Dale's lips parted impulsively, but closed again without a sound issuing forth. A dull, smoldering anger began to glow within him, and one hand gripped his staff tightly. What right had Ranny Phelps to shame and humiliate him before the whole troop? He was doing his best, and he felt that the showing wasn't such a bad one for a fellow who had been in the troop little more than a week. Any decent chap would have understood this and made allowances, would even have helped him along instead of trying by every means in his power to make him fail. Dale's chin went up a trifle, and his teeth clenched. By a great effort he managed to hold himself in for the remainder of the drill, but the anger and irritation bubbling up inside resulted in several more errors. When the drill was over and the fellows stood at ease for a few minutes before starting some signal-work, Phelps strode over to the new recruit. "What's the matter with you, Tompkins?" he said with cold sarcasm. "At this rate, you're likely to spend the whole winter getting a few simple stunts into your head." Dale's eyes flashed. "It might not be a bad idea to learn a few of the scout laws yourself," he snapped back impulsively. "What's that?" Ranny's voice was cool and level, but his eyes had narrowed and a spot of color glowed on each cheek. The fellows near them suddenly pricked up their ears and turned curiously in their direction. "I said it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to learn some of the scout laws," repeated Dale, heedless of everything save the anger and indignation surging up within him. "There's one about being friendly, and another that says a scout is helpful. Maybe you know them by heart, but I don't believe--" "That'll do!" cut in Ranny, harshly. "I certainly don't need any advice from _you_ on how to--" "You mean you won't _take_ any," interrupted Dale, hotly. "Patrols, attention!" rang out Becker's voice sharply. Neither of the boys paid any heed; it is doubtful whether they even heard him. Tight-lipped, with fists clenched, they glared at one another from eyes that snapped angrily. In another moment, however, Becker gripped Phelps tightly by the shoulder and whirled him around. "Cut that out and go back to your place!" he said sternly. "I called for order." Ranny glowered at him for a moment, and then, without a word, turned on his heel and strode back to the head of the line. In the hush that followed, Dale drew a long breath and swallowed hard. His face still burned, and the fingers of his right hand were stiff and cramped from the grip he had unconsciously maintained on his staff. With an elaborate attempt at nonchalance, he listened to Becker's directions about the signaling, but all the while he was wondering what the fellows thought of him and wishing, with increasing fervency, that he had kept his self-control instead of flaring up in that foolish way.