The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Boy Scouts of Lakeville High, by Leslie W. Quirk, Illustrated by William Kirkpatrick

THE BOY SCOUTS OF
LAKEVILLE HIGH

By LESLIE W. QUIRK

The Wellworth College Series

The Fourth Down
The Freshman Eight
The Third Strike
Ice-Boat Number One

The Boy Scouts Series

The Boy Scouts of Black Eagle Patrol

The Boy Scouts on Crusade

The Boy Scouts of Lakeville High

"Sit tight," he called, "and I'll have you out in a jiffy."

Frontispiece. See page [96].

THE BOY SCOUTS
OF
LAKEVILLE HIGH

BY
LESLIE W. QUIRK

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WILLIAM KIRKPATRICK

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1930

Copyright, 1920,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE BOY SCOUTS OF
LAKEVILLE HIGH

THE BLACK EAGLE PATROL

THE BOY SCOUTS OF
LAKEVILLE HIGH

CHAPTER I

THE NEW BOY

"Help!"

As though snipped off short by one of its own whirling blades, the lawn mower in the next yard stilled abruptly. Almost on the echo, a mop of red hair popped above the garden fence.

From her perch on the turning-pole, which jutted out of the big butternut tree in the Sefton back lawn, Molly Sefton watched the brick-red thatch and the serious face beneath it. She wondered whether the boy were fifteen years old or sixteen, and whether these new neighbors who had moved in only the day before would prove as "nice" as she had found the rest of the little village of Lakeville. Then a sharp twist of pain made her forget everything except her right foot.

"Please help me loose," she called. "I was climbing up to get my kitten, and my foot slipped in here. Now I can't get it out."

By this time, the red-headed boy had drawn himself to the top of the fence. Almost before she had finished explaining, he had dropped on the other side. Scrambling up to the horizontal bar beside her, he squinted thoughtfully at the imprisoned foot, wedged between the tree-trunk and the wooden strip that held the end of the bar.

"Pull your foot straight up."

She made the effort and winced. "It's too tight."

The red-headed boy frowned. "You're wearing thick, outdoor shoes," he said. "If I just unlace this one, you can wiggle your foot out as easy as pie."

While she remained standing on the bar, balancing herself by the tree, the boy straddled the pole and began switching the shoe lace out of the stops.

"It was my kitten I wanted to get," she said slowly. "That's how it happened. And he's up there yet."

The red head looked up. Two feet out of the girl's reach, clinging to a tiny limb, hung a black and white kitten. From time to time, it opened its mouth and let out a whimpering cry that sounded like "Me-e-e!"

"How did it get up there?"

"The Claxton's dog pretty nearly scared it to death; it started climbing and was afraid to stop."

"I see," nodded the boy. "Well, you jerk your foot out of that shoe, and we'll get the kitten easy enough. Are you all ready? Now!"

Molly made the effort to free herself.

"I can't!"

"It's just as easy as falling—if you'll only try."

"It's not easy." She was beginning to lose her temper. "I'm stuck just as fast as I ever was. You haven't done a bit of good." Before she finished the sentence, she was ashamed of her words, for a hurt look overspread the face beneath the red hair.

"Are you sure you can't yank it free?"

"I know I can't."

Very deliberately, he bent down and pulled from his own right foot the white tennis slipper.

"I'm sorry I can't get you loose, but I know how to get your kitten down."

"What are you going to do?"

Without answering, he drew back his slipper in a position to hurl it at the helpless kitten. He measured the distance with his eye, poising the shoe for the most accurate throw possible.

"What—what are you going to do?" She was very close to screaming.

"Hold tight. That kitten might come down right on your head."

"You horrid, horrid—"

"I'll count three slowly, and if your foot isn't out by that time—"

"You—you mustn't do such a thing! You shan't!" Molly gasped her indignation, meanwhile clinging to the tree with both hands.

"Just the same, I'm going to. Get your arm out of the way."

He pulled back his tennis slipper to aim at the kitten. "One!— Two!— Thr—"

A little half-scream interrupted him, and behold! Molly's stockinged foot rested beside its booted mate as she lunged forward to prevent the outrage upon the little black and white kitten.

Strangely enough, the red-headed boy was merely grinning good-naturedly.

"I knew you could," he said. "I knew, if you really wanted to—"

For a little moment, Molly stared sternly at him, before she bit her lower lip with an expression that was somewhere between vexation and relief.

"Why, I—I don't believe you meant to throw your slipper at all," she reproved him.

With a little broader grin, he nodded his head frankly.

"Of course, I didn't. I wouldn't throw anything at your kitten any more than I'd throw anything at ours, and we've got an awfully funny little fellow. All I wanted to do was to get your foot loose." Molly smiled in spite of herself. "Now, if you'll get down on the ground, so I can shinny up the tree a bit, I'll catch the kitten, and then I'll get that shoe of yours."

With her stockinged foot cushioned on the soft grass, Molly watched the boy struggle up the tree and clumsily but gently rescue the kitten from its roost. Afterwards, when the animal lay safely in Molly's arms, he pried loose the shoe from its wedged nook and dropped a bit heavily, to the ground.

"It was splendid of you!" Molly began, and then stopped, horror-struck. "But look at your clothes!"

The red-headed boy glanced down, but continued to smile, in spite of the dark stains that had spread where he gripped the tree-trunk and sundry leaf and nut clusters between his knees.

"I'm always doing something like that. I wish it wasn't the first day of school, though," he added a little ruefully. "It's most schooltime, too."

But now Molly was her practical self once more. "You get your books," she ordered, "and I'll take you down in our automobile. Horace Hibbs (he's an inventor with the Fair Play Factory) has his workshop near the school, and he mixes a sort of patent stuff that just takes any kind of a spot out of your clothes. He's the Scout Master of the Black Eagle Patrol of Boy Scouts, too. See, father's getting the car ready now. You come right over."

While Mr. Sefton drove the car, Molly and the red-headed boy sat side by side on the rear seat. After deftly finding out his name (which was Rodman Cree) and his age (fifteen) and his grade (first-year high) Molly began telling him all about Lakeville and about the new high school, which had resulted from the combined efforts of Horace Hibbs, the Fair Play Sporting Goods Factory, and, most of all, the Black Eagles, Lakeville's patrol of Boy Scouts.[1]

"I came pretty near being a Scout last year myself," Rodman said suddenly. "I was all ready to pass my tenderfoot examinations when we moved out on a farm and staid there till we came to Lakeville."

"Oh, that's fine!" Molly assured him briskly. "You'll be taken in with the Black Eagles. You see, Handy Wallace moved to Beloit almost a year ago, and Sandy Anvers was sent East to school; so that leaves only seven. And the patrol is going to do things this year," she went on warmly. "There will be high-school football teams and baseball and basketball teams and everything else, and there will be lots of Black Eagles on every team, too. I just know so."

The boy's face lost its smile. "I'm not sure whether I'd be taken into that bunch or not," he confessed slowly. "I'm not much good at athletics."

"Nonsense! Of course you are!" nodded Molly reassuringly. "And, besides, even if you aren't, you'd be good in just a little while. You only have to try."

"I—I'd like to," he agreed, as the car stopped in front of the Fair Play Factory's annex. "I'd certainly like to."

A round, jolly face showed at the window to the right of the door, and presently Horace himself, Scout Master of the Black Eagle Patrol, middle-aged and good-natured, greeted him from the entrance.

"What can we do for you this morning, Mr. Sefton?" smiled the inventor. "Do you want to buy a pair of skates or some hockey sticks, or shall you wait for the cold weather?"

Molly's father laughed. "We have a young man here who has been climbing a butternut tree, and Molly tells me you own a special brand of stain remover that can handle even accidents like this one."

Horace Hibbs raised his right hand. "Don't say another word. We will send those stains to the Happy Hunting Ground in about two minutes."

By the time Rodman Cree came back to the waiting car, not only was his clothing free from the blemish of the butternut, but his wish to join the Boy Scouts had grown from a very moderate desire to one truly giant-sized. Never before, he thought, had he met anybody who understood boys as did Horace Hibbs; and what the Scout Master told him about the patrol made him wish that he knew scouting from A to Z, and, in addition, could run the hundred in ten seconds, and broad-jump across a river.

"Of course he's fine," agreed Molly, "but just wait till you know the boys in the patrol—Bunny Payton, the patrol leader, and Bi and Nap and S. S. and Jump and Specs and Roundy; and, oh, just wait till you've seen our new high school!"

Up Elm Street the car turned, and down Freemont, pulling to a stop in the middle of the block.

"Look!" cried Molly.

Artistically centered in a big lot, the building stood, with a scrub ball game already in progress on the new diamond. The gray rock side walls, that seemed to be more window than anything else; the graceful lines that rose in exquisite proportion; the main door, with its roofed, stone-pillared veranda on each side,—all made a structure that savored more of a home than a school. It was the sort of place you would enjoy going to, if the teachers only lived halfway up to the building. And the crowd of pupils already gathering for the first day proved how deeply Lakeville's first and only high school had stirred the little village and the country roundabout.

As Molly looked over the young people grouped at the door or watching the game of "work-up," she recognized not only every Lakeville boy and girl of high school age, but as many more from farms and villages within ten miles. By automobiles, by train, a-wheel and on pony-back, they had gathered for the opening session. Peter Barrett, his patched suit neatly brushed and pressed, stood by his father's farm wagon; ten yards away, Royal Sheffield, son of the wealthy, real estate man of Charlesboro, was just climbing from a new eight-cylinder car. "Buck" Claxton, who for the past two years had worked at the local flour mill, was playing a noisy game at first base, while on the side-lines, Clarence Prissler, his nose out of a book for once, was explaining the fine points of the sport to Marion Genevieve Chester, who tilted her nose, smoothed her hair, and looked very bored.

But the Boy Scouts of the Black Eagle Patrol were neither watching from the side-lines nor bored. Heart and soul, they were playing the game, from Specs McGrew, taking a lead off third, to Bunny Payton, thumping the palm of his catching glove with his other hand and signaling to Bi Jones, out in the pitcher's box. Handling the bat itself, Roundy Magoon waved the stick back and forth, while Bi, with maddening slowness, made ready to pitch.

"Hurry it up!" shouted Bunny. "This fellow is as good as gone, and I want a crack at the ball before the bell rings."

Herbert Zane, whose nickname of "Spick and Span" had been shortened to "S. S.", was creeping as far off first as he dared, with an occasional glance at his clothes, as if wondering whether or not it would pay to risk the gorgeousness of a brand new suit by sliding into second.

"Let the next one go!" he called to Roundy, apparently having made up his mind that it would be better to wallow in the dust, and thus perch on second, than be forced out or made the victim of a double play.

Roundy nodded. Very likely, too, he intended to do just that thing. But the ball floated over so slowly, so tantalizing "right", that at the very last instant he swung hard enough to drive it over all the roofs of Lakeville. But Bi had put his muscle into the heave, and Roundy had started his swing a fraction of a second too late. Though all his stout body went into the blow, only the handle of the bat made connection, and the ball hit in front of the plate and dribbed toward first.

Like a flash, Bunny leaped forward, scooped it up, tagged Roundy before that slow-moving youth had stirred into full action, and, with a bluff toward Specs, pegged to second.

It was a good throw, although high, and Jump Henderson took it with one of his old circus leaps, touching S. S., who slid nobly but too late, and relaying the ball back to Bunny in time to prevent Specs from making an attempt to score.

"Don't mind me! I'm nobody!" Specs howled mournfully, scampering back to third; while Roundy and S. S. trotted out to the field, Buck Claxton stepped into the pitcher's box, Nap Meeker put on the catcher's glove, and Bi and Bunny came in to bat.

"Leave me here," wailed Specs. "That's right! Leave me here! I'm having a lot of fun on this base. Yes, I am! I've watched eight of you fan or hit pop-ups or easy grounders; and here I am waiting yet."

"You won't be there long, Specs," Bunny promised cheerfully, picking up the bat.

"That's what they all say," Specs growled. "But nobody brings me in."

"Nobody will bring you in, either, old socks," observed Nap. "You're licked in this war. All right, Buck. Give him one right here."

The ball was shoulder high. Too eager to wait for a good one, Bunny swung lustily, managing to foul it off over Nap's head, past the Sefton automobile and across the road, where the ball lodged under the high fence of the Anvers yard.

"Tell my folks to send my dinner out here," groaned Specs, plumping himself down on third base and burying his head between his knees.

It was just as Nap started after the lost ball that Bunny spied the car with Molly and Rodman in the rear seat.

"Oh, Bunny!" shouted Molly.

A moment later, the new boy and the leader of the Black Eagles had formally shaken hands.

"And he can pass the tenderfoot tests, and he's awfully good at athletics, and—"

"But I'm not any good at athletics," protested Rodman, laughing. "I'm no good at all in that sort of thing."

"He's just too modest to say so. You ought to have seen how he saved the kitten."

"Have you ever played baseball?" demanded Bunny suddenly.

"Sure—a little. But I'm no good. I can't bat decently, or catch or field."

Bunny held out his bat. "Come on over and take my place," he invited. "I doubt if I can hit Buck, and poor old Specs has been perched on third for hours. Everybody who comes to bat knocks a baby grounder or a pop-up or something, and Specs stays right there."

"All right, Bunny!" Nap broke in, crossing back to the school yard with the ball.

Molly dropped her hand on Rodman's arm. "Go and try," she urged. "I know you can do it."

"Hurry up, Bunny! Pretty near time for the bell!" Nap flung over his shoulder.

Rodman was plainly wavering. "But—but—"

"Try it, anyhow."

"Oh, you must!" Molly commanded.

The new boy climbed out of the car, smiling. "I'm no good, but I'll give you a chance to see just how bad I am."

"This Claxton," Bunny confided, as they jogged to the diamond, "pitches a hard ball, and he has a sure-enough out-curve; but if you stand up to the plate and don't let him bluff you back, it will be all right. Remember, though, you have only two strikes left."

From the car, Molly watched Rodman and Bunny join the others. For a little while, there seemed to be some objection to Rodman's substituting, but Buck Claxton ended the argument.

"Let him come to bat," observed Buck loudly. "He can't hit. I can see it in his eye."

"I'll bet he can't," assented Specs sadly. "None of 'em can."

Rodman touched the plate with his bat. Buck wound up with an exaggerated movement to deliver the pitch. It was a hard, straight ball, with just the hint of a drop in it, but the bat met it over the very center of the plate.

Spang!

The ball was off like a shot; off and up and over the fielder's head in center, till it struck a tree twenty yards beyond and rolled and bounded to the left.

Specs loafed in from third, and before the fielder had finished juggling with the ball, the red-headed boy had rounded the three bases and touched home. Then, while Specs was slapping Rodman on the back, and a little scattered applause was rising from the crowd, the school bell added its share to the celebration.

"He's a dandy!" chuckled Bunny enthusiastically, as Molly met him hurrying to the building. "He's going to be a Black Eagle, all right."

"Won't that be fine!" agreed Molly, quite as pleased as though she were a Scout herself.

And that was the way the new-comer to Lakeville High School—the new high school that would never have been built if it had not been for the Black Eagle Patrol—began his first day.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] See "The Boy Scouts on Crusade."

CHAPTER II

TRACK TROUBLE

Before the end of the first lap, Rodman Cree had quit. It could hardly be called his fault, because the elastic waistband which held up his running pants had snapped, and a further awkward gallop with his hands holding up the slipping garment proved futile. So he veered off the track.

"No use!" he laughed. "Besides, I'm not a runner, anyhow."

It was the laugh that brought the scowl to Spec's face. "Of course, it was not his fault," he grunted, "but why does he laugh about it? He's running for us to-day; he's our eighth man in the patrol. Doesn't he understand that we want to win?"

It had been rather a last-minute affair, this field day between the Black Eagles and Buck Claxton's team, which he had called the All-School; and it was Specs who had quite unconsciously started it all.

"I guess everybody knows," Specs had said in a loud, clear voice during the first morning's recess, "who it was that made this school possible."

"I don't!" snapped Buck Claxton. "Look here, if you Scouts think you're so much, I'll get together eight fellows who can beat you at baseball or football or track or anything else."

Though Bunny wished that Specs had spoken a little more modestly and in a great deal lower voice, he was not altogether sorry that the field meet had been arranged. Because a half-holiday had been declared, to enable the Citizens' Club of Elkana to inspect the new high school building, it was on Tuesday morning that the Scouts (plus Rodman Cree, to round out the eight mentioned in the challenge) clashed with the All-School team on field and track.

It was Bunny's idea that the field day might spread the Scout movement among the new fellows of the school, and especially among the following that Buck Claxton was rapidly acquiring. The leader of the Black Eagles felt, moreover, that they had been too much by themselves, and that a second patrol would not only wake them out of their clannishness, but that, in addition, it would keep them from sleeping on their laurels. And, of course, it was a splendid chance to see what they could do when pitted against boys slightly older and larger.

"That was some race!" chuckled Specs, after S. S. had broken the tape. He and Bunny were walking toward the competitors for the high jump. "Buck ran a good race, even if he was nosed out. How about taking him into the Black Eagle Patrol? He's crazy to get in, all right, no matter what he says. How do you feel about it?"

"What's the matter with Rodman Cree? He's acting as our eighth man to-day. Seems to me he should have first chance to join the patrol."

Specs wrinkled his forehead. "Y—yes. Oh, of course, he's all right. But he says himself that he just hit the ball by mistake yesterday morning; and you saw what happened just now in the half-mile."

Bunny threw back his shoulders. "I don't care whether Rodman Cree is any good at athletics or not. He's the right kind of a fellow; that's the main thing. Anyhow, I think he is. Besides, he may make good at one of these other events."

But wherever his abilities lay, it was plain that the red-headed boy had not been cut out by nature for a high jumper. Others skimmed the bar as lightly as swallows, but at the very outset Rodman began to flounder and fail. Twice, at three feet, he knocked off the crosspiece; the third time he came down on it squarely, smashing the wood to flinders.

"I'm no high-jumper, I guess," he laughed, as he quit the line of contestants. "I seem to be a pretty good faller—only there's no falling race."

While Specs frowned his disapproval, Bunny tried to hearten Rodman with a word of encouragement; for it seemed to him that under the boy's good nature there was a raw, sore spot.

"Don't you care!" he encouraged. "Before the morning's over, you will find that you're good at some one of these events. Besides, Jump will take care of first place here."

