THE SCOUT RALLY
Mr. Wendell clamped some papers carefully together and laid them within
the covers of his troop record book.
“Now that we’ve gone over the matter of the Liberty Loan,” he said,
leaning back in his chair, “there’s one more piece of business before we
take up our final practice for the rally to-morrow. I mean the
application of young Frank Tallerico for membership in the troop. I
don’t think I need say much about him. He’s been present for several
meetings and you’ve had time to size him up and talk over the matter
amongst yourselves. There is just one thing, though. You know I don’t
wish to influence you in any way, but for some time it has seemed to me
we might very well broaden out and take in more fellows like
Tallerico—boys who work or who come from laboring families. I’ve already
talked about this with the troop leaders, so I won’t say any more now.
The meeting is open for nominations.”
As he ceased speaking there was a little stir amongst the scouts seated
on a long row against the opposite wall. The scoutmaster, apt at reading
expressions, sensed a slight feeling of tension and was prepared, as he
had expected to be, for a marked difference of opinion. Clay Marshall,
serious and full of responsibility, seemed on the point of getting on
his feet. But before he or any one else had time to make a move, Jim
Cavanaugh sprang up.
“I nominate Frank Tallerico for membership,” he said abruptly.
“Second the motion,” echoed McBride, from his place at the head of the
Eagle Patrol.
There was a murmur of surprise from several quarters. Stout Harry
Ritter’s jaw gaped.
“Well, of all the fakes,” he muttered to Ted Hinckley beside him. “Why,
not more than a week ago he wouldn’t listen to such a thing.”
John Wendell’s face expressed neither his surprise nor his
gratification.
“You’ve all heard the nomination,” he said. “Will you have a standing
vote, or ballot?”
“Standing vote,” suggested several voices at once.
“Very well. Those in favor of the nomination please stand. Those opposed
remain seated.”
With a stir, a rustle and much scraping of feet, the entire troop arose.
The scoutmaster smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “I think you’ve done the right thing, fellows. I’ve an
idea you’ll find Tallerico has the makings of a good scout.”
“He has,” said Cavanaugh emphatically. “May I say a word, sir? It’s just
this,” he added with some embarrassment, his glance traveling swiftly
over the line of scouts. “As Fa—er—Ritter says, not very long ago I
didn’t want him in the troop at all. He’s a foreigner, and I didn’t
think he knew or cared anything about scouting for the flag or—or
anything. I was dead wrong. You all know about what happened in front of
the Smelter buildings last Saturday. A beastly anarchist was gassing the
crowd and he pulled down the flag and was going to tramp on it. Very
likely you’ve heard that a boy jumped out of the bunch and grabbed the
flag and got away with it. It broke up the meeting and afterward the men
ran the fellow and his gang out of town. Well, that boy was Tallerico,
and if he don’t make as fine a scout as anybody here, I’ll—I’ll—”
Just what Cavvy would have done in that event remained unknown. A roar
of applause, punctuated by stamping feet and whistling, broke from the
troop and drowned his voice. Long before order was restored, Cavanaugh
had resumed his seat and recovered his usual composure.
“I suppose you’re going to train him yourself for the Tenderfoot exams,”
commented Ted Hinckley slyly.
“He don’t need it,” returned Cavvy coolly. “He’s pretty near ready for
the second class, which is more than _some_ people can say.”
There was another laugh and then Mr. Wendell intervened. In a few words
he expressed his pleasure and appreciation of Tallerico’s act, which, he
said, any of those present would have been proud to have performed, and
then took up the practice for the rally.
This was to be a small affair confined to members of the troop. With so
much war work, and the Liberty Loan so near, there was no time for
anything elaborate. The several patrols were simply to compete together
in various scout stunts on the village Green, and there would also be
two or three combined maneuvers with staves and first aid materials for
the entertainment of any onlookers who might be present.
Naturally there was a lot of good natured rivalry amongst the patrols.
