"I shouldn't wonder. See Sherman Ward; he's captain. The season's half over, but we need weight behind the line, and it wouldn't surprise me if you'd do. Try it, anyhow. Good night; see you to-morrow." Dale found his cap and slipped out of the building, a pleasant glow stealing over him. "He's corking!" he muttered, as he followed the flagged walk that led past the shadowy bulk of the stone church to the street. "He makes a fellow feel--well, sort of as if he belonged!" He had been a chump to let himself be troubled by Ranny Phelps's brusqueness. "Of course he was peeved when I made such a mess of things," he thought. "Just wait till next Friday, though, and he'll--" Dale's progress along the walk and his train of thought stopped abruptly at one and the same time. He had reached the side of the squat stone tower that faced the street, but was still in the shadow, when the voice of Ranny Phelps, somewhat shrill with temper and unmistakably scornful of accent, smote suddenly on his ears. "The idea of a mucker like that being in Troop Five--and in my own patrol, too! It's simply sickening! You saw him to-night; so stupid he couldn't even learn the drill, and did anybody ever see such clothes? They look as if they'd come out of the rag-bag." An indistinguishable murmur in another voice seemed merely to goad the irate patrol-leader to increased frenzy. "That's just it--a common newsboy! He'll be an ornament to the troop, won't he? He'll make a fine-looking scout, he will! I can just see what a rotten mess he'll make of the line if we should have to march in public. Mr. Curtis must be crazy to take in such riffraff, and I've half a mind to tell him--" The rest of the remark was indistinguishable, for the speakers were moving away from the church in the direction of the better class, residential section. Presently, even the rising and falling murmur of voices ceased, but still the figure in the shadow of the church tower did not stir. When at last he moved slowly forward into the circle of an electric light, something of the hard grayness of the stone might almost have come into his face. "'A scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other scout,'" he said, half aloud, as he turned in an opposite direction to that taken by Phelps and his companion. Then he laughed. It wasn't exactly a pleasant sound. There was no mirth in it; only scorn, derision, and, under all the rest, a note of pain that could not quite be hidden. CHAPTER III THE SILVER LINING "Say, fellows, did you hear about Jimmy Warren's kid brother?" eagerly inquired Court Parker, skipping up to a group gathered about the school steps next morning. From force of habit, expectant grins wreathed several faces. "Huh!" grunted Bob Gibson, suspiciously. "What's the joke?"