Jump did. To top this win, Bunny finished first in the hundred-yard dash, and, a little later, in the two-twenty. It was not till the discus throw that the Scout team suffered an overwhelming reverse. This defeat was the more disappointing because Bi and Roundy had counted on scoring points for first and second between them. But in spite of Bi's efforts and Roundy's weight, an All-School boy by the name of Bob Kiproy proved that he had the knack of discus throwing and that Bi hadn't. And Peter Barrett, the farmer boy, without any form at all, managed to land the platter-shaped weight some twenty-six inches beyond Roundy's best. As for Rodman Cree, his throws went woefully wild.

Now followed the most extraordinary event of the morning.

"You can't throw the discus," Specs said maliciously to Roundy. "You've proved that. Now, why don't you go in and win this hurdle race?"

"All right," snapped the late weight-thrower. "Just to prove that I can, I will."

It was the 120-yard course, with low hurdles, however, instead of the customary thirty-six-inch regulation barriers.

"Don't make a show of yourself," whispered Specs, as Roundy lined up for the start.

"I wasn't joking," retorted Roundy. "You watch!"

And, to the surprise of everybody, it was Roundy who breasted the tape first. While the others were rushing frantically at the hurdles and falling as they tripped and blundered, Roundy took his obstacles "high and handsome," to use the words of Horace Hibbs. Jump, who should have done well in this event, hurt his knee at the fourth hurdle, where he was forced out of the race.

"Attaboy!" exulted Specs, clapping Roundy on the back. "I knew you could do it."

"No, you didn't, either," Roundy answered, too pleased with his performance to be angry at anybody. "But I won the five points all right, even if I'm not one of you light and airy speedsters. What's next?"

The shot put was won by Bi, and, as Specs put it, "lost by Mister Rodman Cree," who finished a bad last.

"I'm leaving now," Bi told Bunny, after that event. "Date with the dentist at eleven, as I explained. Before I go, though, I'd just like to say that I don't think this new fellow is any good. He can't run. Well, that's all right. But he can't do anything else, either."

"This isn't a secret society, Bi, and it isn't an athletic club. It's a patrol of Boy Scouts. And if Rodman isn't good at some of these things that don't really count, I know he's worth while in other ways."

Bi shook his head. "Let some new patrol take him in. He may be all right, but I'd rather have somebody in the Black Eagles who isn't such a dub."

With only three more events on the program, the Scouts' lead seemed to promise a sure victory. But when the All-School team romped away with both first and second places in the broad jump, matters began to look more grave. Once more, Rodman Cree made a mess of his efforts as a jumper. He switched between taking off clumsily and falling back after landing.

"He just won't do," said Roundy soberly, as the city hall clock struck eleven.

"But he's really trying," protested Bunny. "His laughing and all that is just on the surface. He likes us, and he wants to make us like him."

"Too many other good fellows in school to bother with him," Roundy retorted. He paused for a moment. "Bunny, I wish I could stay for the relay race, but I promised my father to mow the lawn this forenoon, and I can't get it done unless I start now. You don't need me as a sub, do you?"

Bunny shook his head. "No; we have S. S., Specs, Jump and myself; and Nap could be shoved in at a pinch. You trot along, and this afternoon we'll tell you how we won. Anyhow, I think this pole vault will give us a nice lead. That's one thing Nap can do, to say nothing of Jump."

Had Nap been satisfied to limit his strength to pole-vaulting, he might have made a first in that event; but he came to it exhausted from his earlier efforts, and his best was a creditable third. Jump's knee, bruised from the hurdles, was bumped again in his first attempt. Second place was the limit for him.

When Horace Hibbs called time for the relay race, the summary of events stood as follows:

The score was a tie, therefore, with the result of the meet depending upon the relay race.

"We'll be ready to run in two minutes," Bunny said, and turned to discover Jump limping toward him. The boy's face was drawn with the effort he was making to walk naturally.

"I—I'm all right, Bunny. My knee will straighten out in just a minute. Please let me run. I'll be all right as soon as I start."

Horace Hibbs bent beside him, as Bunny examined Jump's right knee, which was discolored from its bruises and already slightly swollen.

"Won't do," said Horace Hibbs firmly. "It will come around all right in a day or two, but he must not abuse it by running in the relay. I won't have it. You'll have to get somebody else."

Bunny nodded agreement. "Oh, Nap!"

From his blanket on the ground, the Scout pried himself to his feet, with legs none too steady under him.

"Can't use him, either," decreed the Scout Master. "He has been running his head off in every event from the half mile down, and he is thoroughly exhausted. I won't allow him to start."

Bunny frowned. Though the man was right, it left no choice when it came to picking the fourth runner in the race. For a moment, he wished with all his heart that Bi, or even Roundy, were there; but it was too late now for wishing.

"Rodman," he called, "I'm putting you on our relay team."

The boy's eyes opened wide. "I'll try, of course, but you know as well as I do that I can't run to amount to anything."

"All you have to do is your best. Nobody wants any more of you than that. Three of us are better than any three on their team. You will start the third relay with a lead, sure, and if you lose it on your lap, I'll try to gain it back the last time around."

With quick, eager movements, Rodman Cree stripped off his jersey. "I am going to do all I can," he said in a low voice. "And you don't know how much I want to help you win."

"Look here," whispered the excited Specs, as he pulled Bunny to one side. "Do you mean that you are going to trust him to run in this race?"

"There's nobody else."

"He'll lose the race for us."

"Not if we other three gain on our laps as we should."

"He'll lose the race for us," repeated Specs despairingly, "and then, when it's all over, he'll laugh. I know him."

"Places for the relay!" shouted Horace Hibbs.

CHAPTER III

THE RELAY RACE

"It wasn't much of an argument," Scout Master Hibbs confessed to his relay team. "I simply suggested that we have each runner pass the little block to the next, rather than merely touch hands. Buck Claxton was the only one to raise any objection. He runs the last lap."

None of the four to whom he was speaking offered any comment. It was Jump Henderson who finally spoke; poor lame, disappointed Jump.

"Probably figured that if the race was close, he could get away before the third runner touched him," he offered.

"Oh, you're wrong there." The speaker was Rodman Cree. "I'm sure you're wrong. I know Buck. He isn't that sort at all. He wouldn't even think of taking an unfair advantage."

Bunny happened to be looking at Horace Hibbs, who, in turn, was staring fixedly at the new boy. "I suppose not," agreed the Scout Master, in a tone that was not wholly reassuring. "Anyhow, the use of the block makes trickery impossible; that's why it has been adopted so widely. Well, let's get over to the track."

There was something queer, Bunny felt, in the man's speech. It was as if he suspected somebody's honesty; not Buck Claxton's, perhaps, but—well, somebody's. He couldn't quite make it out.

But once Bunny was lined up beside the cinder track back of the Black Eagles' clubhouse, he forgot everything except the race itself. Everybody was cheering and yelling advice and encouragement; horns were tooting, and somebody who had brought a bell was clanging it madly. It was no time for solving puzzles.

Almost before he realized it, the race began. The crowd gasped suddenly and went absolutely still. A shot rang out; and around the queer, slanting track ran S. S., of the Scouts, and some tall, thin chap of the All-School team, whom Buck had been saving for just this event. Instead of the easy race S. S. had expected, Bunny could see that he was fully extended to hold his own. Side by side the two runners raced, neither able to wrest a yard's advantage from the other. The crowd seemed to have gone mad.

"Get ready, Specs," he heard Horace Hibbs say; and good old Specs, who ran the second relay, walked, trembling with excitement, to the starting line. Bunny puzzled gravely over his teammate's display of emotion and could not understand it, until he recalled that his turn would come presently, and that he must take up the race where Rodman Cree dropped it. His own cheeks reddened hotly, and his fists persisted in clenching and unclenching spasmodically as he waited and waited.

S. S. swept around the last sharp curve, with his body leaning far inward, and held out his little crimson block of wood. Still running by his side, the tall, thin chap thrust forward a blue one. Two clutching hands closed upon them, and Specs and his opponent were off upon the second relay. The race was still nip and tuck, with no advantage to either team.

But there was no holding Specs. He ran as if his very life depended upon eluding the other fellow; and little by little, just an inch or two in each few strides, he forged into a clean lead. Rodman Cree was on the track now, waiting his turn with white, set face and wildly groping fingers. As Specs reached him at last, now a good dozen yards ahead of the All-School fellow, Bunny sucked in his breath. Suppose—suppose something should happen; some accident, say, that would mull things up and worry the new boy.

But none did. As smoothly as clockwork, Specs reached forth a hand with the crimson block, and Rodman grasped it and began to run. There has been no pause, no halt, no delay whatever. And the third man of the Scouts' relay was off with a commanding lead.

Bunny relaxed and began to breathe easier. By his side, some boy was puffing mightily, like a motor with its exhaust open. Not till the other spoke, though, did Bunny recognize who it was.

"He—he can't hold his—lead," wheezed Specs mournfully. "See! What—what did I tell you? He's losing—losing ground every second."

Rodman was, too. There was no question about his determination; he was running with every ounce of will and ambition. But something was wrong.

"He—he's just no good!" puffed Specs. "Can't run—or jump—or throw—or anything. No good!"

The All-School runner was at Rodman's heels now. He swerved to the outside and came abreast of his opponent. For a brief span, they ran side by side. Then, like an elastic band that stretches longer and longer as the pull upon it increases, the gap widened alarmingly.

"I told you so," groaned Specs. "He's going to lose the race for us."

"It isn't lost yet," said Bunny grimly. He walked out upon the track, breathing hard and with knees wobbling treacherously. It seemed suffocatingly hot. Already his forehead was moist with perspiration.

The seconds he waited for the runners to reach him seemed to stretch into hours. At last, when the suspense was driving twitches through every muscle of his body, he heard the grateful thud-thud of feet behind him. Half turning, he held out his hand. But it was not Rodman; he realized that when he saw that the extended block was blue. Buck Claxton grabbed it, leaped forward like a race horse when the barrier is sprung, and was yards away before Bunny's bewildered brain righted.

Just as he reached a point a foot or two short of Bunny, he tripped suddenly and fell. Page [27].

Rodman Cree came pounding in at last. But just as he reached a point a foot or two short of Bunny, he tripped suddenly and fell, plunging toward his team mate from the impetus of his running. The accident was embarrassing, to be sure, but it could hardly have occurred at a luckier spot. Even as he sprawled helplessly toward Bunny, that runner took a quick side-step, to prevent a violent collision, and dashed forward upon the last relay of the race.

The pursuit of Buck seemed well-nigh hopeless. But Bunny did not despair. He fixed his eyes on the bobbing head of the boy in front of him, and urged himself toward it with every muscle of his lithe legs and every beat of his stout heart. On the straightaway portions of the track, he bent forward till it seemed he must fall; on the curves, he leaned inward till those near him among the spectators moved rapidly away in alarm. Always he kept his unwavering gaze upon the stubby shock of black hair that flaunted before him; and, little by little, it grew nearer and more distinct.

His wonderful burst of speed shook the crowd to a mighty roar of applause. He did not hear it. He did not even know they were cheering him. He was dumb to everything but the thud-thud of Buck's foot-beats and the beckoning thatch of his jerking head. His only thought was the dogged determination to reach and pass Buck. He must do it. He could do it. Why, the race—the whole meet—depended upon his beating Buck!

The time came when the shaggy head was before his very face. He swung to the right, ever so slightly, and parted his lips in a parched grin as he saw from the corner of his eye that it was by his side. When he risked another glance, he was in front of the bobbing head. But even as he exulted, Buck drew upon some hidden reserve of strength and pulled up even again.

They were at the very finish now, with the tape just ahead. For one last desperate moment, Bunny forced his legs to drive a tiny degree faster than they had been pounding, lifted his hands high in the air, threw himself forward, and felt the flimsy woolen string hit his chest,—hit it, cling for one awful instant, and then snap.

He had won. The relay, with its eight points for the winner, was safely tucked in the Scouts' total of firsts and seconds. Race and meet were theirs.

The cheering boys who had watched the heart-breaking finish charged upon him. He was lifted high upon the shoulders of Roundy and Jump, now quite unaware of their own lame and halt condition. S. S. and Specs were pounded and buffeted about. Of the four runners of the victorious team, only Rodman Cree was neglected.

Afterward, in the clubhouse, where the remaining six members of the Scout team retreated to get away from the boisterous crowd, there was more jubilation. Everybody seemed to want to talk at once; that is, everybody except Rodman Cree, who sat a little back from the group and stared straight ahead, not smiling or laughing now. So great was the babel that it took Horace Hibbs a minute or two to make himself heard, when he came in abruptly.

"There's an argument outside," he began abruptly. "A—yes, you might call it a protest. They claim you fellows didn't win the race fairly."

"Who says so?" It was Spec's indignant voice. "Buck Claxton?"

Horace Hibbs' solemn face relaxed into the hint of a smile. "No, not Buck. Somebody else; somebody not on the All-School team; somebody who doesn't matter."

"Oh!" said Rodman. It was just as if he had said, "I'm glad it wasn't Buck."

"But what—why—What do they mean, we didn't win fairly?" stuttered Specs.

"The claim has been made," Horace Hibbs told them, speaking very slowly, "that your third runner did not pass the block of wood to Bunny, who ran the last relay. If it was not properly passed, and Bunny ran without it, he may be disqualified."

The resultant silence was vaguely disquieting. Outside, a wondering breeze whipped through the oak tree at the back of the clubhouse, and a dozen dried leaves pattered on the roof like raindrops.

"Well?" Horace Hibbs straightened his shoulders, as if he had a disagreeable task to perform. "Suppose we thresh out the claim. What are the facts, Bunny?"

But before the Scout leader could answer, Rodman Cree pushed his way into the little circle. "I can tell you," he said unsmilingly. "Just before I reached Bunny, you remember, I tripped and fell. I dropped the block on the track instead of passing it to him."

A bomb could not have produced greater sensation. Specs uttered an exclamation of disgust. S. S., hero of the first relay, gasped audibly. Bunny nodded grudgingly. Only Horace Hibbs seemed to take it in other than in a spirit of disaster.

"I am glad there is no dispute about the facts in here," he said. Bunny glanced up quickly and found the man's face beaming happily once more. "Yes, I am more than glad," continued Horace Hibbs. "Because, you see, I have already taken up the matter with Buck Claxton."

"And he thinks his team won?" snapped Specs.

"No," said Rodman Cree quickly. "He doesn't, does he, Mr. Hibbs?"

Horace Hibbs fairly exuded good-nature. Something seemed to have pleased him immensely.

"No," he admitted; "Buck said—let me see if I can quote him exactly—he said, 'Shucks, no, Hibbs! We don't want to claim we weren't licked fair and square, when we were. We lost because Bunny Payton ran the eye-teeth out of me on that last lap. The block doesn't count. That was why I objected to it in the first place: 'fraid somebody would lose it and gum up things. You go and tell your bunch of Boy Scouts that they beat us to-day for the first and last time—yep, beat us on the level; but that I can get up a gang that will wipe the earth with them at football or baseball or basketball or anything else—except a track meet.' And so"—Horace Hibbs smiled broadly—"so you may consider yourselves told, and act accordingly. But I should suggest that hereafter you and Buck work together for the good of the school, instead of against each other."

"We will," promised Bunny; and he was heartily seconded by little echoing tags of, "Sure, we will!" and "You bet!" and "Why not?"

"Good!" exclaimed Horace Hibbs. "I don't see how any track meet could prove a greater success." He walked to the door and turned for a final word. "Nap, I am inclined to think Napoleon was right when he said, 'There are no Alps.'"

Bunny didn't pretend to understand this queer remark. But he would have been a very laggard Boy Scout, indeed, if he had failed to observe one thing. Although Horace Hibbs spoke to Nap, he was looking straight at Rodman Cree.

CHAPTER IV

SCHOOL ELECTIONS

"Just a minute, fellows!" called Bunny, as the other Scouts straggled toward the door of the clubhouse, after Horace Hibbs had gone. "I want to tell you something. This morning I spoke to Professor Leland about having a meeting of the whole school, to get ourselves organized and to elect officers. The school, you see, is a good deal like a troop of Boy Scouts; there must be a leader over everybody, and each branch, like each patrol, must have its leader, too. I mean that a student president is to be elected, and a football manager, and somebody to head the athletic association, and—and I don't know what else."

"When will the meeting be?" asked Nap.

"Professor Leland says it will be held late this afternoon, just before our first football practice. Now, the school may feel like electing some of us to offices—"

"Of course," agreed Specs complacently. "Will there be enough offices for all of us, Bunny?"

"That's just what I wanted to talk about," the patrol leader answered soberly. "We're organized, of course, and we're known by most of the students, and I think we're pretty well liked. If two or three of us are elected, that will be fine. But we mustn't use our—our power to run things. We mustn't try for all the offices. There are lots of other bully fellows in school, and we want the best man elected to each office, whether he's a Black Eagle or not."

"H'm!" said Specs gloomily. "That won't be the way Buck Claxton and his gang will look at it. They'll be out to gobble everything they can get. I'll bet they have it all figured out already."

But at a quarter of four that afternoon, when Professor Leland announced to the school that the remaining fifteen minutes of the period would be devoted to a mass meeting of all the pupils, it was evident that "Buck and his gang" had heard nothing of the plan. As a matter of fact, Buck looked uneasily at Peter Barrett, the farmer boy, and at Royal Sheffield, who came to school in an eight-cylinder motor car, as if he were wondering whether they were at the bottom of this move. Marion Genevieve Chester and Clarence Prissier also appeared at a loss. Rodman Cree, who seemed to have forgotten how to smile, showed neither surprise nor any other emotion.

"This afternoon," Professor Leland began, "we have our first football practice. It is customary, of course, for the squad to elect its own captain, but the school should vote on the team's manager. Moreover, we shall need somebody to act permanently as president of the athletic association, whose duty it will be to look after all athletic activities. One boy has spoken to me about a literary and debating society. Now would be an excellent time for its organization. And, lastly, although it will be better to have a temporary chairman of this meeting, we need a president of the student body to handle future elections. Nominations are now in order for temporary chairman."

"I am going to nominate you, Bunny," Nap whispered excitedly from across the aisle.

Bunny shook his head. "Please don't. They will think we are trying to run the school."

"I nominate Peter Barrett," flashed Buck.

