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.”
CHAPTER IV
ON THE GRIDIRON
Ranny Phelps left the school building that afternoon in a distinctly disagreeable mood. He had been feeling vaguely irritable all day, but since noon there had developed grouchy tendencies, as Court Parker termed them, and he was ready to flare up at the slightest provocation. On the way down-stairs he had flown out at Harry Vedder, one of his particular followers, for no other reason than that the stout youth expressed an indolent conviction that the new tenderfoot could play football better than he could drill, and that he would probably show up on the field. The blow-up, instead of relieving pressure, as such things often do, seemed to deepen Phelps’s discontent, and seeing Ward on the walk just ahead of him, he yielded to a sudden impulse and hastily caught up with him.
“Look here, Sherm,” he began hastily, “you’re not really thinking of–of–using that nut Tompkins, are you?”
The football captain glanced sidewise at him–a cool, level stare. “Why not?” he asked briefly. “He’s a member of the troop, isn’t he?”
Ranny realized his mistake, but temper kept him to it. “Oh, yes! yes, of course,” he snapped petulantly. “Unfortunately he is, but I don’t see why you should encourage him. If he’s shown that he–he–isn’t wanted, he may have the wit to–to–”
Conscious of Ward’s prolonged, quizzical glance, the blond chap faltered, and then, furious at himself and with his companion, he went on angrily: “You needn’t look like that. You know yourself he’s the extreme limit. Look at him now!” He waved one hand jerkily toward a group ahead, which included the boy under discussion chatting eagerly with Parker and Bob Gibson. “He’s a disgrace to the troop with that horrible-looking suit, all rags and frayed, and–and his hair brushing all over his collar; I don’t believe it’s been cut in months.”
“Well, what of it?” inquired the taller chap composedly, as Ranny paused for breath. “What’s his hair or his clothes got to do with his being a good scout?”
“Everything!” snapped Ranny, biting his lips and striving to keep down his temper. “A fellow that amounts to anything will–will keep himself decent looking even if he is–poor. Besides he–you saw him last night; couldn’t do the simplest thing without making a show of himself. Take my word for it, he’ll never amount to anything. He’s a dead loss, and I wish– I can’t think what you see in–”