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.”