This was too much for Specs. "I nominate Bi—I mean, Charlie Jones," he countered.

"Move that the nominations be closed." It was Buck again.

"All those in favor of Mr. Barrett say 'Aye,'" announced Professor Leland, when it had been decided to accept no more names.

The room shook with the thunder of the answer.

"All those in favor of Mr. Jones will signify in the same manner."

The response was hearty, but hardly a third as loud as the first.

"Mr. Barrett has been elected temporary chairman of this meeting," decided Professor Leland. "He will take the chair at once."

Amid a good deal of hand-clapping, Peter Barrett climbed to the rostrum and pounded on the principal's desk with a ruler. His face was red and his patched clothes very conspicuous, but he spoke calmly and slowly.

"Nominations for manager of the football team," he invited.

A little movement a few seats away caught Bunny's eye. After writing something on a slip of paper, Royal Sheffield passed it down the aisle.

"Mr. Chairman."

"Mr. Claxton."

"I nominate Roy Sheffield." Quite as if it had been arranged beforehand, the mention of the name was greeted with a volley of applause.

Bunny moved uneasily in his seat before rising to be recognized. In some inexplicable manner, he sensed that some plot he could not fathom was under way, and that it was a move against the Black Eagle Patrol. Perhaps he could swing the school with a neat speech of nomination.

"Mr. Chairman, I want to propose the name of a boy who has the ability to handle this job as well as anybody in school. In the first place, he has brains; in the second place, he can give his whole attention to his job, as I think he is too light to play on the team; in the third place, he has had plenty of experience, because he's managed a scrub team that we Boy Scouts have had for the last two years. He arranged games for us, and he fixed the business end so well that at the end of last season we had our football suits paid for and a little left over. And you'll admit that's pretty good for a team of kids. I don't suppose it's necessary to say for him, any more than it is for anybody else in this school, that he's absolutely honest. I nominate Emerson Elliot Meeker."

"For the love of Marengo!" gasped Nap Meeker, who had grown very red.

A boy named Leeton was nominated by a little clique at the back of the room. After a long pause, during which nobody seemed to have anything to offer, the nominations were closed.

"Count the ballots," ordered Peter Barrett to the volunteer ushers who had collected the slips of paper from the pupils. It took nearly five minutes to total the various choices.

"The vote for manager," announced the chairman, "has resulted as follows: Meeker, 10; Leeton, 17; Sheffield, 80. Mr. Sheffield has been elected manager of the football team."

Puzzled and hurt, Bunny Payton crushed in his hand the note that Specs had just slipped over his right shoulder. What was the matter? Why had Nap been so badly beaten? Why? Opening his hand, he smoothed out the note and read in Specs' angular handwriting:

Bunny:

You will have to admit that we are not the only wideawake bunch in school. I have just seen Molly Sefton, and she says that all yesterday afternoon Buck and his gang were going around telling everybody that we Scouts had said we were going to boss this school. I don't know who is at the bottom of it; maybe Rodman the Athlete. (Specs had underlined these three words.) Anyhow, there are a lot of people just waiting for a chance to vote against a Boy Scout, whether he is any good or not.

—Specs.

Bunny set his teeth. He hoped Specs was mistaken. But if it should turn out to be true—

Professor Leland had left the room when Peter Barrett, rapping smartly on the desk, called for the election of a president of the athletic association.

A fellow named Bob Kiproy nominated Buck Claxton.

Specs hopped to his feet, plainly excited. "I nominate—"

"Move the nominations be closed," interrupted Sheffield.

While Specs struggled against the current, wildly protesting, the motion was carried with a roar, and a moment later Buck Claxton was declared unanimously elected president of the athletic association.

Nothing daunted, Specs did his best to nominate S. S. for the presidency of the literary society, but again the school overwhelmed him, carrying into office Clarence Prissier on the crest of the tidal wave.

But one more place remained to be filled. However much the opposition had made up its mind to bar all Scouts from office, it was clear that Specs had grown desperate. Before the chairman had finished asking for somebody to head the student association, Specs was on his feet, waving his right arm and shouting wildly, "Mr. Chairman!"

"Mr. Cree."

Peter Barrett was looking directly over Specs' head toward Rodman Cree, who stood, feet apart, in the aisle. The Scout construed this recognition as another unjust fling at the patrol, although, as a matter of fact, Rodman had risen an instant before Specs.

"Mr. Chairman!" the latter repeated.

"Mr. Cree has the floor," declared Peter Barrett.

"I—I nominate—" Specs began lamely.

The chairman rapped again on his desk. "We are hearing from Mr. Cree. Go on, Mr. Cree."

Now, Bunny, for one, was in no sense adverse to hearing Rodman's nomination. He liked the new boy, and he was sure the new boy liked him, to say nothing of the others in the Black Eagle Patrol. Although he might have scoffed openly at the idea, deep in his heart he was confident that Rodman was about to show his true colors and nominate one of the Scouts; not just any one of them, but their leader, Bunny himself.

As Specs floundered back to his seat, Rodman Cree began. "I don't want to nominate any fellow for this office," he said. "I just want to make a suggestion. It's this: There are about forty boys in this school and over sixty girls; and I think this last office should go to a girl." He sat down to a gathering applause that began with a few faint hand-spats and ended in a tumult of cheering. The speech was like a douche of cold water to Bunny.

"I nominate Marion Genevieve Chester!" shouted Buck through the noise.

Immediately, as before, the nominations were closed, and Marion declared elected. Then, just as the minute hand of the clock touched four, Peter Barrett declared the meeting adjourned.

CHAPTER V

NOBODY

"Who cheers me up when I feel sad?
Nobody!"

sang S. S. softly, as the pupils trooped down the stairs from the assembly room and out the main door.

"Who gets me out when I'm in bad?
Nobody!"

It was Roundy who carried on the refrain. "That song is pretty near right; don't you think so, Bunny?"

"I've stopped thinking," said Bunny shortly. "It's about time to do something."

"Do what?"

"That's for us to find out."

Some twenty of the Lakeville High boys were reporting for football practice. Those with suits shifted to the basement, where a shower bath and lockers had been installed, while the others tramped directly to the field back of the schoolhouse, to begin their work with punting and drop-kicking.

The little basement was crowded with candidates in various stages of undress. But because their two years of experience had accustomed them to slipping into their togs in a hurry, the seven Scouts were the first to leave. By common consent, they moved to the shady plot under the big oak.

"Something has happened," Bunny said briefly. "For some reason, the whole school is against us. I don't know why; but whatever the reason is, we'll have to prove that we're the right sort, and that we're not trying to run the school or anybody else except ourselves. The question is, how to do it."

"I know how I'd do it," said Specs. "I'd pull right out of this business, unless they want to treat us right. We've played scrub football for two years and made four trips; and I don't believe there is anybody else in school who has been on a regular eleven. Just say the word, Bunny, and we'll get up a team of our own."

Roundy growled assent.

"No, we don't want to do that." Bunny doubled his fists emphatically. "You remember what Horace Hibbs said about working for the school. Fighting the school isn't the kind of thing Scouts ought to do. We don't even care who runs it; all we want is a fair chance to help."

"We won't get it. From now on, Bunny, any time we try something, it will be Waterloo for us," Nap jerked an indignant nod.

"Why can't we take one of them into the patrol for our eighth member?" put in Bi. "Suppose Buck, for instance—"

Bunny shook his head. "A week or two ago, Buck might have joined the Black Eagles, but now, if we asked him after this election, he'd think we wanted him because we couldn't get along without him and because we could run the school through him. And I guess that goes for the rest of them, too."

"I know they wouldn't be Scouts," added S. S. "I heard Buck and Roy Sheffield and Bob Kiproy talking together. What they are trying to do is to get up a secret society to buck our patrol."

"Then there is just one thing for us," Bunny said earnestly, "and that is to go on being the right kind of Scouts just as hard as we can. If we take care of our good turns, they'll take care of us. And if we are loyal and helpful and trustworthy, and live up to the rest of the Scout law, they're going to take off their hats to us, whether they think so now or not. What's more, I bet that before the end of the year they will be asking us how they can form a patrol of their own."

"That's all right!" Specs interrupted suddenly. "Maybe they will—at the end of the year. But right now four or five of us are going to make the football team. You know more about the game and can play better than anybody else in school. Are they going to elect you captain or aren't they?"

"Can't find out till the votes are counted," Bunny returned cheerily. "If anybody nominates me for captain, I'll run, of course."

"Then you'll run, all right," promised Specs. "And if you are not elected, then I'm through with football at this school. Ab-so-lute-ly! I'll take my suit home to-night. Come on; there's Professor Leland waving to us."

Gathering the squad about him, the principal explained that the school board had detailed him as coach. "We may as well begin our practice," he said, "by lining up on both sides of the playground and punting the ball back and forth."

First kick at the oval fell to Buck Claxton. Perhaps he was a bit nervous. At any rate, his toe, instead of whirling the ball roof high, sent it tumbling and bounding along the ground, till a low bounce shot it into Bunny's arms.

"Now show 'em what you can do!" urged Specs in a hoarse whisper.

Carefully poising the ball, Bunny booted it up and across the field, till it spun down with a plop into Bi's arms.

"Nice work, Payton!" shouted the coach.

"That's showing him!" commented Specs. "He'll see that you didn't play in the back-field two years for nothing. Why, there isn't anybody else in the squad who can punt like that."

The next ten minutes proved Specs' boast. Not only could Bunny punt far and away better than the other candidates, but he could drop-kick almost as well. And when the players formed in a great circle and fell upon the ball, the members of the Black Eagle Patrol distinguished themselves again. With the exception of Roundy, who dove so heavily that the ball escaped through his arms, the Scouts downed the pigskin as surely as though it were a watermelon. With the others, this practice did not go as well; even Buck Claxton missed as the ball bounded at an unexpected angle.

"We'll top off with a little running and tackling," announced the coach, as he retrieved the ball from the last man. "Jones, you take your place forty yards down the field, to catch punts and run them back. Kiproy, you go with him to act as interference. And Claxton, when the ball is punted, you charge down the field and try to tackle Jones between the knees and waist."

With Bi in position, Kiproy beside him, and Buck crouching on the line, the coach kicked. It was a high punt, and Buck was almost upon the pair before the ball plumped into Bi's arms. Kiproy ran toward the tackier, but Buck, swerving to one side, eluded him and drove squarely at Bi's legs. Had the latter been under full speed, he would have toppled like a falling tree; instead, checking himself, he jolted back out of the grasping arms, and while Buck floundered in the dust, jogged complacently down the field.

"All right, Payton; you act as tackler this time. Claxton catches the ball. Jones is the interference."

Specs slapped Bunny on the back. "Show 'em what you can do. Grab that fellow, if it takes a leg!"

Either Bunny was luckier than Buck, or a better tackler; opinion stood divided. But whatever the truth of the matter, Bunny skillfully dodged Bi's forward defense (and Bi was playing hard, too) and managed to stop Buck and actually throw the heavier boy backward.

With the next shift, Bunny caught the punt. Buck, with his lack of experience, bungled the interference, but Bunny pushed off Sheffield with his open palm, and romped safely out of danger. Later, on the last change, Bunny shouldered hard-running Peter Barrett out of the way as interference, thereby giving safe passage to Roundy, even after the latter had fumbled the ball.

"You are running away with the game, Payton," smiled the coach kindly. "If you keep this up, we shall have to put you in a team by yourself."

"What did I tell you!" chuckled Specs. "No matter whether they like the Scouts or not, they have to elect you captain. There just isn't anybody else."

Bunny said nothing. However much of a glow he felt over Professor Leland's compliment, there remained the undeniable fact that the school was at outs with the Black Eagle Patrol. It was unpleasant to be in this position, but it was worse still to realize how this attitude hampered the Scouts at every turn, both in working for the good of the school and in creating interest in the Scout movement.

Specs insisted, in a very audible whisper, that Rodman Cree was part and parcel of this conspiracy, and even hinted that he had purposely tried to lose the relay race, both while it was being run and afterward, and had later prevented a fitting nomination for presidency of the student association.

"Look at that!" he growled, as Rodman failed in an easy tackle. "He's no good at anything in the world; anybody can see that. But he makes himself solid with the other crowd by hitting at us."

Meanwhile, could they have known it, Royal Sheffield was saying much the same thing about poor Rodman, except that it was Sheffield's idea that the new boy was trying to "get in" with the Scouts by working against the balance of the school.

"Good enough!" commented the coach, as the last uniformed player went down the field for a tackle. "We have the material for a strong team. Now I want you to elect a good man captain, and we shall call it a day's work."

There was a moment's silence in the crowd gathered about Professor Leland, which was broken by Specs, his voice high-pitched and shrill.

"I nominate the best player in the squad—Bunny Payton!"

Without hesitation, Sheffield nominated Buck Claxton; and Jack Turner, whose farm adjoined the Barrett place, put forward Peter.

"If anybody has the nerve to vote for Buck after the showing he has made this afternoon," said Specs hoarsely, "I'll eat my hat."

The coach himself collected the bits of paper which had been distributed as ballots, and counted the returns.

"The vote stands as follows," he said slowly. "Barrett has received two, Payton seven, and Claxton eleven. Claxton is therefore elected captain of the team. The practice to-morrow night will be at the same time. All those who have no suits will see me before they go home."

The Scouts stood dumbfounded. Bunny was the first to recover, leaving the group and walking over to congratulate Buck with a warm handshake.

"Well," observed Specs, "what about it? Do we quit this rotten business, or don't we?"

"No," Bunny snapped, "we don't. We keep right on practicing every night. If they won't put us on the first eleven, we'll play on the second."

"You can play on the third, if you feel like it." Specs had completely lost his temper. "As for me, I've eaten all the crow that's good for me. I'm through!" He turned his back and walked rapidly toward the basement.

For a long moment, Bunny stood fast on the field, while the others of the squad drifted toward the dressing room. Rodman Cree he could see waiting uneasily at one side, as if he wished to come up and speak to him. But though Bunny had none of Specs' feeling toward Rodman, at that particular moment he did not wish to speak to anybody. He stared toward the road, pretending to be unconscious of the other's presence.

From the basement floated the tenor voice of S. S., singing the final refrain of the "Nobody" song:

"Who cares for us an awful lot?
Who always helps us on the dot?
Who is the only friend we've got?"

And the final word, roared by all of the six Scouts, came out in a thundering:

"NOBODY!"

CHAPTER VI

BEFORE THE WIND

Molly Sefton had something on her mind, a very serious "something," Molly thought; and it was because of this something that Rodman Cree had been invited for his first canoe ride.

A light wind curled the water into tiny ripples. It was morning of the last Saturday in September, and across the lake you could see a faint yellowish-red tinge on the maple trees of Shadow Island.

The two stood on the pier at the foot of High Street, with the Seftons' new sailing canoe riding in the water alongside. Only the day before it had been delivered from the Fair Play Factory, and now, with the newly varnished paddles and nickled trimmings and white lateen sail, the craft looked very inviting indeed.

Molly giggled.

"What's funny?" Rodman turned, mildly surprised.

"You are! Why, I haven't seen you smile for a week, but now you simply must, else I shan't allow you in the canoe with me."

He did smile, half-heartedly at first, and then more broadly and honestly, till the smile had grown into an old-time laugh.

"That's better. I am going to take you sailing, after all. But are you sure," she added slyly, "that you can swim?"

Rodman answered the question with a contemptuous sniff. "Maybe you can't, though," he said.

"Well, I just can," Molly asserted proudly; "I can swim two hundred yards. If I kick off my slippers, this dress won't be much heavier than a bathing suit, either. But, of course, father says I must do my sailing where it isn't deep."

"Then we'd better edge the shore to that bay by Magoon's boathouse; there's lots of room for tacking, and it's all shallow water."

Molly stared suspiciously at the stretch of lake he had pointed out. "How do you know?"

"Look at the color of the water. Don't you notice that it is a whole lot lighter than the rest of the lake? And did you ever see anybody fishing there? And did you ever notice how that steamer from the other end of the lake never puts in, even when it wants to land somebody at Magoon's pier?"

Molly nodded slowly. "But if it's so shallow, why isn't it a swimming-hole?"

For a moment, Rodman had no answer. "I don't know—Yes, I do, too. Look at the beach. If you've ever walked along it, you know there's the finest collection of sharp stones on that beach you ever saw, and it must be the same way under water. You couldn't go in swimming there unless you wore hobnailed shoes."

"You're right," Molly admitted, "though I never put things together like that. Of course, then, that's the place for us to go."

While Rodman steadied the canoe, she climbed in gingerly, holding to the pier with one hand until he was also aboard.

"Wait just a minute before you push off," she warned. "Somebody's coming."

"It's Horace Hibbs," he said, continuing to look toward the bow of the boat and away from the pier.

"How do you know?" Molly's voice showed her surprise.

"By his step, of course. Hello, Mr. Hibbs!"

Smiling and genial, the Scout Master bustled out to the end of the pier.

"Caught a glimpse of you down here; so I thought I would stroll over and see you set sail. Better stick to that bay over there by Magoon's, Molly. It is a nice, level beach, not higher than your chin anywhere. Ready for the football game this afternoon, Rodman?"

"I am as ready as I'll ever be, sir," the boy returned slowly.

Horace Hibbs laughed. "We can't all make the team. You will have your chance some day. All ready, Molly? Lee-board set? I'll give you an easy start, and in a second or two you will be under way."

In no time at all, it seemed to Rodman, the sail had filled, and the canoe was slipping over the surface as gracefully and with as little effort as a swan floating downstream.

"All you have to do," Molly told him, "is to sit still and let me manage the boat. I am a very good sailor."

For the second time that morning, Rodman laughed. "You may be a very good sailor, but you're not a very old sailor."

Molly paid out the sheet a bit. "I don't see how you know whether I am an old sailor or just a beginner. Maybe I have been sailing canoes for years."

"I don't know for sure," apologized Rodman, "but not longer than a week ago I saw you in the library getting a book on sailing. Now, I never heard of a real sailor reading a book about it. They always know it all; at least, they always say they do."

It was Molly's turn to laugh now. "You're right. I haven't been at it for years; but Horace Hibbs took me out nine or ten times in that canoe of his, and the last few times I sailed it all by myself. Then yesterday, too, I took him out in mine, and he never gave me a bit of advice, and I tacked and came about and made a beautiful landing—he said so himself. But you do notice things, don't you, Rodman? I've never seen anybody that noticed little things the way you do."

