Under Boy Scout Colors

by Joseph Bushnell Ames

From the shadows of the entry Dale felt a sort of thrill at the precision of the movement and the neatness with which the slim color-bearer, who had faced the line just in front of Mr. Curtis and his assistant, pivoted on his heel and bore the flag, its silken folds gently rippling, past the scouts still standing at attention and on out of sight toward the farther end of the room.

Of course it was only Courtlandt Parker, who was in Dale’s grade at school and a very familiar person indeed. But somehow, in this rôle, he did not seem nearly so familiar and intimate. To the watching tenderfoot it was almost as if he had ceased for the moment to be the airy, volatile, harum-scarum “Court,” whose pranks and witticisms so often kept the whole grade stirred up and amused, and had become solely the sober, earnest, serious color-bearer of the troop.

“A lot of it’s the uniform, of course,” thought Dale. “It does make a whopping difference in a fellow’s looks.” He glanced down at his own worn, still disheveled garments with sudden distaste. “I wish I had mine!” he sighed.

A moment later, still hesitating in the background, reluctant to face that trim, immaculate line, he caught the scoutmaster’s glance,–that level, friendly, smiling glance, which was at once a salutation and a welcome,–and his head went up abruptly. What did looks matter, after all–at least the sort of looks one couldn’t help? He was none the worse a scout because he had not yet saved up enough money for that coveted suit of khaki. Nor was it his fault that he had lacked the time to go home and brush up thoroughly for the meeting. He smiled back a little at Mr. Curtis, and then, with shoulders square and head erect, he obeyed the leader’s silent summons.

There was a faint stir and a sense of curious, shifting eyes when he appeared around the end of the line of waiting scouts. As he passed Sherman Ward’s patrol some one even whispered an airy greeting, “Aye, Tommy.” Though Dale did not glance that way, he knew it to be the irrepressible Courtlandt, now returned to his position as assistant patrol-leader. Court was the only one who ever called him that, and the boy’s heart warmed at this touch of friendliness. Then he paused before the scoutmaster and promptly, though perhaps a little awkwardly, returned the man’s salute.

“I’m glad to see you, Dale,” the scoutmaster said, in a tone which robbed the words of any trace of the perfunctory. “I’d begun to think something was keeping you away to-night.”

The boy flushed a little. “I–I was delayed, sir,” he explained briefly. “I–I–it won’t happen again, sir.”

“Good!” The scoutmaster nodded approval, his glance sweeping meditatively over the three patrols. He was slim and dark, with eyes set wide apart, and a humorous, rather sensitive mouth. The boys liked him without exactly knowing why, for he was not the popular athletic type of scoutmaster, nor yet the sort of man who dominates by sheer force of personality and commands immense respect if nothing more.

“Most of you fellows know Dale Tompkins, our new tenderfoot,” he went on presently, raising his voice a little. “For the benefit of those who don’t, I’ll say that he passed an extra good examination last week, and I’ve an idea he’s going to be a credit to the troop. He will take Arnold’s place in Wolf patrol, which brings us up to our full strength again. That’s the one at the head of the line, Tompkins. Patrol-leader Ranleigh Phelps will take you in charge and show you the ropes.”

Dale’s heart leaped, and a sudden warm glow came over him. He had never exchanged a word with Ranny Phelps, and yet the handsome, dashing leader of Wolf patrol probably had more to do with Tompkins’ becoming a member of Troop Five than any other cause. The boy liked Mr. Curtis, to be sure, and was glad to have him for a scoutmaster, but his feeling for Phelps, though he had never expressed it even to himself, was something deeper than mere liking. To him, the good-looking, blond chap seemed everything that a scout should be and so seldom was. Perhaps one of the reasons was because he always contrived to look the part so satisfyingly. Whenever the troop appeared in public, Phelps’s uniform fitted to perfection, his bearing was invariably beyond criticism, his execution of the various manœuvers was crisp, snappy, faultless. In athletic events, too, he was always prominent, entering in almost every event, and coming out ahead in many. And he was physically so picturesque with his clean-cut features, gray eyes, and mass of curly blond hair, his poise and perfect self-possession, that gradually in the breast of the rugged, unornamental Tompkins there had grown up a shy admiration, a silent, wistful liking which strengthened as time went on almost to hero-worship, yet which, of course, he would have perished sooner than reveal. When he had at length gained his father’s grudging permission to become a scout, it was this feeling mainly which prompted him to make application to Troop Five. He had not dared to hope that Mr. Curtis would actually assign him to Ranny Phelps’s patrol.