Each leader was determined that his particular group should come off
with the most honors, and there had been considerable secret practicing
at odd moments for two weeks past. The meet was scheduled for three
o’clock, and there were no late comers.
The events were started with a dressing race in which there were six
entrants, two from each patrol. A distance was marked off and divided
into six narrow imaginary lanes, along which at regular distances the
contestants laid their shoes, leggins, coat, belt and hat. At a given
signal each scout started down the course, putting on his things in the
order named. The one to reach the tape first, provided he was properly
dressed and his equipment in perfect order, was the winner.
Naturally a good many ludicrous happenings occurred and evoked much
laughter both from the scouts and the people lining the course. Bill
McBride came in third, and Shrimp Willett, also a member of the Eagle
Patrol, took first honors. He was small, wiry and quick as chain
lightning, and the way he seemed to slide into his garments as if they
had been oiled, provided much entertainment to the bystanders.
“That kid don’t need much time in the morning,” commented one of the
latter. “Believe me, he could get dressed on the way down stairs.”
McBride, who was standing near the line, smiled unconsciously at the
man’s amusement. A moment later he heard a voice behind him sneer:
“Baby’s tricks! Gee-whiz! Ain’t they got nothing better to do with their
time?”
Turning abruptly, he met the contemptuous stare of a slouching, shabbily
dressed fellow a year or two older than himself, who lounged indolently
against a tree. A faded cap perched rakishly on a mop of brilliant red
hair; his eyes were blue and hard and wide open. From one corner of his
mouth there dangled the butt of a cigarette.
Micky flushed, and his lips parted for a swift retort. But at that
moment the signal sounded for the next event and he had to hurry off.
When he passed near that portion of the Green again the obnoxious “Red”
Garrity was gone. Another boy stood there, however, whom McBride had
sometimes noticed in his company. He frowned, and then he caught an odd,
almost wistful questioning in the other’s eyes which puzzled him. None
of that crowd of roughnecks had ever shown the slightest interest in
scout doings except to hoot and jeer at the troop when they met in the
street. There had been more than one case of solitary scouts or small
boys in pairs who had been roughly treated by the hoodlums under the
leadership of the red haired chap. With this in mind, Micky was just
turning away when the other boy took a quick step forward.
“You—you didn’t win that last race, did you?” he said hesitatingly.
The remark was obviously made for the sake of creating talk. But McBride
was naturally a friendly chap, and just now he was a little curious to
know what was in the other’s mind. So he answered pleasantly, and quite
a little conversation ensued.
“Hanged if he don’t seem really interested,” thought the patrol leader,
as he went off presently to oversee his candidate for the firelighting
contest. “He certainly talks that way. I don’t know why he shouldn’t be,
either. Those fellows don’t seem to have much to do except bum around
street corners, and I can’t see any fun in that.”
Twice afterwards he paused to chat with the boy, whose name was Conners.
Then came the final exhibitions, and when it was all over Micky had to
hurry home to look after some chores which must be done before supper.
His patrol had won out by a narrow margin, and he was in high spirits as
he took a short cut through a rather slummy part of town. Swinging
briskly along the narrow street, he entertained himself by recalling
some of the amusing happenings of the afternoon. Fat Ritter had been
particularly funny in the one-legged race, and Micky was thinking how he
would josh the fellow next time they met, when he suddenly realized that
a few hundred yards ahead three figures were lined up against a factory
wall, watching him intently.
One of them was Conners; another he did not know by name. The third was
swaggering Red Garrity. There was something unmistakably ominous in
their attitude of quiet waiting. Things he had heard of as happening to
scouts at the hands of this red haired hooligan and his followers
flashed into Micky’s brain, and for a second his pace faltered and he
almost stopped.
Then abruptly his head went up and his jaw squared. Swiftly he resumed
his stride and came on steadily. His lips were firm, his eyes set
straight ahead; and though it must be confessed that his heart was
beating rather rapidly, he did not show it.