They were in the bay now, and Molly pointed the canoe toward the outer edge of the shallow area. The wind was almost directly inshore, but by keeping the sheet close-hauled Molly skimmed along at a merry clip almost into the teeth of the breeze.

"Ready to come about," warned Molly.

"Turn to your right; starboard, you know."

Easily and with a fair degree of safety, the canoe came about to port. Rodman shook his head.

"I wouldn't risk that, Molly. When you turn again, running before the wind, come about the simple and natural way—toward the lower tip of your sail."

She stole a quick look at him. "How do you know which is better? You told me you were never in a sail-boat before."

"Well, I haven't been. Shucks, that's just common sense. If you come about the right way, the sail only straightens out; if you swing the wrong way, the—the boom, I guess you call it, whips across the boat and may upset it. Anyhow, I should think there would be danger. But here is some first-class information. By the looks of the lake, we are going to be in a dead calm before two minutes; and after that"—he studied the horizon—"look out!"

True to prediction, the breeze spent itself, leaving the canoe tossing lightly some two hundred yards from shore. Only a bank of hard-edged clouds proved that the wind had not gone home for the day, but was merely resting to muster reinforcements.

"I'm glad it died down," Molly said promptly, "because now I can talk to you. Rodman Cree, I didn't get you out here just to go sailing, but to find out what's wrong with you. For three weeks, at least, you've been sneaking around like a hermit or something. You don't go with anybody, and nobody goes with you. You used to be happy and light-hearted; now I don't even hear your whistle any more. You don't seem to like anybody, and nobody seems to like you. What's the matter, Rodman? Tell me about it."

He straightened his shoulders defiantly. "Well, I guess there is no reason why the fellows should like me. I'm no good. I'm no good at athletics; I can't even play football. The Scouts think I am in with Buck Claxton's gang, and Buck thinks I am working for the Scouts. Why, Bunny Payton is the only friend I have, and you know as well as I do that he has troubles of his own right now."

Molly's eyes flashed. "It's miserable, that's what it is; miserable that the school is all split up. But that's no reason why you shouldn't have friends. Why don't the Scouts like you?"

Chin on his hands, Rodman doggedly told her the story of the field day between the Scouts and All-School teams. "The Black Eagle fellows think I didn't run my best in the relay race; they think, too, that I was willing to toss away the win after it was over. But that isn't the worst. Do you remember, at the school election, when I said I thought a girl should have some office. Well, the Scouts believe I said that just to keep Specs McGrew from nominating Bunny for president of the student association."

"I'll tell them that wasn't so," Molly offered.

"It won't do any good. Bunny knows the truth, but the others think I am just plain worthless. In football it is the same. I have been out for practice since the first day, but I haven't any chance of making the team. And I am heavier and stronger than a lot of the players on it, too. I've about decided to quit trying. Perhaps my folks will move somewhere else next year. I hope they do."

"But it is just a question of time," urged Molly, "before you learn enough to play on the first eleven. Surely you'll do it next year."

Rodman's shoulders settled back in a curve. "No, I don't think I'll ever make it. I'm no good, that's all; no good at anything."

"I'm ashamed of you, Rodman Cree!" Molly took the sheet line in her fingers once more. "Yes, sir, just plain ashamed of you for being a quitter! Why, if the wind wasn't coming up, I believe I'd make you walk ashore. So there!"

"It wouldn't make me feel any worse than I do now."

Scudding across the lake, ruffling the placid water into combing waves, a gust of wind was leaping toward them. Molly surveyed it with approval. Her chin was set in a firm little curve, and she nodded her head, quite as if she had suddenly come to a decision.

"Watch!" she said.

As the first breath of the breeze reached them, she let out the sheet. In less than a minute, as it tautened, the canoe was racing before the romping wind, its lateen sail almost at right angles to the craft.

In the exhilaration of the speed, Rodman forgot his troubles. "Be ready to turn—come about, I mean," he warned, "or you'll go ashore."

"I know what I am going to do," answered Molly, a peculiar note in her voice. "You sit tight and wait."

Straight as an arrow, the bow cut the water, with the growing wind tugging hard at the filled sail, till the canoe seemed pulled ahead by some great but invisible water animal.

"Ready!" shouted Rodman. "Sail's on the port side, you know; don't come about to port."

"Well, I'm going to."

"You'll upset!"

"I won't upset! I know I can come up into the wind by swinging to starboard, but I'm going to show you that I can do it the other way, too."

"Molly!"

"You're just a passenger. You sit still and watch." They were barely twenty-five yards from the shore.

"Coming about!" shouted Molly.

Instead of turning to starboard, she deliberately forced the canoe to port. There was a moment of suspense. Then, exultingly, the quickening wind lost its grip on the sail, shivered it an instant as it hit the edge, and finally banged it violently across the canoe.

"Keep your feet free of the lines!" Rodman yelled, as he threw his weight toward the windward side, in an attempt to counterbalance its power.

"Look out for yourself!" Molly flung back. "I'm going—"

She never finished her sentence. It was choked short as the canoe heeled abruptly and dumped its occupants into four feet of cool September lake.

For a moment they stood facing each other; Molly laughing, Rodman furiously out of temper.

"Why—why don't you do what you can do?" he demanded.

"Why don't you?" Molly retorted.

There was something in her voice that took the anger out of his system.

"Wha—what do you mean?"

Molly pointed to a swimmer far over to the left. "Who's that?"

Rodman shaded his eyes. "It's Specs. What's that got to do with it?"

"How do you know it's Specs?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure it is a Scout, because that's where the Scouts go in swimming. Specs has quit trying for the football team; so he's the only one that would be in swimming, on account of the game this afternoon. And I know the way Specs swims. He uses the overhand stroke, and he does it a good deal better with his right arm than his left."

"There you are!" Molly was triumphant. "Why don't you take your own advice, and do what you can do? You are a wonderful observer. You notice everything, and you remember it, too. You can do as much that way as any other. You were right when you said that a girl should be elected to one of the offices, and they all know you were right, no matter what they say. You noticed something there, and you had the courage to tell everybody else about it. What if you can't make the team? If you just do your best, the time is going to come when you will accomplish as much by seeing as the rest will by doing."

The look on Rodman's face was a queer mixture of shame and pleasure. He swallowed hard.

"You're right, Molly. You—you tipped us over here on purpose, didn't you?"

Molly smiled, but said nothing.

"Yes, you're right," admitted Rodman Cree. "And I'll—well, I'll prove that you are." He swallowed again. "Now, if you say so, we'll walk this boat to shore and get another start."

For the third time that morning, he smiled. As he towed the light canoe ashore, he even whistled.

CHAPTER VII

TWO YARDS TO GO

"Hold 'em, Lakeville!"

The crowd surged against the rope that had been stretched along the sides of the football field where the Lakeville and the Grant City high-school teams were playing the first game of the season. It was a vacant lot at the north of town; not an ideal ground, by any means, but put in order for the sport by being cleared of rocks and stubble and marked with broad stripes of whitewash.

"All ready, Chick!" "Are you ready, Bert?" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Steady there." "Signal?"

The Grant City team, which seemed to have occasional spells of confused conversation, appeared all at sea as the ball was about to be put in play.

"Signal?" "Hey, signal!"

The left guard and tackle of the visitors rose from their crouch, apparently uncertain as to the play. At that instant, however, the ball was passed. Logically, with two men out of the play, Lakeville should have had no trouble in stopping the runner with the ball. But he crashed through the Lakeville line between right tackle and end, past Peter Barrett, on secondary defense, in spite of that youth's frantic dive, and so free till, some twenty-five yards distant, Bunny, who was playing back, wriggled through the interference and plumped the runner to earth.

On the side lines, Substitute Rodman Cree dug his finger nails into his palms. "It's a trick play," he muttered. "They don't seem to understand it themselves, but they gain every time they try it. What's the secret?"

"Three minutes of the half left!" Horace Hibbs, acting as official timer, squinted inquiringly at the two teams. "If our boys don't stop that maneuver, Grant is going to score, sure as shooting."

"It's the third time, too," Rodman put in, "but they always gain their distance—and more. I wish I could figure it out."

Following his resolution of the morning, he had come to the game without hope of playing, but with the fixed intent to do everything in his power for the team. So far, he felt he had failed.

True, before the game started, his quick eye had noted that the cord used by the linesmen for measuring downs was almost a yard short. This fact he had pointed out to Mr. Sefton, acting linesman for Lakeville, and the mistake had been corrected. It was Rodman, too, who before the game had discovered and levered away a small boulder, hidden near one of the goal posts. In the case of Bennett, the substitute halfback, who squatted on the side lines and followed each play with the movements of his body, thus wearing himself out before he was put in the game, Rodman had induced the boy, by a joking remark or two, to stretch out and relax until he was wanted. But he felt that these aids were really nothing at all. Wasn't it impossible, after all, to do anything worth while for the team when you weren't the coach, and couldn't play, and when everybody had lost faith in you?

But, at least for the moment, he forgot his difficult task in the smash of the play that was bringing the first half to an end. The ball had touched Lakeville's thirty-yard line, when Jump intercepted a forward pass and ran it back a third of that distance. A sturdy drive by Barrett brought fifteen more; a forward pass netted another substantial gain; three line plunges left Lakeville but twenty-five yards to go.

"Six—eight—five—seven—three!" cried Bunny at quarter. Like well-oiled bits of machinery, the Lakeville eleven clanked into the kick formation, with Bunny back to receive the pass. Professor Leland shook his head.

Rodman saw the gesture and understood. Because the Lakeville team was lighter, the coach had ordered a kicking game, with a try for goal from the field whenever the eleven was well within the enemy's territory. Twice before, however, Bunny's attempts had failed; there was no reason to expect him to put the ball over the goal this time.

The long pass was made and caught. Bunny dropped the pigskin point-down, caught it with his toe as it touched the ground, and kicked it toward the looming goal posts. It went short and wide.

"He can't do it." The coach was talking for his own benefit. "I was afraid he couldn't."

Rodman plucked up courage. "No, he can't, of course. I knew he couldn't."

The coach turned to the substitute. "What do you mean, Cree? I thought Payton was a friend of yours."

"He is, sir; my best friend. But don't you see why he can't get off a good drop-kick?"

The whistle had blown to signal the end of the half. Both teams were trooping off the field. But Professor Leland, after turning as if to join the eleven, stopped by Rodman's side.

"Look here, Cree, if you know any reason why Payton can't kick as well in a game as he can in practice, suppose you tell me now, before I instruct the boys not to follow this plan of play in the second half."

"Yes, sir, I'll tell you." Rodman's voice was joyous. At last, he was able to do something worth while. "Look at the sun. The game started late, and now it shines toward the west goal, directly in Bunny's eyes every time he kicks. See that sun? Then there's the wind. It isn't much of a wind, sir, but it's kicking up a lot of dust, which always blows toward Bunny—into his eyes. But that isn't all." His words came fast; he was afraid the coach would leave before he was done. "Those Grant City fellows, sir, have three corking fine players at center and guards, and our line doesn't take care of them. They get Roundy excited and nervous, and he passes the ball high and wild. That means the kick is sent off in a good deal more of a hurry than it should be. And Buck isn't playing close enough to the line to stop that right tackle."

Professor Leland nodded. "I believe you are right, Cree. I've noticed a few of those points myself, but you've seen more than I have. All right; we'll give Bunny another chance at a goal from the field."

The talk between halves to the team was full of encouragement. "We're doing well," the coach told them; "mighty well. But we are going to do just a little better. We must score on that team, and we must hold it. Now in this business of field goals—"

To the unmixed delight of Rodman, Professor Leland made use of the very arguments which the substitute had brought up a minute before. "When they kick off to us this half, as they will, I want the ball rushed down the field to a point where we can try another drop for goal. Then, Payton, because we shall have changed goals, your eyes will be free of dust; Claxton will handle that tackle; Jones and Turner will take care of the combination at center, which will allow you, Magoon, to make the best pass of your life. We can do it all, I know."

As the boys stretched out to rest for the remainder of the period, Rodman's satisfaction was marred by only one thought. Although he had done his part to aid the team, neither Bunny nor the others knew anything about it. And it was their friendship and respect he wanted.

"Old Leland is the boy!" Roundy commented lazily to Bunny. "He saw what was wrong, and he fixed it up, too. He's the kind of coach to have."

"We all know that," Bunny responded fervently.

"Why, you can't kick into the sun and dust any more than you can fly; but I couldn't tell him so."

It was on the tip of Rodman's tongue to explain the origin of the suggestion. In spite of the impulse, however, he kept silent.

"All ready to save the day, Cree?" jeered Buck. "You'd be all right, at that, except that you'd probably stumble over the whitewash on the goal line and drop the ball."

It was hard to keep his temper under these flings with which Buck Claxton favored him from time to time. So far as his naturally friendly nature was capable of hating anybody, Rodman had begun to hate Buck. Above everything else, he was glad that Professor Leland was the coach, instead of Buck, and that he himself was working for the whole school and not for Buck Claxton.

At the same time, he admitted to himself that Buck was not a bad captain, despite his tendency to fumble in a crisis. With Roundy Magoon at center, Turner and Bi Jones at guards, Kiproy and Collins at tackles, Sheffield and Jump Henderson at ends, and a back field composed of Barrett and Collins at halves, Buck Claxton at full, and Bunny at quarter, the Lakeville High football team was developing into a snappy, hard-fighting eleven. They were sure of themselves.

When the whistle called them out on the field again, Rodman noted that they trotted forth with a jauntiness which matched very favorably the do-or-die expression of the Grant City players.

"Everybody in it!" shouted Buck, as the team made ready to receive the kick-off.

Jump caught the punt, running back the ball at an angle and passing it to Sheffield, who drilled to the middle of the field before he was stopped. Capping this gain came a series of short, sharp plunges, till the distance to Grant's goal was halved.

"Six—eight—seven—five—thirteen!"

At the warning of the key number, seven, Bi and Turner crowded closer to Roundy at center, while Buck played close to the line to block a threatening tackler. Guarded on both sides, with wind and sun at his back, and with a sure, swift pass to handle, Bunny drop-kicked a perfect goal.

The first points had been scored. The count stood: Lakeville, 3; Grant City, 0.

The crowd, made up largely of Lakeville people, shouted joyously, threw hats into the air, and celebrated with much squawking of auto horns. After she had yelled herself hoarse, Molly climbed from the Sefton car to exchange a word with Rodman.

"Isn't it glorious?" she cried. "We're winning our first game. S. S. told me what Professor Leland said about Bunny's kicking. Wasn't that just too smart for anything?"

Rodman's face lengthened. He wanted very much to tell Molly that the advice was the result of his observations. But something, he could not tell what, checked the words.

"We're getting them, all right," he said, instead. "All we have to do now is to hold when they begin to batter against our line."

"Oh, we can do that." Molly nodded confidently. "You wait and see."

Following the kick-off, the battle raged uncertainly in the middle of the field. Near the end of the third quarter, however, Grant City took the ball on downs, and began a steady onslaught that was formidable. Then, when the Lakeville line seemed to have braced, Rodman came to his feet like a puppet on a string. There it was again! Grant was calling for its trick play.

"Signal! What's the signal?" called a confused voice. "All ready, Bert?" "Dig into 'em!" "Signal?" "Wait a minute!" "Hold it!" "Signal!"

Grant's right guard and tackle stood up straight in their places, looking helplessly toward the quarterback.

"Signal?"

Like the flare of a flashlight, the mystery cleared in Rodman's mind. Why, of course, that was the answer! Why couldn't Buck solve it, or Bunny, or some one of those players in the Lakeville line, already glancing up at the confused babel of voices. Surely, they must see through such an obvious device.

They must—No! Back whirled the ball; forward shot the compact interference and runner. Before the wiry half was tackled, he had covered a cool fifteen yards. It was first down again for Grant.

An unworthy thought burned in Rodman's brain. Why should he tell Coach Leland about the play? Why not put the problem squarely up to the squad at the end of the quarter, when, by previous agreement, it would be permissible to talk with them? In that way, all of the fellows would see they had been mistaken in him; would be forced to realize that he was some good, even if he couldn't make the team. Why should he allow the coach another chance to walk off with borrowed laurels?

His forehead creased with trouble wrinkles while his conscience wrestled with the question. No-o!... It wouldn't be the thing to do, after all. He was still a member of the football squad. As such, it was his business to acquaint the coach, or whoever was in charge of the team, with any helpful information. Simple loyalty demanded that.

"First down; ten yards to gain!"

As he foresaw, Grant did not attempt the trick again. It was a clever play, but its abuse would certainly lead to discovery. Probably, indeed, if they were shrewd—and somebody with brains was undoubtedly in command of the visiting eleven!—they would not try it until they were within striking distance of the goal. Then, unless checked, it would mean a sure touchdown and the game.

Twice more Grant City made small gains. As they lined up for the next play, time was called, with the ball in possession of the visiting team on Lakeville's thirty-yard line.

Rodman started. He must warn the coach at once.

"Professor Leland!"

At that very moment, Mr. Gorse, who was refereeing, called to the coach.

"Just a second, Cree." Throwing a hasty word of advice to the team, the coach started across the field toward the referee.

Fifteen seconds passed. Professor Leland was still arguing some point with Mr. Gorse. Thirty seconds! The conversation went on.

Well, if he couldn't talk to the coach, he must put the matter squarely before the next man under him. But the person now in charge of the team was Buck Claxton; and Buck—well, Buck was Buck! He couldn't bring himself to tell Buck anything. He even started to squat again on his blanket, when, quite to his own surprise, he found himself walking over to the side of the captain. After all, as long as he practiced with the squad, he must be loyal.

"Oh, Buck!"

"Well?" snapped Claxton. "What d'ye want?"

Rodman hesitated, tempted at the last second to turn back with the message undelivered. But once more a better impulse prevailed. In a voice purposely low, that the others might not overhear, he offered his explanation.

"That play where the whole Grant team gets to talking before the ball is passed—watch it! I thought first it was some trick, but it's really only a straight plunge by their half. The reason they gain is because they throw you fellows off by yelling for the signal and all that. Part of the line stands up and looks at the quarterback. You all think they are mixed on the signal, but they aren't. The reason it works is because they catch our team when it doesn't expect the ball to be passed, when our own guard and tackle have straightened up a little, too, to see what's going on. Yes, they do! I've been watching 'em. But they don't realize it."

