There were. As a matter of fact more than half the troop were eager to take up the new sport and for a time things were rather congested. Frank Chambers willingly lent his aid, agreeing to give at least one night a week to the instruction.
There was a large barn back of Mr. Wendell’s house and here the two men met their pupils every Tuesday night. The scoutmaster undertook to coach the smaller boys and those who failed to show especial proficiency or interest in the art. As soon as they developed any noticeable degree of skill, they were passed on to the more advanced teacher.
Bill McBride remained only a short time in the former class. There was no question of his keen interest and willingness to work. He never missed a chance to profit by instruction or to get practice. He even bought a punching bag which he put up at home and used whenever he had a few spare minutes.
He came in for considerable mild joshing from the others. They took to calling him Slugger McBride, and wanted to know how soon he was going to challenge the champion tissue-paper weight of Wharton. Micky took it all serenely, or made some apt retort, and before long his critics were silenced by his rapidly growing expertness at the art. Naturally quick and clever, and a good athlete, he soon developed a skill which surprised even his teachers. Almost from the first he could outbox every fellow in the class save Jim Cavanaugh, and even he was sometimes hard put to hold his own.
Cavvy, by the way, was the only person who had his confidence and knew what he was working for. He had been furious when Micky told about that encounter with Red Garrity, and at first was all for getting after the fellow and giving him a lesson. But in the end he had to abandon the idea.
“Nothing to it, old man,” declared McBride firmly. “It’s my scrap, you know, and I don’t want anyone else butting in. I’m going to wait till I can handle myself half way decently and then I’ll show that big piece of cheese where he gets off. It’ll be done fair and square, too.”
So Cavvy had to give up his plan of interfering, but his dislike for Garrity and his crowd was by no means lessened. In fact when Chick Conners appeared shyly at the troop meeting one night and it was rumored that he wanted to join the troop, the two friends came close to a violent disagreement.
“What kind of an institution will this troop be anyhow, if we take in that sort of riffraff?” the older chap demanded hotly on their way home. “I was wrong about Tallerico, I admit. He’s a good kid. But Conners and Garrity and that slimy McGowan and a lot more of ’em are all rotten. They’re not worth powder to blow ’em to—”
“Listen, Jim,” cut in Micky hastily. “You’re dead wrong. Conners isn’t that sort, anyhow. I told you how decent he was that—that day. He’s cut away from Garrity and the rest and he wants to be a scout. And when a fellow feels like that I believe in giving him a chance. At the worst we can always drop him from the troop—though I’m perfectly sure we won’t want to.”
Cavvy grumbled and protested, but in the end he gave in. The result was that at the next meeting Chick Conners was elected, and passed his Tenderfoot test, on which McBride had been coaching him, the same night. He passed it well, too, and even Cavanaugh, who still viewed him with suspicion, could find no fault with his demeanor, or the promptness and thoroughness of his answers.