder. "Forget it!" he said gruffly. "I know what I'm doing, kid. You
go in to-morrow and play up for all you're worth. If--if those chumps
don't come to their senses, it won't be your fault."
His jaw was square; his lips firm. It flashed suddenly on Dale that
Sherman couldn't very well follow his suggestion and continue to preserve
a shred of authority as captain. It would seem as if he were giving in to
the delinquents and allowing them to run the team. They would set him
down as weak and vacillating, and pay less attention than ever to his
efforts to make them get together and play the game right. A sudden
anger flamed up within the tenderfoot, and his teeth clicked together.
"Chumps!" he growled to himself, his fists clenching. "Can't they see
what they're doing? Can't they forget themselves for a minute and think
of the team?"
He wished the suspense was over and the moment for the game at hand.
Hitherto the days had fairly flown, making the afternoons of much needed
practice incredibly brief, but now the very minutes seemed to drag.
Saturday morning was interminable. Dale tried to forget his worries by
attending to the various chores about the house, but even in the midst
of vigorous woodchopping he found himself stopping to think of the
struggle of the afternoon, going over the different plays and sizing up
the probable behavior of various individuals.
But at last the waiting was over and he had taken his place in that
line which spread out across the field ready for the signal. And as
he crouched there, back bent, watching with keen, appraising eyes the
blue jersies dotting the turf before him, the tension relaxed a little,
giving place to the thrall of the game.
After all, why should he be so certain of the worst? Wasn't it quite as
likely that the fellows would be awakened and dominated, even stung
into unity, by the same thrill which moved him? An instant later he
lunged forward and was running swiftly, madly, his face upturned to the
yellow sphere soaring above his head and rocking gently in its swooping,
dropping flight.
When Ranny Phelps made a perfect catch and zigzagged down the field,
dodging the interference with consummate skill, the tenderfoot thrilled
responsive and mentally applauded. When the blond chap was at length
downed and the teams lined up snappily, Dale grinned delightedly to
himself at the realization of the fine beginning they had made.
But his enthusiasm was short-lived. Parker ripped out a signal, and the
ball was snapped back to Ward. Dale drove forward, bent on clearing the
way for Sherman. Beside him Ranny also lunged into the melee, but the
tenderfoot was instantly conscious of a gap between them that seemed as
wide as the poles apart. Into it the solid blue-jerseyed interference
thrust itself, and the forward rush stopped as if it had struck a stone
wall.
"First down!" shouted the referee when the heap of players disintegrated.
"Ten yards to gain!"