Buck tried vainly to interrupt, but there was no checking the torrent of Rodman's words.

"They get all your attention off the game, and then, bingo! the ball is put in play. It's a fact, Buck! Remember now, if they start jabbering at each other, and one side of the line begins to stand up straight, that means the play is going right through there. Remember that—"

He was still talking earnestly when the whistle blew, with Buck, his face stolid, staring steadily at the ground and scraping marble rings in the dust with his right shoe-toe.

"Ready, Lakeville!" shouted the captain; and the game was on again.

A lucky fumble brought the ball into the home team's hands, and Bunny punted out of danger. After that, steadily and surely, with all the advantages of weight and experience, the Grant eleven began to grind its way down the field. Desperately, Lakeville crouched and set itself; still more desperately, Grant City ploughed onward. The formations were slow and deliberate; the visitors risked no fumble or error. Often the gains were only a foot or two, but each fourth down found another ten yards covered. Rodman realized that some keen brain was directing the team, balancing time against gains, and playing for one touchdown that would turn the threatened defeat into a victory.

"Curtains!" groaned Specs somewhere in the background, quite loudly enough for Rodman to hear. "Curtains! Hold 'em, fellows! Hold 'em!"

"Three minutes to play!" announced Horace Hibbs.

"If we can only hold them from that goal!" muttered Coach Leland.

"Grant's ball! First down; ten yards to gain!"

A plunge through center netted three of them; a wriggling half eeled around right end for another two; the same play on the other side brought the total to eight. Lakeville was fighting gallantly, but superior weight was beginning to tell.

"Fourth down; two yards to gain."

Already the ball was in the very shadow of the goal posts. If this final attack succeeded, it meant a touchdown. Rodman Cree shivered in his blanket. Suppose they tried the trick play now. Would Buck—

"What's the matter, Billy?" "Ready there, Chick!" "Signal!" "What's the signal?" "Never mind!" "Hold her!"

The right tackle and guard of the Grant City team straightened up.

"Signal?" called a bewildered voice.

Rodman gripped his fists tight. Was it to go through, even after he had warned Buck? But suddenly, hard and high above the din from the Grant line, the Lakeville captain's voice rang clear:

"Get down, Bi! On the job, Kiproy! They're coming through you! It's the right half! Everybody together now! Stop him!"

The ball was snapped. Like a battering-ram, the right half of the Grant team, pocketed in perfect interference, catapulted against the Lakeville line,—against Bi and Kiproy, backed by Peter Barrett and Buck Claxton. For just the fraction of a second, the line wavered, threatening to snap. Then it tautened into a stone wall, against which the runner crashed and fell back. There was no gain. The trick had failed. It was Lakeville's ball almost on her goal line.

Bunny punted out of danger. Grant City had just time to line up for one weak charge before the whistle announced the end of the game. By checking that one play, Lakeville had prevented a touchdown and had won, 3 to 0.

In the minds of the victorious players, there was no doubt as to the fellow who deserved the credit. Scouts and all, they hoisted Buck to their shoulders, cheering him as they marched around the field.

From where he stood, Rodman Cree could see Molly leaning from the car and waving her pennant. On the side lines, Clarence Prissler was executing a war dance of his own. In the midst of a group of girls, Marion Genevieve Chester was leading the school cheer. And it was all for Buck!

Nobody knew what Rodman had done, of course, except the coach and Buck; and evidently they weren't going to tell. For a bitter moment, Rodman argued with himself. Should he go on with the thankless job?

Across his brain flashed the memory of a sentence he had read in the Scouts' "Handbook", "A Scout is loyal." It was one of the twelve laws; it meant him, too, whether he was a Scout or not. It was a law that applied to everybody all over the world. He didn't have to be a Scout to keep that law.

With a stiffening of his shoulders, he lifted his head, as if to stare all Lakeville in the face.

"I'm going to keep on," he said, "whether anybody knows what I am doing or not. I may not be a Scout, but I'm as loyal as any one of them. I am loyal to the school, and to the team, and to everybody who has a claim on me. Yes, and I am going to keep on being loyal."

They were giving three cheers for Buck now, with Specs, clad in his street clothes, leading them all. Before he knew it, Rodman was adding his voice to the praise.

"And I wouldn't be anything else," he said suddenly. "I wouldn't be anything else."

CHAPTER VIII

THE PEACE PICNIC

This is the story of Molly Sefton's great peace picnic, which was held on the following Saturday afternoon. It didn't seem funny at the time; in fact, nobody could have been more serious or in earnest than Molly when she planned the picnic. But afterward—!

At any rate, here is what happened:

In the first place, the game with Grant City had done one very good thing, among many others. After seeing Buck stop Grant's trick play, Master Specs changed his mind about not muddying a football suit that season. He would not admit, of course, that Buck could compare with Bunny; but he began to feel that Buck had some good points, after all. So he was back in the squad, trying hard for an end position and with a fair chance of winning the place. That was one difficulty ironed out.

"But here's the reason for the picnic," Molly chattered to Bunny the day before. "First, I want the Black Eagle Patrol to like Rodman Cree; and, second, I want the rest of the school to like you Scouts. Now if we have a nice, jolly picnic, everybody will get acquainted and understand everybody else. You see, they all have wrong ideas about each other. For instance, Specs thinks Rodman isn't good for anything."

"Well—I," admitted Bunny cautiously, "he isn't much of a track athlete or football player."

"But he can play baseball. I know he can. I saw him bat the first day of school, even if he does say he hit the ball accidentally."

Bunny agreed. "All right. We'll take along a bat and ball and a couple of gloves, and maybe Specs and the others will like him better after they see him play."

"Of course." Molly was growing more and more enthusiastic. "As for the others: Peter Barrett thinks you are a lot of snobs and won't associate with fellows who happen to have patches on their clothes and that kind of thing; Buck Claxton says that you try to run things, and that if anybody outside the patrol has a plan, you oppose it, just because you didn't happen to think of it first; Royal Sheffield thinks you are a bunch of sissies, who don't dare walk across the road without asking permission from your Scout Master; Genevieve Chester says you hate her because she was elected president of the student association, and are always hoping something awful will happen to her; Clarence Prissler honestly believes you never think of a thing but athletics, and aren't interested in books or education—and you know he is planning to be a teacher." Molly paused to take breath. "Now, I say that if we have a nice, lively, get-acquainted picnic, everybody will find out his mistakes. Don't you think so?"

Whatever Bunny really thought made no difference, because the picnic was already under way; and at precisely two o'clock Saturday afternoon some thirty-five boys and girls, accompanied by Mrs. Sefton, boarded three borrowed launches and crossed the lake to Turkey Point.

And this is how everybody succeeded in misunderstanding everybody else.

How Specs Found He had been Mistaken in Rodman Cree

"How about playing a little scrub ball?" proposed Bunny at three-fifteen that afternoon. "You come in on this, Rodman."

Rodman Cree wrinkled his nose in perplexity. "But I can't play baseball. You know I can't. I've told you so."

"Oh, rats! You knocked a home run that first day of school, and you can do it again. Come on, Buck; let's choose up."

The game lasted only three innings, for by that time the girls had started a marshmallow roast; but it was quite long enough. In the first inning, Rodman played third until he had muffed two perfect throws, when Bunny shifted him to the outfield. Here he misjudged an easy fly and strained to correct his error by throwing the ball twenty feet over the head of Bi, who was wildly trying to nip a runner at second.

At bat, in the third inning, with two out, bases full, and Bob Kiproy pitching a straight ball, poor Rodman had his last shred of reputation removed.

Three times Kiproy pitched wide, high balls. Rodman scraped the dust trying to hit, and lunged two feet across the plate trying to hit, and jumped high in the air trying to hit.

And he never touched the ball.

"I see I was mistaken," observed Specs, as he walked in from third, where he had been stranded high and dry as a runner. "I thought he was some good at baseball, anyhow, but he's no good at anything."

How Peter Barrett Observed the Way Scouts Regarded Patched Clothes

At four o'clock Peter Barrett was walking in a little grove back of an open field, attempting to memorize a poem for Monday's class. Also, between times, he was endeavoring to be fair to the Black Eagle Patrol; for a talk with Molly had convinced him that perhaps he had made a mistake in supposing the Scouts to be snobs. At this juncture, he caught sight of Bunny, legs apart, talking defiantly to a ragged youngster from the nearest farm.

"No, you can't come in here," Bunny was saying shortly. "We have this place for the afternoon. You will have to go somewhere else."

"But I won't hurt anything."

Bunny became even sharper. "I've told you already to go home. Run along now. We don't want you here, and you know why. Hurry up!"

Reluctantly and sorrowfully, the boy in the ragged clothes turned and slouched back to the farmhouse.

"Exactly!" said Peter Barrett grimly to himself. "Just what I thought right along. They're snobs. They haven't any use at all for poor folks."

How Buck Claxton Tested the Scouts' Willingness to Co-operate with Outsiders

Five o'clock had come, with the time for serving the lunch brought by the girls still two hours away, when a bright idea dawned on Buck Claxton.

"What do you say to this?" he began enthusiastically to Roundy. "About a quarter of a mile down the road, there is a little store where they sell ice cream. Suppose we all chip in and buy enough for the crowd? It would be a nice thing to do."

Roundy's face assumed a wistful expression, and he nodded his head. "But I—I'm afraid I can't," he declined.

Buck turned to Nap. "How about you?"

"Waterloo!" said Nap firmly. "Can't think of it!"

"Busted!" added S. S. lamely.

Four other Scouts gave the same answer.

"Oh, all right!" remarked Buck, with a superior smile on his face. "I'll see some of the others."

A little later, he came back with ice cream for everybody. But no Scout had paid for even one little frozen chunk.

How Royal Sheffield Discovered Whether the Scouts Dared Cross the Road Without Asking Permission

At five-thirty, to the west of the picnic grounds, Royal Sheffield and S. S. observed a husky young farmer blazing away at a tin can with a rifle.

"That's my cousin," observed S. S.

"Fine!" exclaimed Sheffield. "We'll borrow the rifle, pay for some cartridges, and have a big shooting match."

S. S. seemed troubled. "I don't think we ought to do that," he objected. "Horace Hibbs isn't here, and somebody might get hurt."

Sheffield stared in amazement. "We would shoot at a target, of course," he explained.

S. S. continued stubborn. "There are too many of us. Somebody might get shot."

"Tell you what we will do, then: you and I will slip over there and get him to give us a couple of shots."

S. S. was more embarrassed than ever. "No, I don't think we ought to do that, either, Roy. No, we certainly ought not to do that." He turned toward the picnic crowd. "Let's get back to the bunch. Maybe they are starting something. Yes, let's go back."

"All right!" snorted Sheffield contemptuously. "But it's too bad Horace Hibbs won't be here when we eat."

"Why?" S. S. asked innocently.

"If he isn't here, how will you know whether you may eat two kinds of sandwiches and cake, and how hot you may drink your coffee?"

And Royal Sheffield walked away, leaving S. S. without an answer.

How Marion Genevieve Chester Proved (to Her Own Satisfaction) How Much the Scouts Cared for Her

It was ten minutes past six when Bi and Marion Genevieve Chester, very gay in her new red dress, started over to a little spring to get water for the coffee. Bi suggested skirting the rail fence to the lane, instead of cutting across fields.

Marion Genevieve tossed her head. "What's the use of being in the country if you can't walk on the grass. You go any way you want to. I'm going straight across."

Bi's shoe had become untied, and he was stooping to lace it when wild screams, mingled with angry bellowing, came from the field into which Marion Genevieve had ventured. Looking up, he saw the girl dashing toward the fence, her mouth open and her eyes wide with fright. Meanwhile, the bellowings grew loud and furious.

"Oh, you're all right," he called, as she reached the fence. "You have plenty of time."

For a bit, due to her frightened exhaustion, it looked as if Marion Genevieve might not be able to climb over the fence. Bi sauntered toward her.

"Come on," he said. "You're all right."

"If I am all right," snapped Marion Genevieve, once more out of the field, "it's not your fault. For all you cared, that bull could have tossed me over, and you wouldn't have made a move to help me."

"But—"

"Yes, and I believe you knew the bull was in there all the time, and you never said a word about it." She pointed her finger at him. "Didn't you know the bull was in there?"

"Why, yes," said the hapless Bi. "I did, of course, but—"

"Then don't you ever dare to speak to me again, you hateful boy."

And with this farewell, Marion Genevieve Chester flounced angrily back to the picnickers, leaving Bi and the pail by the side of the fence.

How Clarence Prissler Interviewed the Scouts to Learn Their Views on Educational Matters

It was the shouts of laughter that drew Molly to the bit of sandy beach near the boat landing. Lunch was ready, and she crossed over to let the jolly ones know about the coming meal.

There were three principal actors and two spectators in the group. Specs, Jump and little Prissler stood in line on the sand, while Bob Kiproy and Jim Collins, stretched at full length, were doing most of the laughing. Around Prissler's waist circled a sort of rope harness, with a dangling line on each side. These ends, at the moment when the boy began his somersault in the air, were grasped by Jump and Specs.

"I'm not going to try it again," whined Clarence Prissier. "I'm not going to; that's all there is to it."

"Oh, you're coming along in fine style," said Jump comfortably. "Never mind those fellows. Just try it once more."

"Go on," Specs commanded. "We're waiting."

"Yes, try it again, Prissy," said Kiproy feebly, between shrieks of laughter.

"I'm not—"

"We're waiting," snapped Specs, giving the rope a tug.

Prissier bent his knees, swung back his arms, and then, with a desperate leap, essayed a back flip through the air. It was not forceful enough, however, and he came down on his hands and knees. Though Specs and Jump kept him from crashing, he landed hard enough to lurch forward into the sand.

Kiproy and Collins rolled over in violent laughter.

"You're getting it," said Jump encouragingly. "You're getting it."

"Sure, you're getting it," agreed Specs.

"But I tell you, I don't want to get it," protested Prissier, rubbing the sand out of his clothes. "And what's more, I'm not going to do it again."

Molly interrupted. "Lunch is ready," she said, in a voice so different from her ordinary tones that Specs looked at her in astonishment.

"What's the matter?" he ventured, after Clarence Prissier, still weakly complaining, had managed to slip the rope from his waist and was walking with the others toward the spread tablecloths.

"You know well enough what the matter is," said Molly severely; "and if you're not ashamed. I'm ashamed for you." Deliberately, she turned her back on him.

The balance of the evening was not a success. Though the picnic lunch would have satisfied anybody, the picnickers felt ill at ease. The Scouts were uncomfortable, and Buck, Barrett, Sheffield, Prissier and Company were more so, to say nothing of Marion Genevieve Chester. Even the launch ride around the lake, which ended the picnic, was a dismal failure, because nobody seemed to want to sing. When the party broke up, it made about as much noise as so many homeward-bound rabbits.

Almost in tears, Molly Sefton walked home with her mother, accompanied by Bunny as basket bearer.

"It—it all went wrong." Molly was very near sobbing as she said good night. "Oh, why did you do it? I tried so hard, and Specs and Bi and—and everybody just went and spoiled everything. I heard all about it."

Bunny looked genuinely astonished. "What did we do that was wrong? You can't blame me because Rodman can't play ball. I didn't know he was going to pieces like that."

"It wasn't just Rodman. Why did you keep that poor little boy with the ragged clothes from coming over to the picnic? We had enough to eat for a dozen more. Peter Barrett said you chased him away. Why did you do it?"

Bunny heaved a sigh of relief. "There was a scarlet fever sign on the house. When I found he lived there, I told him to go away and stay away. I couldn't do anything else, could I?"

"No," admitted Molly. "But why wouldn't any of you help buy the ice cream?"

"We spent our last cent paying for gasoline for the three launches. We borrowed the boats, but we had to pay for the gas. None of us had a penny left."

"S. S. wouldn't borrow his cousin's rifle, even for a single shot."

"S. S. told me about that. He was right to argue against bringing the gun over for any target shooting. There were too many of us; it would have been dangerous. But it would have been more dangerous for Roy Sheffield if S. S. had taken him over where his cousin was, though Roy doesn't know it. You see, about two years ago, this cousin was driving in town, and Roy threw a newspaper in front of the rig, which frightened the horse so much it nearly ran away. The fellow has had it in for him ever since."

Molly thought for a moment. "Bi let Marion Genevieve Chester get almost killed by a wild bull. He knew it was in that field, and he saw that she had on a red dress."

"There wasn't a bit of danger," Bunny laughed. "The bull was tied up and fenced off from that field. Anyhow, Marion Genevieve was never as close as fifty yards to the bull. She never even saw it."

"You'll admit that was an awful thing they did to poor little Clarence Prissler."

Bunny grinned. "I was to blame for that. You see, Molly, I thought it best not to tell the boys about those people who don't like us, because I figured that if we just acted natural they would find out that we don't mean to be snobbish or stingy or anything else low-down. But I did tell the Scouts about Prissy's thinking we weren't interested in learning things. So when Clarence went up to Jump and began to ask questions about the circus, and how the acrobats got to be acrobats, and all that, why, Specs insisted that Jump teach Prissy the back flip. Honestly, Molly, I believe Specs thought he was doing the right thing."

Molly and Bunny looked at each other. Then the girl, brushing her hand across her eyes, broke into a laugh, in which the boy joined.

"It is funny," she said. "I didn't see it that way before, but it is funny. Only everything's in a worse tangle now than it ever was before."

"But we'll fix it," Bunny said. "We'll fix it somehow."

CHAPTER IX

THE TENDERFOOT

If Specs had not stopped on his way to school that morning to play with Felix; and if Miss Seeby, the botany teacher, had not expressed a desire for a specimen of aspidium fragrans, which is a variety of fern; and if Professor Leland had not called a mass meeting for four o'clock that afternoon, there is no telling how the day might have ended for the Black Eagle Patrol.

Felix was the Magoons' dog. He included in his affections all friends of the family and particularly Roundy's brother Scouts. There were people, indeed, who claimed that Felix was the eighth member of the patrol. But that was ridiculous, of course; for how could a dog pass the tenderfoot tests of tying knots, or take the Scout oath, or know the history of the flag?

Felix probably didn't worry about his official position. What counted with him was the friendship of the Scouts; and that morning, when care-free Specs McGrew hove in sight, with a stick in his hand, Felix barked happily and said, as plainly as a dog can, "Throw it! I'll retrieve it for you!"

