Ranny Phelps bit his lip, glared ill-temperedly, and then subsided. Tompkins shifted over to the regulars, his mind a queer turmoil of delight at the advancement, and regret and apprehension at this new cause for bickering among the players. Practice was resumed, but there was a notable feeling of constraint among the fellows, which did not entirely pass off as the afternoon wore away. Ranny held himself coldly aloof, playing his own position with touches of the old brilliancy, but ignoring the chap beside him. Torrance and Slater, and one or two of the scrub who were part of the Phelps clique, whispered occasionally among themselves, or darted indignant glances at the tenderfoot as if he were in some way responsible for the downfall of Wilks. Dale tried not to notice it all, and devoted himself vigorously to playing the game, hoping that by the next day the fellows would cool down and get together. But somehow they didn't. There had been time for discussion with the disgruntled Wilks himself, and if anything, their animosity was increased. It was so marked, and the effect so disastrous, or so it seemed to Tompkins, to the unity of the team, that after practice the tenderfoot hesitatingly approached Sherman Ward. It was not at all easy for him to say what he had in mind. For one thing, the idea of even remotely advising the captain savored of cheekiness and presumption; for another, he wasn't personally at all keen to take the step he felt would be for the good of the team. But at length he summoned courage to make the suggestion. "Say, Sherm," he began haltingly, after walking beside Ward for a few moments in silence, "don't you think--that is, would it be better for me to--er--not to play to-morrow?" Sherman stopped short in surprise. "Not play?" he repeated sharply. "Why, what--" He frowned suddenly. "Don't you want to?" "_Want to?_ Of course I do! But it seems to me things would--would go smoother if--I wasn't in the line-up. You know some of the fellows--" He paused. Sherman's eyes narrowed. "Oh, that's what you mean, is it?" For an instant he stood staring silently at the freckled face raised to his. "You'd be willing to get out for--for the good of the team?" As Dale nodded he reached out and caught the boy almost roughly by one shoulder. "Forget it!" he said gruffly. "I know what I'm doing, kid. You go in to-morrow and play up for all you're worth. If--if those chumps don't come to their senses, it won't be your fault." His jaw was square; his lips firm. It flashed suddenly on Dale that Sherman couldn't very well follow his suggestion and continue to preserve a shred of authority as captain. It would seem as if he were giving in to the delinquents and allowing them to run the team. They would set him down as weak and vacillating, and pay less attention than ever to his efforts to make them get together and play the game right. A sudden anger flamed up within the tenderfoot, and his teeth clicked together.