So Specs whipped the stick fifty feet away, and Felix rushed after it. As soon as he had thrown, Specs raced for the corner, to get out of sight before the dog could recover the bit of wood and return it. But Felix was too quick for him, too wise in the game. All the way to school they played it till, at the very door, with the last bell ringing, Specs hurled it farther than he had any time yet, and then took advantage of Felix by dodging into the hall and running upstairs to his seat in the big assembly room.

This was a mistake. The way to end a game with Felix was to stand sternly before him and say, "Go home, Felix; go home, sir!" and wait till the dog dropped his tail between his legs and crept away.

The school day started like any other for Specs. He answered "present" at roll call, joined the others in singing, and listened attentively to the five-minute address by Professor Leland. It was not until he had marched with the class to Room 4 for his botany recitation, indeed, that he thought of Felix again.

"The aspidium fragrans, or fragrant fern," Miss Seeby was saying, "is a rare and hardy little species, growing in clefts on the faces of precipices. It is aromatic, with an odor said to be like new-mown hay composed largely of sweet-briar rose leaves. This fern is to be found in our State, and I should like very much to have a specimen to show the class. Look for a place where there is a bare cliff, overhanging a little, perhaps, so the rain cannot reach the plant, and up above all the trees, so that it can have no shade at all. If you find a fern there, test it by its fragrance, its stickiness and its beautiful brown, curling fronds." She paused, walked toward Specs and said, in a wholly different voice, "Is that your dog?"

Specs looked down. Faithful Felix had evidently followed him through the hall when he left the assembly room and was now lying beside his desk, thumping an eager tail against the floor. His unexpected presence provoked discreet mirth from everybody except the teacher and Specs himself.

"No—no ma'am. It's the Magoons'." Common honesty made him add, "But he followed me to school, I guess. I was playing with him."

"Indeed!" said Miss Seeby, looking more offended than ever. "Indeed! Well, put him out—immediately!"

Specs coerced Felix into the hall and warned him to go home and behave himself like a good dog. But there must have been meekness and apology in the command; for, instead of obeying, Felix went only as far as the outer corridor, where he slunk into a dark comer. Two minutes later, in any event, he was scratching at the classroom door and whining for admittance.

Miss Seeby had just shown her pupils a drawing of the fragrant fern and asked again that any one who knew where it was to be found secure a specimen at the first opportunity. She paused suddenly, and her face hardened.

"Take that dog away," she ordered Specs; "yes, take him home. And you need not come back to school yourself until you have a note from your father to Professor Leland, stating that you are sorry for this outrage and promising that you will not bring that animal here again."

Very penitent, although somewhat confused over the exact nature of his guilt, Specs rose and made dizzily for the door. As he closed it behind him, he could hear the giggling of the class and a smothered reference—he credited it to Rodman Cree—about "Mary's little lamb", interrupted by the teacher's sharp admonition for silence.

To Specs' credit, be it recorded that he followed instructions to the best of his ability. With an affectionate twist of Felix's ear, he strode down the hall and outdoors, even forgetting his cap in his hurry, with the dog tagging at his heels. Straight to the Magoons' he led Felix; sternly he told him to stay there. Then he ambled downtown, to explain to his parent as best as he could the disgrace that had befallen him.

"Your father's out in the country," the clerk in the McGrew hardware store told him. "He'll be back in an hour or two, though."

Deep thought slowed Specs' steps on the return trip. In front of the Magoons' the forgiving Felix crept out and made it plain he was sorry and wanted to be friends again. The Scout stared at him with a slow smile.

"Come on!" he called. "I can't go back to school till I get that note, and I can't get that note till father comes back to town. Tell you what, Felix; you and I will chase out along the lake shore and find one of those smelly ferns for Miss Seeby. I know where they grow. Come on, old boy!"

Directly after school that afternoon, as has been intimated, Professor Leland called a mass meeting. After Marion Genevieve Chester, as president of the student association, rapped for order, the principal rose from his chair on the platform and stepped forward.

"To-morrow afternoon," he began, "Lakeville High School plays its second football game. I have called this meeting to suggest that we organize to encourage the team during the game. We made enough noise at the other; but some of us cheered at the wrong times, when it wasn't quite fair to our opponents, and not at the right times, when it might have heartened our own boys; and some of us cheered all by ourselves, without any attempt to swell the volume of applause and encouragement. What I wish to suggest is practicing the Lakeville cheer, till we can pour it forth like the boom-boom-boom of a cannon, and the appointing of cheer leaders for the different sections."

Nominations were promptly offered, and the candidates as promptly elected. Profiting by that other meeting, the Scouts made no attempt to win a place.

"I wonder," continued Professor Leland, "if all of us realize that we may help, even if we are not playing on the team itself. Let me show you what I mean."

And then, while Bunny and Buck listened just a little more intently than the others, perhaps, he told them of the drop-kicks that had failed in the first game because of wind and dust and bad passes, and how Rodman Cree had pointed out the handicaps and made possible the goal when the teams changed sides.

A little applause rippled over the room. Everybody squirmed about in his seat to see how Rodman took it, but it was soon evident that the boy had not attended the meeting.

"The Grant City team," went on the speaker, "had a curious and effective trick formation, which was solved by our boys in the nick of time, thanks to Captain Claxton. Now, if some one of us who was not playing had discovered that trick and warned our team, it would have helped."

"Mr. Chair—I mean, Miss Chairman!"

It was Buck Claxton who interrupted. Very embarrassed he looked as he stood there, and very white, but very determined, too.

"Mr. Claxton," recognized Marion Genevieve Chester.

"Somebody did discover that trick," blurted Buck. "Rodman Cree did. He told me about it between quarters. That was why I knew what to expect. That—that's all." He sat down with an audible thump.

Very wisely, Professor Leland dismissed the subject with a brief, "Then we have something more for which to thank Cree," and turned to another subject. "Suppose we practice the Lakeville cheer now," he said. "Let's shake the rafters."

If the cheers inspired by the new leaders did not actually shake the rafters, it was because the school building was new and rigid. They echoed and re-echoed from basement to attic; they forced Marion Genevieve Chester to thrust hurried fingers into her aristocratic ears; they made you believe that Lakeville was the best and biggest and most loyal high school in all the world. In some mysterious way, everybody seemed to think he could help win the morrow's game by yelling just a little bit louder than his neighbor.

At the door, as they filed out, Bunny Payton stopped each member of the Black Eagle Patrol long enough to say, "Scout meeting at the club house to-night. Seven sharp. Be sure and come."

Roundy was the last to leave. "Seen Specs?" Bunny asked him. The patrol leader was not in Miss Seeby's nine-o'clock botany class and knew nothing of the morning incident. "H'm! Neither have I. That's funny. Well, don't forget the meeting."

Rodman Cree was not a Boy Scout, but Felix may have overlooked this point. Perhaps he realized that Rodman was worthy of his friendship, or perhaps it was merely the cap in the boy's hand that drew him like a magnet. Whatever the reason, at four that afternoon, when school was dismissed, Felix ran straight to Rodman and tried to tell him, in dog language, that something was wrong, and that it had to do with somebody connected with Specs' cap, which Rodman had observed hanging in the coatroom, although he knew its owner had not returned since his exile from Miss Seeby's botany class.

Felix nuzzled Rodman, yelped sharply and trotted away. When the dog saw that he was not followed, he came back again, very patient with the dull human who couldn't understand plain signs, and repeated his actions. But it was not till the third time that the boy began to get an inkling of the truth. Felix clinched the matter by sniffing at the cap held toward him, barking excitedly, and racing off at full speed.

Rodman may not have been a Boy Scout, but he constructed this problem and its answer with a deft brain. Miss Seeby had asked for a specimen of the fragrant fern, which grew on the sides of cliffs. Specs had been sent away from school in disgrace, accompanied by Felix. He had not returned. The only cliffs near Lakeville were to the west, along the shore of the lake. Felix had smelled Specs' cap and run in that direction. It followed, as surely as two plus two make four, that he was endeavoring to lead somebody to the missing boy.

"Maybe poor Specs fell over a precipice and hurt himself," Rodman said, shivering uneasily. "All right, Felix, I'm coming. The old mass meeting can go hang!"

At first, while the dog kept to the road, there was nothing that Rodman could do save follow. But later, when Felix left the main highway where it curved to avoid the sandstone cliffs near the lake, and began pushing his eager nose through the underbrush and over tangles of grass, the boy recognized that this was virgin country. Specs could not have come that way without unconsciously leaving signs for anybody who came afterward.

Where some less observant boy might have found nothing, Rodman readily picked up the trail. A pebble, lying with its damp side up, proved that a careless foot had turned it over. A splatter of partially dried mud on the trunk of a tree revealed that the passer-by had left the spot some hours before. Broken branches, their tips toward the lake, pointed the way like arrows. Grass and leaves added their mute evidence by lying brushed forward till their under sides showed. It was comforting, at least, to be certain Specs had hiked over this very stretch.

"Yes, he came this way," Rodman told Felix. "Find him, old fellow!"

At the top of the wooded rise they had been ascending, the hill culminated in barren knobs, which broke off abruptly in sandstone cliffs, sheer to the lapping water of the lake. In places, the rock was solid, save for little dirt-filled crevices, from which hardy vegetation sprouted; in others, the stone had crumpled into fine sand, which day by day sifted downward till a niche had been formed in the solid wall. It was toward the top of one of these indentations that Felix raced, with Rodman hard on his heels.

Throwing himself flat on his stomach, the boy wriggled to the edge and peered down. Some twelve or fifteen feet below him, squatting on a narrow patch of sand, Specs McGrew was engaged in disconsolately tossing pebbles upon the placid bosom of the lake. On either side of his little prison, the walls of the precipice fell straight to the water's edge, apparently extending for hundreds of yards in both directions. Specs was safe enough, to be sure, but he was as effectually cooped upon the tiny plot of sand by the smooth rock cliffs and the deep lake as if the iron bars of a cage encompassed him.

"Hello, Specs!"

The imprisoned boy looked up. "Oh, it's you," he said sullenly. "Got a rope?"

"No."

"Oh, of course not! You'd have one if you were a Scout. Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"How did you get down there?" Rodman asked.

"Fell down, you chump!" snapped Specs.

Rodman wanted to snap back, "Well, fall up here, then!" But he fought back the temptation. Instead, "Sit tight," he called, "and I'll have you out in a jiffy."

Back in the woods, wild grapevines twined over the trees. It was the work of only a few minutes to cut and trim one eight or ten feet long and lower it over the sandy cliff.

"Grab hold," he called to Specs, "and you can walk up the side of this sloping sand-pit as easy as falling off a log. Ready! Up you come! Steady there! Careful! Careful! There you are, safe and sound and on top of the world once more. Now, is there a fragrant fern anywhere around here?"

At seven o'clock that evening the Boy Scouts of the Black Eagle Patrol met in their clubhouse. Before seven-thirty they had threshed out the problem of electing another member, and there was not a dissenting vote when the name of Rodman Cree was proposed to fill the patrol roster.

"Which is just as it should be," Horace Hibbs approved. "Unless every single one of us thinks he is the best fellow for the place, he should not be invited to join. Now, if Specs—"

"Yes, Specs!" groaned Bi. "We'll never convert Specs; no, not in a thousand years. He says Rodman is no good, and I guess he'll grow long white whiskers before he'll admit he's wrong. No, siree, if we wait for Specs to make it unanimous, this patrol will be one man shy the rest of its life."

"I wish," began Bunny, "that Specs—"

The sentence was chopped short by the rattle of the latch. As the Scouts turned, the door flung wide, and Specs himself popped into the room.

"Come on in, Rodman," he called. "Say, fellows, Rodman is a whiz. You know the cliffs out near Old Baldy. Well, I fell down one of them this morning, reaching for a fragrant fern, and Rodman came looking for me. Found me, too, by following my trail and—"

"Felix led me to him," Rodman said depreciatingly.

"Rats!" scorned Specs. "You did it. Felix didn't make a grapevine rope, did he, and pull me up the cliff? I guess not. And who reached down and plucked this fern? Felix? Huh! Smell it, Bunny. Listen, fellows! Rodman knows all the things we do about trailing, and the woods, and the birds, and tying knots, and making fires without matches, and—oh, everything. I always told you he was all right!" Specs made this statement gravely and sincerely; he had forgotten his former opinion of the new boy. "Well, then, what's the matter with making him a Scout in the Black Eagle Patrol? Anybody object?"

He stared at them fiercely, defiantly, as if daring one of them to protest. Nobody did. Horace Hibbs stroked his chin in high glee.

"Rodman," the Scout Master said, "can you tie—let me see—these knots: the square or reef, sheet-bend, bowline, fisherman's, sheepshank, halter, clove hitch, timber hitch and two half hitches?"

"Yes, sir. I know some others, too."

"And do you know the Scout laws, motto, sign, salute and significance of the badge?"

"Yes, sir."

"How about your country's flag. Do you know its composition and history and the customary forms of respect due it?"

"Yes, sir." The boy was both eager and confident in his replies.

Horace Hibbs smiled. "One more question: Would you like to join the Black Eagle Patrol of Boy Scouts?"

There was no formal "Yes, sir!" this time. Instead, Rodman Cree gulped once or twice, as if it were difficult to speak, and then fairly shouted, "You bet I would!"

"In that case," pronounced Horace Hibbs judicially, fitting the tips of his fingers together, "I see no reason why you should not take the tenderfoot tests at once. Bunny, will you get us a rope?"

Twenty minutes later, when Specs rose to replenish the dying flames in the great brick fireplace, his eyes fell upon Rodman Cree.

"Shucks!" he laughed, "what's the use of wasting our wood when that fellow's head is a regular bonfire?" He paused to digest his remark. "Say—say, let's call Rodman 'Bonfire' after this. It's a dandy name for him."

Horace Hibbs glanced shrewdly across the table at the recruit. "Do you mind?" he asked.

The boy grinned happily. "Of course, I don't. I—I like it," said Bonfire Cree, tenderfoot of the Black Eagle Patrol.

CHAPTER X

HALLOWE'EN

Clarence Prissler lay motionless upon bed Number 9 in the free ward of the model little hospital that the Fair Play Factory had built in Lakeville. The nurse pointed him out to Bunny Payton, and the latter tiptoed softly to the sick boy's side. Before Prissler opened his eyes and looked up at him, the caller had clenched his hands nervously and swallowed hard. He wondered if he would be welcome, and what he was going to say. In spite of the fact that Clarence Prissler had been a schoolmate of his since the first of the year, he hadn't exchanged a dozen sentences with him in that time.

The misunderstanding at Molly's picnic had been deplorable. On the following Monday morning, Bunny had resolved to seek out the boy and apologize and explain; in a way, that would be a Scouts' good turn. But Prissler had not come to school that day. He was missing again on Tuesday and the succeeding days of that week. Saturday the football team played and beat Elkana High, and the victory was enough to make a fellow forget almost everything. Besides, nobody seemed to know what had become of Prissler; nobody, indeed, seemed to have missed him. But when a second week had faded into the past, and part of a third, Bunny stirred into action.

Professor Leland gave him the first clue. With something of an ache in his heart, Bunny went straight to Horace Hibbs.

"Yes," said the Scout Master, "he is in our hospital. He has been very ill." The man looked thoughtfully at Bunny. "Do you recall the seventh Scout law?" he asked, and quoted it slowly, "'A Scout is friendly.'"

At the hospital now, while Bunny fumbled with his cap, the halting conversation got under way. Prissler was glad to see him; he said so very politely and very meekly. After Bunny had told him how sorry he was about the picnic incident, they talked of general topics. Presently, though, there came another of the embarrassing pauses.

"To-night's Hallowe'en, isn't it?" ventured Prissler.

"Why, yes," said Bunny. He fancied he detected a note of wistfulness in the other's tone. "Why, yes; so it is. I—I wish you could come out with us."

"I wish I could." The sick boy tried bravely to put some simulation of enthusiasm in his voice, but failed.

Bunny rose to his feet. He couldn't imagine the bookish and hermit-like Prissler skylarking with the fellows; the boy didn't—well, didn't just "fit." He wasn't "one of the crowd." But, of course, you couldn't say that to a fellow who was sick. And you could say something nice!

"I'll tell you what, Prissler," he proposed. "I'll be your proxy to-night when we're out. I'll pretend, you know, that I'm walking about on your legs, and using your arms and your brain; and then to-morrow I'll come again and tell you all the things you did—through me, by proxy, you understand. It will be the next best fun to your being actually one of the bunch, won't it?"

"Yes," answered Prissler dutifully; "yes, I suppose so." He held out a weak hand. "Well, good-by, Bunny. It was fine of you to come and see me. Good-by."

Out in the hall, Bunny met Doctor Maxwell. A sudden impulse made him stop the man.

"Doctor," he said, "I am a classmate of Clarence Prissler's at the high school. Can you tell me how he is getting along?"

The physician eyed him thoughtfully. "I am glad you called upon him," he said presently. "The truth is, young Prissler isn't recovering as he should; he isn't building up in mind or body after his siege. I've thought, once or twice, that he needed a more intimate touch with the outside world; that's why I am glad you called upon him. Nobody else has."

"He—well, sir, he isn't what you call a very popular fellow in school," apologized Bunny. "Doesn't play any games, and keeps to himself, you know, sir, and seems to prefer his own company to anybody else's. There isn't any—any danger that he won't get well, is there, sir?"

"There is every danger," replied Doctor Maxwell soberly. "He is in a weak, despondent condition, from which he does not seem to be able to arouse himself. He has no interest in what is going on, no apparent desire to rally and grow stronger. If it were possible to inject fresh enthusiasm into him, some actual ambition to get up from his bed and out into the world again, it would mean more than any attention or medicine we can give him here. He—well, I'm glad you called, anyhow. We shall hope for the best."

There was a big lump in Bunny's throat when he left the hospital. It was as if the physician had accused him of some deliberate neglect. After all, he had failed in practice to observe that seventh Scout law. He remembered times when he might have sung out a cheery greeting to Prissler in the days that were past, or stopped to chat with him a minute, or flung an arm over his shoulder and walked a ways with him, as he often did with the other fellows. But he hadn't done any of these things; he hadn't even suspected that the boy was hungry at heart for companionship, and wanted to share in the joys and disappointments of those about him.

Bunny Payton wasn't quite himself when he joined the other Scouts that evening for the usual round of Hallowe'en pranks. Two or three of them commented upon his moody silence, and eventually he had to explain that he couldn't free his mind of the picture of Clarence Prissler in the hospital, lying pale and weak and ready to give up on his white cot. He even told them how he had proposed becoming Prissler's proxy for the night; told them about it grimly, in short, jerky sentences, as if he dared them to laugh at the idea. None of them did.

The following afternoon, directly after school, he called again to see the patient. This time he greeted the sick boy boisterously, as he might an old friend.

"Here's a glass of jelly," he said, after he had shaken hands. "Mrs. Lannigan sent it to you."

"Mrs. Lannigan? Why, I—I don't understand."

"Well," laughed Bunny, "I think she means it as a sort of thanks offering. Fact is, you helped her quite a bit last night."

"I? How could I—"

"You did it by proxy. You see, we fellows went out last night to celebrate Hallowe'en. We strolled past Mrs. Lannigan's. Her gate was swinging loose on one hinge, and sagging down the whole strip of fence in front of her cottage. That wasn't right, of course; our sense of the orderly told us that. So we—"

"So you took the gate with you, I suppose." Clarence Prissler's lips pursed a little.

"Well, I'll confess that some of us thought of doing just that. But we didn't. If we had been representing ourselves alone, we might have yielded to the temptation in a thoughtless moment. But, you know, I was acting as your proxy. I said to myself, 'What would Prissy do?' And so—well, anyhow, we satisfied our sense of beauty by cautiously repairing that fence and bolstering up that giddy gate. About the time we were through, the good Mrs. Lannigan herself pounced upon us; thought we were walking away with the whole fence, I guess. When she realized what we had done, she was inclined to weep. Women are funny that way, you know. But she smiled at the same time, and asked:

"'Who was responsible for this?'"

"'Clarence Prissler, over at the hospital,' I told her; and then she thanked me for you, and insisted upon my taking a glass of her new jelly for you, and she's coming around to see you in a day or two, and—"

The sick boy lifted a protesting hand. Bunny saw two faint pink spots on his cheeks. "But I wasn't really responsible for what you did," he declared.

"Nonsense! Of course, you were. I was your proxy, and you had to stand or fall by my actions. And I might have done something else—something for which I should have been very sorry afterwards—if I had been acting for myself only."

Prissler pondered this for a long minute. Then he looked up at his caller quizzically. "Did I do anything else last night?" he asked with genuine interest.

"Lots of things. You wheeled back to its old corner Pop Gan's peanut roaster, after some fellows—young kids who didn't know any better—had run away with it; and you enjoyed racing it back to its old stand as much as you could if you'd been running away with it. Pop's put a sack of goobers aside for you, against the day when you'll come around personally to call for it. And you took Mrs. Ginty's baby carriage, that had strayed downtown, and put a sack of potatoes in it, and wheeled that back home, too. And you stopped one youngster who was forgetting himself, and lectured him—oh, mightily eloquently—till he saw things a little clearer, and insisted upon joining your crowd. And you happened to be of service to your old landlady."

"Mrs. Stone?" The pink spots in Prissler's cheeks vanished.

"Yes, Mrs. Stone. Seems your trunk had been put out of your room, and you stopped to ask about it. She didn't quite understand that you'd be home shortly and make up the work you do to pay the rent of your room. There were lots of chores undone, and you got the crowd to pitch in and carry the wood to the shed, and cut some kindling, and clean up the yard; and then, over your protest, mind you, the fellows in your crowd agreed to come around daily and do the work you'd been doing, until you were able to do it yourself. You said—"

"The Boy Scouts are going to do it, you mean."

"Well-l, yes. You said that would make you get well in a hurry, and Mrs. Stone said she hadn't realized how matters stood with you, and it didn't matter if the fellows pitched in as your work proxies or not. But they're going to, just the same."

"Oh!" said Clarence Prissler softly. "Oh!" The pink spots in his cheeks crimsoned suddenly—and the color lasted.

"And you ran across little Jimmy Bobbs, too," continued Bunny, smiling a little over the recollection. "He was standing on a corner and looking mighty lonesome, and when you invited him to fall in with the other fellows in the bunch he jumped at the chance and said 'Thank you!' away down in his throat. And he turned out to be a dandy sort of fellow himself. Seems he's wanted to know you for a long time; says you're the smartest boy in school. He's coming around to the hospital this afternoon to see if you'd mind his bucking up on his studies with you as an audience. He thinks it will help you to catch up and help him, too, at the same time. Want to see him?"

"Why—why, yes, I certainly do. I—I've been worrying a lot, Bunny, about my lessons."

"You needn't any more, then. Because Nap Meeker is planning to do exactly the same thing. Wants to. And all the other Scouts are coming to see you, too, if you don't mind their crowding in here."

Prissler blinked his eyes. "I—I don't mind," he said, with a catch in his voice.

"Well, let's see. I think that was about all you did. Oh, yes, I nearly forgot Professor Leland. I think he was a bit suspicious of our actions. Anyhow, he loomed up suddenly in a dark spot and demanded to know if we had done or were planning to do any ma—malicious mischief. I just wish, Prissy, you could have been there in your own body to hear yourself—your proxy, I mean—deny any such intentions. Specs McGrew asked if he didn't understand that you, Clarence Prissler, were leading the crowd. Professor looked at me kind of funny, and I had to explain. He just smiled and begged our pardons, and said that if he had known you were at our head, even in spirit, he wouldn't have bothered to question us. He knew you!"

There followed a brief silence. Bunny broke it by remarking, in a careless manner:

"Now that Rodman Cree is a member of the Black Eagle Patrol—you knew that, didn't you?—and almost ready to be promoted from tenderfoot to second-class Scout, he's beginning to worry about ever getting to be a first-class one. You see, Prissler, before he can be advanced, he must train some other boy to become a tenderfoot, and he can't find anybody in town who thinks enough of the Scouts to want to be one of them."

The boy on the bed squirmed uneasily.

"But when he does—"

"Bunny!"

"Yes?"

"Would—would he train me?" gasped Prissler. "I—I think I am just beginning to understand you Scouts, and—and"—the words came out in a torrent—"and—Oh, Bunny, I want to be a Scout!"

Bunny jumped up and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Why, Bonfire will be tickled to death to train you; yes, sir, plumb tickled to death! Do you mean it, Prissy?"

The sick boy could only nod dumbly, but there was undeniable happiness in the eager bobs of his head.

For ten minutes more, the two were deep in the intricacies of Scoutcraft. When Bunny finally rose to go, the patient was breathing rapidly, and his cheeks were flooded with color.

A day or two later, Bunny met Doctor Maxwell on the street.

"I don't pretend to understand young Prissler's case," the physician said; "but he's taken the most marvelous turn for the better. He will be out of the hospital in a week now. As nearly as I can diagnose the improvement, something has aroused his interest in the outside world again. Something has restored his faith in mankind, and made him want to live and help and be helped. I suspect—" And the man laid an approving hand on Bunny Payton's shoulder and left the sentence unfinished.

"By the way," he added, "what about Hallowe'en? I forgot all about it, and nothing in the way of results happened to remind me of the occasion. Didn't you boys get out? Or was the night a failure?"

"We were out, sir," said Bunny, grinning happily, "and I think—in fact, I know—that there was never a better nor a more successful Hallowe'en in this town. Ask Clarence Prissler over at the hospital. He led our crowd."

CHAPTER XI

THE TOUCHDOWN

Buck Claxton was genuinely worried. It was Thursday of the week that was to end with the post-season football game against Belden High, and the practice was going all wrong. The little Boy Scout, Bunny Payton, who as quarterback was the most important cog in the machine, wasn't "delivering."

Because he was big and heavy, and because the regular team needed defensive drill, Buck had been shifted temporarily to the scrubs. And that was the reason, also, why two very poor players, whose names do not matter, had been substituted in the line. Coach Leland wanted to test his backs on defense.

The scrubs were given the ball in the middle of the field. The two elevens crouched, facing each other, and awaited Specs' signal, which came presently, like the crack of a whip. On the last number, the backs broke into action. It was a line plunge, with Buck carrying the ball.

The weak link in the first team's line snapped at once. Bunny Payton, backing it up, gave ground and swerved into the path of the runner. Buck, big, solid, a veritable battering-ram when he was under way, looked as if he might crush this ambitious tackier as easily as an elephant might an ant in its path.

But the ant, who was Bunny, did not falter. As Buck reached him, the boy leaped toward the runner, tackling low and fiercely, and brought his opponent to the ground with a tremendous thump.

Buck sat up presently. He was unhurt, except as to pride. "Trying to lay me out?" he blazed. "You needn't half kill a fellow to bring him down."

The look he gave Bunny made some of the other substitutes shake their heads wisely. The little quarter had offended his captain. It wasn't exactly diplomatic, and—Well, they guessed he wouldn't try it again.

But a few minutes later, when exactly the same situation arose, they wondered what he would do. Again Buck took the ball on a straight line plunge; again his interference swept aside the other tacklers of the secondary defense, leaving only the shunted Bunny as a possible danger.

Runner and tackler met. The two came together with a crash. Buck staggered forward blindly, tottered, caught himself once, and then fell heavily. Bunny rebounded from the shock, but he did not plunge to the ground. Instead, a very remarkable thing happened.

In the very twinkling of an eye, so sudden was the transformation, Bunny ceased to be a tackler and became a runner. In some mysterious manner, the ball that Buck had been carrying, snuggled in the crook of his arm, was now the other's.

There appeared to be no tardy recognition of the shift on Bunny's part. Even as Buck was falling, the quarterback started racing down the field toward his goal. The point of the ball was tucked into his armpit. His hand clasped the other end. The biceps of his arm pressed hard against the rough surface.

Bunny could run like a deer. Before the astonished scrubs could recover their wits, he was flashing past, dodging now and then, circling some more alert tackler, pushing off another with a moist palm, but always sprinting over the white lines that marked the field.

But the surprising play was not yet done. Without any apparent reason, the runner slowed to a trot and finally stopped altogether. Specs rushed up and tackled him apologetically.

A certain touchdown had been sacrificed by Bunny on some mad impulse.

The little crowd of rooters that fringed the field babbled its consternation and disgust. The scrubs smiled knowingly at each other. Coach Leland plucked off the players who had piled on the boy with the ball, and then yanked the youngster to his feet with a practiced hand.

"What made you stop?" he demanded hotly. If there was one thing more than another that angered the coach, it was an exhibition of mental stupidity.

Bunny looked down the field; down to where Buck was striding forward belligerently. Scrubs and regulars alike bent forward to listen. When he spoke, he faced the coach squarely.

"I committed a foul," he said slowly. "When I started to tackle Buck, I saw that he was holding the ball loosely. It had slipped out of his armpit. So, under cover of the tackle, because of some crazy notion, I jerked it away from him. I violated a rule. I'm sorry."

Coach Leland opened wide his blue eyes, but he said nothing then. A little later, when he was by Buck's side, he asked his question.

"Did you fumble when Bunny tackled you?"

"Maybe I did," said the captain shortly; "it seems to be a habit of mine." He kicked at a little clod of dirt. "Hang it all, coach," he volunteered, "the—the Scout was grandstanding for my benefit. He's afraid of me."

The practice that day ended with drop-kicking. Lining up the scrubs some thirty yards from the goal, Leland gave Bunny the ball, with instructions to boot it over the bar.

Bunny failed on five successive attempts. Twice he fumbled good passes. Twice he caught the ball with his toe too much on one side. Once he juggled it wildly, allowing himself to be tackled before he made the kick. And each time, as Buck noted with wrinkled brow, opposing players were close enough to threaten any kicker who might have fear in his heart.

When he made his fifth failure, Buck groaned. With the post-season game for the State high-school championship only two days away, his quarterback, the very pivot of the team, was in a stage of cowardly panic. He wished now that the game with Belden had never been arranged; that they had been content with a clean slate for the season; that they had agreed to claim the title jointly with unbeaten Belden.

Saturday afternoon came at last, with no change in the situation. The two opposing teams lined up.

"Are you ready, Belden?" asked the official.

No answer.

"Are you ready, Lakeville?"

Crouching just behind the line on which the new football lay teed, Buck Claxton nodded his head. The great crowd stilled expectantly. On the side lines, blanketed and squatting like Indians, the substitutes hunched forward their shoulders.

The official shrilled a blast on his whistle. Before the echo had died, Bunny Payton's toe lifted the ball from the ground and sent it hurtling high and far toward the opposing eleven. The game was on.

As he ran, Buck sighed with relief. He had been afraid of that first kick; afraid that Bunny's toe would thug into the ground, or hit the ball askew, or roll it feebly along the ribbed field.

But now, with the game actually begun, the splendid kick-off gave Lakeville's captain hope. As Buck ran, indeed, he let out his breath with an explosive gasp, and the decisive way in which he downed the Belden fellow who caught the ball was proof of his renewed confidence. If Bunny Payton could only keep that yellow streak under cover!

In the gruelling battle that followed, Buck was forced to admit that Bunny shirked no duty. His end runs were triumphs; his forward passes were pinnacles of accuracy; his share in the interference were niceties of skill and training. But always, as the tide of the game flooded or ebbed, Buck shivered apprehensively over possible situations that might reveal to their opponents his quarterback's cowardice.

As they might have expected, Belden proved no mean enemy. They could gain at times; once, indeed, they might have pushed through the wavering Belden line for a touchdown, except for a fumble. And that fumble, as Buck recalled with grim pain, was his own. Couldn't he ever learn to hold the ball once he had it?

But Belden gained, too. Like Lakeville, when they couldn't advance the ball, they kicked. And so, for three full quarters and part of another, neither team was able to cross the other's goal line. Now, near the end of the final period, the two teams fought in the middle of the field. A scoreless tie seemed inevitable.

It was Lakeville's ball. As the players scrambled into position for the scrimmage, Captain Claxton held up his hand.

"How much longer?" he shouted toward the side lines.

"Four minutes to play," the timekeeper told him.

Buck groaned. They could never make it; they could never carry the ball over those countless lines of white to the goal beyond. True, they might go on smashing forward a yard or two at a time, even making their distances often enough to hold the ball, for Belden was clearly tiring; but it would take longer than four minutes to reach the last rib of the field. Buck felt suddenly weak and limp. He would never make that glorious touchdown of which he had dreamed each night of the past week.

"Well, don't quit!" he snarled at his quarterback.

Bunny stepped into position. "Line up!" he yelled shrilly. "Line up! Seven—four—six—two—ten!"

Buck's tired brain wrestled with the signal. It was a new play they had learned that past week, a double pass, with the quarterback eventually taking the ball. Well, why not? Bunny was fast enough, and there was no element of courage involved. Besides, in this desperate eleventh hour, it was high time for trick plays.

The ball was passed. As the Belden line braced for the onslaught, Buck swung in behind Bunny, took the soiled pigskin from him, ran with it toward the left end, and then slipped it backward into the boy's eager hands. The other team was jamming in front of the Lakeville captain, and he plunged head-down into the mass, to carry on the deception. As he slipped and fell, his ears caught the first rumble of a mighty cheer. Perhaps—

He flung off the fellow who had piled upon him and sprang to his feet. Down the field, almost in the shadow of the goal posts, Bunny was just going down under the tackle of the Belden man who played back. The trick had succeeded. They were within striking distance now. If Bunny had the nerve to try it again, he might score.

Before Buck reached him, the quarterback was on his feet again, dinning his eternal, "Line up! Line up!" As the team rushed forward to obey, the boy spat out his signal, "Nineteen—thirty—seven—four—six!"

What play was that? A cold wave of horror enveloped Buck. His numbed mind told him nothing. It was surely not a repetition of the trick they had just tried. He might have known it would not be, he thought contemptuously; this was a ticklish situation calling for every ounce of nerve a player possessed. Bunny would take mighty good care not to use himself in the pinch. But what play was it?

"Signal?" the captain called.

Again the quarterback rattled off the numbers.

And then, abruptly, Buck's mind cleared. With only a precious yard or two to go, the play must be a line plunge, of course. Tricks were for long gains under desperate conditions. But why "seven—four—six"? the captain asked himself in amazement. That wasn't his signal; and it was only fair, only right, that he, as the team's leader, should have the honor of the touchdown.

"Signal?" he yelled angrily.

A third time it came. Buck knew the play now; it was Barrett, right halfback, between tackle and guard. So that was it! Another fellow was to carry the ball over the line. Bunny was venting his petty spite by refusing to allow his captain to make the attempt.

"Change signals!" Buck stormed.

In his position behind center, Bunny straightened a little from his crouching position. "I'm taking the responsibility for this play, Buck," he said evenly. And then, like a flash, the signal rolled out once more, the ball chugged into the quarterback's hands, and the two teams were scrimmaging.

To his credit, be it said that Buck charged with the others. The Belden line sagged, tautened, broke for an instant. The players eddied and tossed, and were sucked into the human whirlpool. Somewhere at the bottom, Buck heard the long pipe of the official's whistle. Then, as daylight reached him, he discerned the smeared white goal line directly beneath him, and on it—no, a good inch beyond!—the soiled yellow ball. It was over. The touchdown had been made.

The balance of the game was like a vague dream. Somebody kicked the goal and added another point. Somebody kicked off. The teams lined up once more before a whistle ended the game. Lakeville was interscholastic champion of the State.

Bunny slapped his captain on the back. "We beat 'em, Buck!" he yelled. "We beat 'em, didn't we?"

"Yes," said Buck Claxton distinctly, "we beat them, you little sneak!"

The team cheered Belden then; and Belden came back with a pretty poor apology of the formula that runs, "What's the matter with Lakeville? They're all right!" And then Belden, sad, defeated, yearning for seclusion, shucked out of its football suits and into street clothes, and went away from there just as fast as it could.

Before the game, the Scouts had invited the Lakeville squad to the Black Eagle Patrol clubhouse for supper. When the invitation had been extended, Buck, Barrett, Sheffield and Co. had looked blank, neither accepting nor declining. But at six o'clock they were there, appearing awkward and embarrassed, but altogether too happy over the result of the game to bear any resentment. That is to say, all of them looked that way except Buck, who stared straight ahead during the meal, and wouldn't talk, and didn't appear to be listening to the jokes and jests that were bandied back and forth.

But when the meal was done, and Bunny, as toastmaster, with clenched hands under the table, where nobody could see them, and a forced smile on his face, which everybody could see, rose and said easily, "I guess we'd all like to hear from the captain," Buck met the issue squarely.

"I'm not much of a speech maker," he began slowly (and rapidly proved that the literary and debating society had taught him to be a very good one, indeed), "but there's something that must be said, and I'm going to ask you fellows to listen while I say it. This last week has been a hard one for all of us, I guess, but I think the one who's felt the hurts most is Quarterback Bunny Payton."

They all looked at Bunny, of course, and the boy felt his face go white. What was the captain of the football team going to say about him?

"Back a while," Buck went on doggedly, "I thought Bunny was no good. I guess a lot of you saw what happened during practice—you know, when I was sore at him, and he tackled me and got hold of the ball, and then wouldn't make a touchdown because he thought he had committed a foul. He was—was in pretty bad, because it looked as if he had a streak of yellow and was afraid of—well—me. I thought so. But I was—was way off. It was just plain nerve that made him stop when he had the ball.

"And about those goals he didn't kick. You know what I mean. It sorta cinched what I thought about him—a coward, I mean. But that wasn't right, either. He had gashed his hand on a rock; that's why he fumbled and juggled the ball and dropped it crooked on his toe and—and everything.

"Then in the game to-day, he played like a trooper; topnotch all the way through. You know what I mean—that trick play that put the ball right on top of the goal and—and everything.

"Well, I wanted to make the touchdown then. Jiggers, how I wanted to do it! But he wouldn't let me, and I was sore at him all over again. You know what I mean—how I felt, captain and everything, and he wouldn't give me the ball. But I've been thinking that over, and I hand it to him for his nerve again. He gave Barrett the ball, and Barrett went over with it. Say, that riled me. Why didn't he let me do it? But—well, I've figured that out now. Barrett's a good old sobersides hoss; you can always count on old Barrett. And me—no. I fumbled once before in the game; I guess maybe I'd 'a' fumbled again, and tossed away the chance to win. Maybe. You know what I mean. So he passes me up for Barrett. Talk about nerve! Why, that took more courage, I'll bet, than anybody else here ever thought of having; about a million times more. But he did it. He knew the sure way to win that game. Understand?

"Well, now listen to me. Maybe I won't go to Lakeville High next year. So we ought to elect a captain who will—sure. You know what I mean. And—well, say, how about Bunny Payton for the job?"

It seemed to the little quarterback that the fellows had gone suddenly insane. Before his dazed mind could fully grasp Buck's suggestion, he had been unanimously elected captain, and Buck was congratulating him, and the party was breaking up.

"But—but," he stammered to Buck, "we need you for next year. Are you sure you won't be in school?"

"Well," drawled the ex-captain, winking prodigiously, "I may die before then, or—or make a million dollars and build me a school of my own, or—or something like that. Anyhow, you'll be a better fellow for the job than I ever was. You should have been leading the team this year."

That was all, except that at the door Buck drew Bunny aside.

"Look here," he said. "I'm just beginning to realize that you Scouts are the real goods. You're fine fellows, and you're fine athletes." He looked warily over his shoulder. "It strikes me I'd like to be a Scout myself, if they ever get up another patrol in this little old town of ours."

CHAPTER XII

THE ICY HILL

Two days before Thanksgiving, it began snowing in the late afternoon, going about the business of carpeting the earth in white with such stubborn determination that weatherwise folk were surprised when the following morning marked the end of the storm. The sun peeped forth; the snow packed into a soggy, slushy mass, only to freeze that night under the grip of a bitter wind from the northland. As a result, Thanksgiving was ushered in to the merry jingle of sleigh bells, with cutters crisping their way over the icy surfaces of the roads.

Breakfast over and chores done, Bonfire Cree strolled forth that morning to take a look at the new winter world. He was whistling cheerfully, like a true Boy Scout, and he was keeping his eyes alert for some opportunity to do a good turn before the day emerged from its swaddling clothes.

His chance came at the top of "Old Forty Five Hill", where a group of what Bonfire decided must be the littlest and the most shopworn boys in town were staring forlornly at the broken runner of a bobsled. Their ages ranged from perhaps eight to eleven, and they were clad in a collection of last year's mufflers, sweaters and overcoats that would have made a ragman frown.

"Hello, Mr. Raggedy Tatters!" Bonfire greeted a youngster who appeared to be the leader. "How did you break your sled?"

"I didn't break it. Petey Flack did; he coasted over a rock. And my name isn't Raggedy Tatters, either; it's Jimmie White."

"Thanks!" said Bonfire. "Glad to know you, Jimmie White. Let's take a look at that sled." He turned it over and ran a practiced eye over the runner. "H'm! Can't patch that without iron braces, and the blacksmith shop is closed to-day. 'Fraid you'll have to call off this coasting party till to-morrow."

"Aw, the snow'll melt by then," objected the youngster. He dug the toe of his torn shoe into a little drift and kicked disconsolately. "Let's nail on a brace and try it."

"Your grandchildren will always be sorry if you try that," Bonfire told him gravely. And then, somehow, his mood changed; he began to understand the disappointment of the little boys, and to sympathize with them, and to search his mind for ways to help. "Look here, Jimmie White," he said abruptly, "know where the Scouts' clubhouse is?"

"Sure!"

"Well, you take this key, trot over there, unlock the door, and—"

"—and what?"

"And bring back the long bobsled you'll find inside. Here," he called, as Jimmie grabbed the key and sped away, "don't forget to lock the door again."

"No," flung the boy over his shoulder; and, as if that were inadequate to such a benefactor, "No, sir, I won't, Mister."

"What's the idea, Cree?" asked a voice behind him.

Bonfire turned quickly. In the seat of a sleigh that had driven up sat Peter Barrett, while the head of a little chap of five or six, too like Peter's to belong to anybody but his little brother, barely showed above the snug fur lap-robe.

"Morning, Barrett!" Bonfire called. "Oh, I'm just going to take my friends coasting."

"Your friends?" repeated Peter Barrett, studying the group of little boys.

"Of course," said Bonfire easily. "Aren't you my friends, fellows?"

They were. They said so emphatically and loudly.

"You see," grinned Bonfire. "Oh, I'm just getting acquainted with them, if that's what you mean. But we're going to like each other. Their sled's busted; so I sent Jimmie White over to the clubhouse for the Scouts' bob. We went over that last night; put in a new slat, sand-papered the runners, and so forth. Want to go down the hill with us, Peter?"

"I don't mind," admitted the farmer boy. He tied his horse to a tree and tucked the fur cover more snugly about his little brother. "Say, I—I'd like to steer once, if you'll let me."

"Come ahead!"

By this time Jimmie White had arrived with the bobsled. Almost before it had been straightened for the start, the youngsters were scrambling aboard, with Peter Barrett in front, Bonfire just behind him, and the others piled on hit-and-miss to the very last inch of the broad plank.

A second later, after some left-over boy had given them a push, the big sled was coasting over the icy trail, gathering speed with every foot. The hill had been nicknamed "Old Forty Five" because of its steepness; so sheer was the drop of the road in places that the suggestion of an angle of forty-five degrees was not altogether ridiculous. It seemed even steeper to Bonfire. He sucked in his breath gaspingly.

"Don't be scared," Peter Barrett flung back over his shoulder.

"I'm not scared," protested Bonfire, but he knew his voice was far from convincing.

Near the foot of the long hill, a railroad track cut across the trail. Bonfire was peering at it over the steerer's right shoulder when the bob veered sharply to the left. In spite of himself, the Scout grunted audibly. A moment later, when the long sled straightened out again, swishing along a road parallel to the track, he would have given anything in the world to have recalled that sound.

They ground to a full stop. Bonfire piled off with the others, pretending not to see Peter Barrett's superior grin.

"I think it would be best," he offered, "to take that turn with a long sweep."

"And sink the runners into the soft snow at the side?" asked Barrett scornfully. "Why, that would slow the sled to a walk, and it wouldn't run more than fifty feet farther. I know how to steer, and I am willing to take a chance. You Scouts—" But he thought better of it, and left the accusation unsaid.

During the long climb up the hill, Bonfire was silent. But at the top, when the bobsled had been turned for the next trip, he took the forward position.

"Sure you can manage it?" asked Barrett. "Can you make the turn this side of the railroad track, where the road branches?"

"Of course."

"Because, if you can't, you'd better let me steer again. You see, the other branch goes straight ahead over the track and then around a corner with a big drop to the creek on the outside edge. It's dangerous."

"I can turn this side of the track," said Bonfire doggedly.

"All right," decided Barrett. "I'm ready."

So, it seemed, were the raggedy-taggedy youngsters. Bonfire braced his feet on the crossbar and gripped the steering lines. Another left-over boy, not the same one this time, pushed them off.

"Clear!" he shouted the warning down the road after them. "Clear for coasters!"

Halfway down the slide, round the first bend, the long bobsled spun into a straightaway that was partially blocked. A heavy wagon on runners seemed to occupy the entire road. Bonfire saw it instantly. There was a chance—just a bare, scant chance—that he might steer by on the right, grazing the ponderous wagon. But there would be only a foot or two to spare, and at the terrific speed they were traveling a collision might mean serious accident.

His quick eye told him something else, too. On either side of the road, the snow was banked high in great cushions. He made his decision instantly. Jerking desperately on one line, he steered the bob off its course and into the drift, turning it completely over and spilling its human load into the soft mattress of snow.

Nobody was hurt in the least. The little fellows picked themselves up, righted the long sled, and dragged it back into the road. Two or three of them stared solemnly at Bonfire, but only Jimmie White ventured any comment.

"A good steerer could have slipped past that wagon, I guess," he said slowly. "Your—friend here could."

Bonfire shut his lips tightly. What was the use? Perhaps, after all, he had been too cautious. It didn't matter much now, one way or the other, for he knew very well what Peter Barrett was thinking of him.

They dragged the bobsled to the top of the hill again. At the very crest, while they were stooping to turn it about, little Jimmie White uttered a sudden cry. As the others whirled, startled, Jimmie pointed a trembling finger down the hill. Ten yards away, gaining momentum as the first runway of the trail fell sharply downward, was a single sled. Upon it lay a tiny figure. Too small to know anything about steering, the child was simply allowing the sled to carry him along in the groove worn by the coasters.

For a long moment, the little group stared in stunned bewilderment. Then, all at once, three of them spoke.

"He'll go across the railroad track to the turn of the creek," said Bonfire, with queer huskiness, "and—"

"—and tumble into the creek," wailed little Jimmie White. "The rocks there—"

"Catch him!" shouted Peter Barrett. "Catch him! Stop him! It—Cree, it's my kid brother!"

It was too late to whirl the bob about and begin the chase with that. Two of the youngsters were tugging at it, but precious seconds were being lost. There was just one thing to do, and the three who had spoken seemed to recognize it the same instant.

Each grabbed a light, single sled from its dazed owner. Each lifted it clear from the icy trail, ran for perhaps twenty feet, and then flung himself and sled headlong upon the slide.

Luckily, the road was wide. The three sleds, already racing dizzily from the running start, sped along side by side, with Peter Barrett's on the right, little Jimmie White's in the middle, and Bonfire Cree's on the left. Far ahead now—hopelessly far, it seemed to Bonfire—the runaway, with its precious human cargo, jounced and jolted its way down Old Forty Five.

Weight told at the outset. In the first hundred yards, little Jimmie White dropped slowly behind the other two, despite his frantic efforts to keep up. This left only Peter Barrett and Bonfire actively in the chase, and they raced along as if some invisible link yoked them together.

At the first bend, Barrett swung a little wide. Bonfire took the turn at a sharp angle, shutting his eyes for a moment as his sled ran on one runner, and leaning inward till half his body was over the side. It seemed to him the sled would never right itself again. But it did. With a welcome clank, the soaring iron came back to the surface. When they straightened out once more, beyond the turn, he was a full length ahead.

The memory of the wagon that had blocked the bob made him shudder. Suppose another should be on the road! But when he saw that it was clear, with only the black dot of the runaway sled blotting its white surface, he drew in a long breath of thanks and relief. He could forget the danger of a possible collision now; he could give to his mad coast every shred of his skill.

He flattened himself low on the sled; that would lessen the wind friction. He steered almost wholly by swaying his body; to shift the course by digging a toe into the trail would mean a tiny loss of speed. He swerved around cloying drifts of snow, he avoided holding ruts, he picked the icy sweeps of the road. As the sled answered to each trick of jockeying, he wondered grimly what Peter Barrett thought of his coasting ability now. He might be too cautious, perhaps, when recklessness meant danger to others, but Peter could never again sneer at the way he steered.

But even with all these aids, he gained slowly on the sled ahead. He had hoped to catch it halfway down the hill. But as he whizzed past the rock that marked this point, he was still far behind. Well, there was still a long stretch before the runaway reached the railroad track. He might catch it yet; might—no, must!

Under him, the runners rasped and sang. Tiny particles of ice and snow pelted, sleet-wise, in his face. Rocks and bumps in the road seemed to leer at him. They hid from sight till he was fairly upon them; then tried to upset his sled. Once, in steering about a particularly dangerous clod, he barely skimmed it; and it tore the mitten half from his hand, and knocked the skin from his knuckle. The hurt bled a little, but his fingers did not relax.

He was going like the wind now. The distance between pursued and pursuer was being eaten up in great bounds. If only he had a little more time! If only the railroad track, with its fatal turn beyond, were a little farther away!

Mingled with the scratch-scratch of the iron-shod runners came another sound,—loud, long, mournful. He wondered vaguely what it was. Perhaps Peter's sled behind was sending out that doleful wail. Then, like a flash, came the explanation.

It was the whistle of an engine. A train was coming over the railroad track. If the child on the sled crashed into it—

In a frenzy of alarm, Bonfire lifted the forepart of his sled from the surface. It skewed and tipped. One runner creaked ominously. Forcing himself to think only of the business of steering, he flung it back on the trail, till the runners pointed dead ahead once more.

He could see the railroad now. A scant half-mile away a heavy freight train was ploughing forward toward the intersection of trail and track. And as nearly as he could calculate, runaway sled and engine would reach it together.

"I must catch it before it gets to the track!" he told himself. "I must!"

The ice-drive filled his mouth as he spoke, half choking him. Already his eyes were encrusted with a film of frozen sleet, and objects ahead were blurring into an indistinct white mass. For the first time, too, he began to realize the doubt that he might reach the child in time. A cowardly desire to swerve into the snow-bank at one side, as he had done with the bob, fought for a place in his mind. He knew now that he could never pull up even before they reached the railroad track.

But he fought back the temptation. "'A Scout,'" he told himself, "'is brave. A Scout is brave. A Scout is brave.'"

Another sound dinned into his ears. It swept back from the frozen trail ahead of him, and presently he came to know that it was the frightened cry of the child on the other sled. So near it sounded that he could not believe the distance between them was more than the reach of his arm. But it was. When he lifted his head, he saw that a full ten feet still separated them.

The sled ahead was already taking the slight rise to the railroad track. It would clear the onrushing engine by a few precious feet. But in another second or two, the path of the coasting slide would be effectually blocked by the train. This child would cross in time; he himself had no such margin of safety. In all probability, he would strike the very prong of the cow-catcher.

"Too late!" he moaned. "I can't do it!" Then, abruptly, his mind jerked back to what lay beyond: to the turn they had told him about, and the creek below, and the rocks. Resolutely, he held his sled to the course.

As he swept upon the upgrade to the track, he heard from behind Peter Barrett's shout.

"Don't!" it rang out. "Don't try it! You can't—"

The whole world seemed to roar at him. There was the clang of a bell, the hoarse whistle of the engine, the hiss of steam, the rasp of brakes hard-set. To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel, with a sharp-pointed triangle skimming low to destroy him.

To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of iron and steel. Page [135].

He shut his eyes. Beneath him, the sled snapped angrily over a steel rail. He was upon the railroad track. He waited for the second click of the far rail—waited—waited—waited. Would it never come? Then—snap!—he felt it. A flurry of wind sucked behind him. A shadow darkened the white snow. With a scream, as of terror, the monster of iron crossed the trail a second after he had cleared the track. He was over safely.

A little decline slanted from the railroad. At its very foot was some obstacle; and he jerked his sled to one side, angry over the forced loss of speed. The big rock, or whatever it was, appeared to be calling to him. He jerked his head savagely to clear his eyes, wondering dully why he did not pass it. Then he laughed hysterically. It was the sled with Peter Barrett's little brother, running over the icy road at his very side.

He swerved toward it, reached out a shaking hand, and closed his fingers upon the flare of the runner. The two sleds were one now.

The dangerous turn was just beyond. It led to the left, and he dug his left toe savagely into the trail, holding it there like a brake, till the double-sled pivoted to its friction and swung where the road led. But there was no room to spare. Before they were around, they had climbed the bank overhanging the creek, balanced perilously a moment on its brink, and dashed back to the middle of the road.

Afterward—some minutes afterward—when the locked sleds had ground to a standstill, and the train had passed, and Peter Barrett and little Jimmie White had come coasting gingerly and frightenedly to the foot of Old Forty Five, they found Bonfire sitting weakly on the snowy ground, with one arm about the child. The latter was talking happily, but Bonfire was too exhausted to speak.

"I never saw anything like it," said little Jimmie White. There was honest hero-worship in his eyes. "No, never!"

It was harder for Peter Barrett. "I—I did a lot of thinking back there," he began awkwardly, "trailing you down Old Forty Five. I—I guess I've been blind, Rodman, when I looked at you Scouts. I thought you were—well, stuck on yourselves, and too good for poorer people. But this morning—" He waved a comprehensive hand toward the top of the hill, where the ragged little band of boys had been left behind, and did not complete the sentence. "When that train cut me off—Do you know, I think you Scouts have the right idea of things, mostly. I—Well, it—it's Thanksgiving." He winked his eyes rapidly as they turned toward his little brother.

"Yes, Peter," said Bonfire understandingly, "it's Thanksgiving."

CHAPTER XIII

APRON STRINGS

"It's an outrage!" declared S. S. Zane, banging an indignant fist on the table in the Scouts' clubhouse. "Yes, sir, an outrage; that's what it is!"

The subject under discussion was a bulletin that had been posted that day on the board in the high-school hall. It read:

NOTICE!

The following basketball players will report at 12:30 Saturday afternoon, ready for the trip to Elkana: