Tim walked over to the maple tree and stood there in its shade. He was raging. Chased from the field! Routed out as though he didn't amount to a rap, and he the best catcher in the village!

"I'll play with some of the other teams," he vowed. "I'll offer to catch for them. I'll come here and make these fellows feel sick. I'll—"

But he knew that he'd do nothing of the sort. Breaking into teams out of your own town was almost impossible. He was out of it, on the shelf, discarded.

"I ought to go out there," he muttered fiercely, "and whack Don one in the eye." He saw the pitcher begin to throw to Ted. The sight was too much for him. He swung around and plunged down the road, the big mitt under his arm, and did not once look back.

Had he stayed, he would have seen that Ted Carter called the pitching to a halt in a very few minutes. The captain was no fool. The first six balls Don threw him proved to him that the pitcher was upset.

"Don't let this bother you," he said. "Tim had it coming to him. It wasn't your fault. Go home and forget it, and tomorrow you and I'll work out and get acquainted."

Don went home, but he did not forget. He was sure that this latest twist would only pile up trouble for him as patrol leader.

Next morning the news was all over the village. Don heard it when he went on an errand for his father. Afterward he worked on his bird-houses and tried to brush aside the worried thoughts that plagued him. Andy Ford came to the yard, and was followed by Bobbie Brown and Wally Woods. The three boys looked at Don, and looked at each other, and looked away.

"Was Tim chased?" Andy asked at last.

Don laid down his plane. "Fellows," he said seriously, "if you hear any talk about Tim just—just keep your mouths shut. Talk always makes things worse and—and we're after the Scoutmaster's Cup."

The three boys nodded that they understood. There wasn't much to say after that. One by one they went their way and left Don alone.

Late in the afternoon he went to the field. He did not see Tim, and at once a weight seemed taken from his heart. He pitched to Ted. His control was better now, and presently he found himself enjoying the work. His curves broke well, and Ted kept calling, "That' a boy, Don; that' a boy!" and he felt a thrilling desire to give Ted the best he had. Tim never made him feel like that.

Next night came the troop meeting. He wondered if Tim would carry his bad temper so far as to come carelessly dressed. Evidently others shared his anxiety, for as soon as he reached headquarters Andy asked him anxiously if Tim would be "all right."

Tim came to the meeting as clean as any scout in the troop. The patrol leader of the Foxes had left the key of his locker at home, and Fox patrol scouts who had expected to brush their shoes before the meeting was called found themselves face to face with a difficulty.

The "fall in" signal came all too soon for the flustered Foxes. Quietly Mr. Wall walked down the line of stiff-backed, silent boys.

"A perfect score for the Wolves," he said. "Four points off the Foxes for untidiness. Two points from the Eagles for a scout absent."

Up went the new standing:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 58-1/2 Fox 58 Wolf 57-1/2

"Gosh!" breathed Andy. "We're close now, aren't we?"

"It's all in sticking together," said Don. In spite of himself his voice trembled. He looked at Tim. The trouble-making scout was staring at the board with puckered eyes. Don would have given much to know of what he was thinking.

There was a lot of work that night—knot-tying, drowning grips and how to break them, identifying leaves from trees and bushes, and map reading. Finally that part of the meeting was over. A voice cried, "How about Lonesome Woods?" There were cheers and shouts.

There wasn't much debate about the trip. There was, however, a hot wrangle about the day. Finally it went to a vote, and Thursday was selected.

"Gee!" said Tim. "I bet that will be a great hike."

The meeting adjourned. A scout of the Eagle patrol caught Don's arm.

"What team do you pitch against tomorrow?" he asked.

"Little Falls," said Don.

Tim's face lost its animation and grew dark. He walked toward the door. And Don, watching him, wondered why it was that fellows were always asked questions at the wrong time.

By this time Don knew that Tim, whenever anything peeved him, could be counted on to display a reckless streak. For a moment this worried him; then he brushed the thought aside. He was always fretting about Tim, and nothing serious was ever happening.

He had planned to mow the lawn and spade the flower beds next morning. It was well that he went early to his task, for at ten o'clock Ted Carter came for him.

"You had better come to the field," the captain said. "No pitching—just a little throwing to bases. I've dug up a fellow named Marty Smith to cover first. I want you to get used to each other."

Don evened off the flower beds, carried the raked-up grass around to the chickens, and put the gardening tools away.

"Dinner at twelve sharp," Barbara called after him.

At first he felt odd, throwing to the bag and not finding Ted there. He made some crazy tosses. But Marty's long reach always saved him, and Marty's cheery voice kept calling, "That's the stuff; that's what will get them."

Another first-baseman, Don thought, would be scolding about the throws. His heart warmed to the newcomer. He began to feel at home. His throws steadied and became sure.

"That's enough," Ted called. "Nobody'll get much of a lead on you fellows. Now for some fielding."

Don walked over to the shade of the maple tree. Intent on watching the field, he did not notice the small figure that took a place at his side.

"Hello, Don," said a voice.

"Oh! Hello, Bobbie! What's the matter, you look worried?"

"I'm all right," Bobbie said hastily.

Don turned his eyes to the field. Even though his interest was completely absorbed, he thought, subconsciously, that the boy at his elbow was very restless.

By and by the dwindling tree shadows warned him that it was time he started for home. He walked out to the road. Bobbie walked with him.

"Going my way?" he asked.

"Y-yes," said Bobbie. They passed one corner, then another.

"I—I want to ask you something," Bobbie said haltingly. "If a scout knows that some other scout is going to do something—something dangerous, maybe—is it blabbing if he tells?"

Don stopped short. "Who's doing something dangerous?"

"Is it carrying tales?" Bobbie insisted.

Don thought a moment. "I don't think so, Bobbie."

"But when a fellow tells about other things—"

"Could you stop this scout from doing something dangerous if you told?" Don asked.

"I—I think so."

"Does he know it's dangerous?"

Bobbie nodded slowly.

"Then you ought to tell," said Don.

Bobbie looked at the ground. "Tim Lally is getting up a party to go to Danger Mountain today," he said.

A shiver ran through Don's nerves. "Where's Tim now?" he asked.

"Home, getting ready."

Don turned back toward the ball field. Past the maple tree he strode. A factory whistle sounded the noon hour. He broke into a run.

Two blocks farther on he stopped short. Tim was coming toward him carrying an oil can.

"Are you going to Danger Mountain?" Don demanded.

Tim put down the can and cocked his cap over one eye. "Sure. Why?"

"You can't. Mr. Wall said it's a bad spot."

"He didn't say we couldn't go."

"That's what he meant."

"How do you know?"

"Everybody knows. That's why he won't take us there. He said you could get broken bones."

"I'm not afraid." Tim picked up the can and swung it carelessly. "I guess Mr. Wall was trying to scare little fellows like Bobbie. He didn't mean a big fellow like me."

Don knew that arguing with Tim would be useless. And yet, as the trouble-maker stepped around him, he made a last plea.

"You'll get the patrol in trouble, Tim, and we're only one point behind the Eagles."

"I knew you weren't worrying about me," said Tim.

Don followed slowly. He had pleaded for the troop thinking that that might win where all else had failed. And, as usual, Tim had misunderstood.

At the corner he paused. New thoughts were crowding through his brain. Tim's recklessness was jeopardizing not only himself—it was threatening the entire troop.

Suppose he fell and broke an arm, or a leg, or—or worse. People would say, "There; that's what comes from letting boys become scouts and go hiking." Boys would be taken from the troop. The troop might even break up. All Mr. Wall's plans for the future would be ruined.

"It isn't fair," Don told himself bitterly. "If there was somebody who could make him stay home—"

His eyes puckered and his mouth grew tight. He had told Bobbie that this wasn't carrying tales. It wasn't. Suddenly he turned to his left and went up a side street.

A few minute's later he rang the doorbell of a plain, pleasant-looking house. The screen door opened.

"Good afternoon, Donald," said a woman's voice. "Are you looking for Mr. Wall?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wall." Don's cap was in his hand. "Is he home? Could I see him right away?"

Mrs. Wall shook her head. "He went to the city this morning. I do not expect him until evening. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"N-no," said Don. He went down the stoop, stumbling on the last step, and walked slowly toward home.



CHAPTER V

A PLEA ON THE ROAD

Dinner was almost over when Don reached home. Barbara brought his food from the kitchen where she had kept it warm.

"Didn't you hear me say twelve sharp?" she scolded.

Don told of Bobbie's message, of his interview with Tim, and of his fruitless trip to Mr. Wall's house. Barbara, engrossed in the tale, dropped into her own seat and listened intently. Mr. Strong shook his head soberly.

"Going to Danger Mountain will be a foolhardy trick," he said.

"I wish Mr. Wall were home," said Don. He had lost appetite for his dinner and pushed his plate away. "I did right to go to him, didn't I, dad?"

"You'd have been foolish not to go," said his father.

Don stared hard at the tablecloth. He had entered joyously on his duties as patrol leader, but one disagreement after another with Tim had roughened his road. And now—now that he seemed powerless to stay this latest folly—he suddenly felt very, very tired.

"Why will Tim be so headstrong?" cried Barbara.

"It's a way some boys have," Mr. Strong explained. "Tell them not to do a thing, and immediately that is the one thing they want to do. As for Tim—Well, I fancy he's disgruntled because Ted Carter dropped him. He doesn't want to sit around and watch baseball today. He probably figured that the best way was to go off and pretend he didn't care. If he could add spice to the going off, it would make it seem all the more as though he was really having a good time."

"And won't he have a good time?" Barbara asked.

"No boy really enjoys himself, when he knows he's doing wrong," Mr. Strong answered.

Don roused himself from his dull, discouraged mood. "Is there anything I could try, dad, to stop him? Just one more trial?"

"You might take him by the back of the neck and tell him you're boss."

"I would," Don said slowly, "if I were able."

He went upstairs and got into uniform—all except his spiked shoes. He would put those on on the porch where there was no carpet to rip and tear. He went over to the window and looked down at the yard. Nothing was there but grass, and hedge, and a small bed of flowers. And yet he saw a steep side of Danger Mountain, and khaki-clad boys climbing that steep side and missing their steps.

"Twenty minutes of two, Don," Barbara called.

He carried the spiked shoes down to the porch. He was angry now. Why should he worry when he had done the best he could? He wouldn't worry. He'd pitch his game and have a good time. If Tim wanted to get hurt, that was his funeral.

In this mood he walked to the field. The practice had already started. He gave the Little Falls players a casual glance. Visiting teams no longer worried him—not before the umpire's cry of "Play ball!" anyway. He had had his baptism of fire. He was a veteran.

"I was just going to send somebody to look you up," said Ted. "Everything all right? Good! Shoot away."

Thoughts of Tim came, but Don thrust them aside and shook his head stubbornly. What had happened was no fault of his. He had done his best. Now he was going to enjoy himself.

"Great stuff," said Ted when the warm-up was over. "Sting them in like that during the game and there'll be nothing to it."

Don laughed and walked toward the bench. His eyes scanned the spectators. It was just possible that Tim had changed his mind—

"I don't care whether he did or not," the pitcher muttered hotly. He drew on a sweater and took a seat on the bench, and stared out toward center field.

By and by it was time to start the game. Ted cried, "Come on, now; everybody get into this." Don dropped his sweater on the bench and walked out toward the mound.

The Little Falls coachers began a sharp rattle of talk. Don glared at them coldly. Up went his arm—and down.

"Strike one!"

Don pitched again. The batter hit a twisting, difficult fly, but Marty Smith ran back and caught it deftly.

"Yah!" cried Ted. "That's getting them."

It was clever fielding. Don seemed to catch the contagion of its worth. Why, with support like that a pitcher ought to do wonders. He pitched again.

"Strike!" ruled the umpire.

"Wow!" Ted said softly. "He surely has stuff on the ball today."

Two more pitches, and the batter was out on strikes. The next player fouled to Ted. Little Falls' first turn at bat had been a sorry failure.

Cheers came from the spectators as Don walked to the bench. Somebody yelled, "Take off your hat, kid." He flushed, and doffed his cap, and sat down with crimson face.

"Come on," cried Ted. "Give Don a run and this game will be sewed up."

But it wasn't until the third inning that Chester tallied. Then she scored three runs in a rush. Ted led off with a three-bagger. After that came a single, an out, a base on balls, another out, and a long two-bagger. Marty Smith, with the crowd imploring him to keep up the good work, struck out on three pitched balls, and not one of them was worth offering at.

"Too bad," said Ted. "If that fellow could only hit he'd be a star."

Meanwhile, Little Falls had not yet scored. Nor did she tally in the fourth. Don, today, was master of the situation.

He came to the bench. Up to this point, the touch and go of battle had held him at a tension. Now, with the game comparatively safe, he relaxed. He paid attention to things he had been too busy to notice before—the afternoon shadows, for instance.

The shadows told his practiced scout eyes that it was about four o'clock. Unconsciously he began to figure. If Tim had started at one o'clock, he should have reached Danger Mountain an hour ago—

"Here!" Don told himself abruptly. "I must stop thinking of this."

Chester scored two more runs. He went out, jauntily, to pitch the fifth inning. Before he had hurled three balls he knew that something was wrong. He had lost the razor edge of pitching perfection.

He staggered through the fifth inning without being scored on, but it was ticklish work. Little Falls hit him hard. With the bases full and two out, Marty Smith sprang sideways, made a blind stab, scooped the ball and touched the bag for the third out.

Cries of chagrin came from the Little Falls bench. "Oh, you lucky dubs," called one of the coachers. "That was horseshoes."

Don smiled mechanically. It was his turn to go to bat; and after he was thrown out he came to the bench and fought stubbornly to keep his thoughts on the game and away from Tim.

Grimly he stuck to his task. When it came time to start the seventh inning, he was almost master of himself. He found his drop ball working again.

"Yah!" cried Ted. "Here's where we get in the game again."

Little Falls, following that turbulent sixth inning, expected to go right on with her hitting. Instead, her batters found themselves once more helpless. Three players stepped to the plate and were thrown out in order.

Don's spirits had risen. He walked toward the bench with a springy stride. The spectators in back of third base began to cheer. He glanced at them with a smile—and then his face sobered.

Bobbie Brown was pushing his bicycle hurriedly along in the rear of the watchers. His attitude said plainly that he had come with a message.

Don walked past the bench and waited. Bobbie came directly to him.

"Tim just started," he said. "He had to do chores for his mother and couldn't get away earlier."

"It will be almost dark when he gets there," Don cried.

"Tim went just the same," Bobbie answered. "He told the fellows they could hurry and get there before sunset, and then start back after taking a little look around."

Don could understand harum-scarum Tim refusing to give up a plan. But as for his companions—

"What fellows are with him?" he asked. "Not scouts?"

Bobbie nodded,

"Any from our patrol?"

"Ritter."

Don caught his breath.

"There's a scout from the Foxes and one from the Eagles, too," said Bobbie.

But Don could find no consolation in the fact that other than Wolf patrol scouts were derelict.

"I think they wanted to quit," Bobbie went on, "but Tim jawed them—you know—and they went along."

Don could find no comfort in that, either. The inning was over. It was Little Falls' turn to go to bat. He took a few steps toward the diamond, and paused.

"Come on, Don," called Ted.

He turned back. "Wait here with your bike," he said quickly. "Have you a wrench? Raise the seat."

There was no use pretending that he did not care. And his duty, he thought, was clear. He could ride after Tim and overtake him before he had gone very far. What sort of patrol leader would he be to let two of his scouts break faith with the Scoutmaster and not fight to the very last to bring them back? For it was breaking faith. Mr. Wall had not dreamed that they would do anything like this.

He was on fire now for the game to end. In his eagerness he began to pitch wildly. The first batter got a base on balls.

Ted walked down to him. "Steady, there; you're pitching too fast."

Don saw that if he gave bases on balls he would prolong the struggle. Though it was torture for him to go slow, he fought his desire to hurry. But it was impossible to lose himself in the game. The edges of his skill were blunted. Little Falls began to hit freely again.

Two runs came over the plate before the third player was out. The score was now 5 to 2.

"Arm tired?" asked Ted.

Don shook his head. Why wouldn't the batters hurry? When the third Chester boy was thrown out he sprang to his feet and strode to the mound.

Desperately he worked, trying to retire Little Falls' batters in order. But Little Falls, in that last inning, had tasted blood. Now she would not be denied. Three runs were scored. The game was a tie.

Ted came to the bench with puckered eyes. Here was something he couldn't understand. It was a common thing to see pitchers gradually weaken, but Don had lost his effectiveness all in a moment. He dropped down on the bench and motioned for Don to sit beside him.

"What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Nothing," said Don. What was the use of worrying Ted, he thought.

He had not deceived the captain in the least. Ted leaned back and sighed. He knew that here was a ball game that was lost.

The ninth inning was a slaughter. Little Falls scored four times. Each hit, each run, made the game last that much longer. Don labored grimly to reach the end.

Ted asked him no questions when he came in from the mound. In fact, the captain only half-heartedly urged his players to make a rally. The leaderless, dispirited team fell easy victims to the rival pitcher's curves.

The moment the last player was out, Don hurried to where Bobbie waited with the wheel. He threw one leg over the frame. His foot found the toe-clip.

"Got your scout whistle?" he asked.

Bobbie handed it over. Don thrust it in his pocket and was off.

Shading his eyes, Bobbie watched wheel and rider fly down the road. A hand touched his shoulder.

"What's Don rushing off for?" Ted asked.

Bobbie told about Tim's journey to Danger Mountain. Ted's eyes snapped.

"Think Don'll catch him?" he asked.

"Sure he will."

"I hope," said the captain, "I hope he gives him a beating to remember."

But Don, as he pedaled down the road, was not thinking of fight. Into the Turnpike he raced at an angle of forty-five degrees. The dry dust sifted up from under the spinning tires. It powdered his legs, and burned his eyes, and parched his throat.

Half an hour later he came to where Christie's Brook crossed the Pike. It was clean water, and safe. He threw himself on his stomach and reached down with his lips. His whole body cried out to him to drink, drink, drink. But he was too wise a scout not to know the dangers of such a course. He rinsed his mouth and throat, and swallowed a few drops, mounted again and rode off.

Another twenty minutes, and he came slowly to the top of a ridge. Down below dark forms moved along the road. He gripped the handle-bars hard and coasted.

A few minutes later he had almost reached them. They heard the whir of his chain and looked back. Then they stopped.

"It's only Don," Tim said carelessly.

Ritter shrank back as though he wanted to hide.

Up to this point Don had thought only of overtaking the hikers. Now he was face to face with the problem of what he should say to them. He laid his bicycle at the side of the road and advanced with fast-beating heart.

"How many of you scouts told Mr. Wall you were going on this trip?" he demanded.

"Wasn't necessary," Tim answered promptly. "Mr. Wall didn't say we couldn't go."

"Mr. Wall didn't expect that any scout would go."

"How do you know what Mr. Wall expected? Did he tell you?"

It was a losing argument. Don could see the other scouts looking at Tim and nodding their heads as though agreeing with his logic—all except Ritter, who was looking at the ground.

Don's mind worked feverishly. They were scouts. They were breaking the scout law that said that a scout was trustworthy. He tried to grasp words that would make them feel what he felt, but the words would not come.

"We can't stay here all day," Tim hinted.

The sound of a locomotive came faintly. Perhaps it was the train bringing Mr. Wall back from the city. All at once Don's mind, groping, searching, caught the first vague outline of an idea.

"Wait a minute, fellows." His eyes were on fire. "If you thought Mr. Wall would have no objection to a Danger Mountain hike, why did you wait until you got him out of the village?"

"What do you mean by that?" Tim asked suspiciously.

"Why did you wait until he went away for the day and then sneak off on this hike?"

Indignant cries broke from Tim and from the scouts. They had not known that Mr. Wall had gone to the city. Ritter caught Don's arm.

"Is Mr. Wall away today, Don? Honest?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?" Tim asked.

"I went to his house at noon to tell him about this hike."

Silence fell over the group. The scout from the Eagle patrol took off his hat and fanned his face.

"Mr. Wall won't think we sneaked off just because he was away," he said uneasily.

"Why shouldn't he think it?" cried Don. One of the party was weakening, anyway. He pressed his advantage. "You fellows know what he said on the last hike—that Danger Mountain was a bad place. And the moment he leaves town, a bunch of scouts start for the mountain. How does that look?"

It looked distinctly bad. Tim's carelessness vanished.

"Well," he demanded of Ritter angrily, "what are you looking at me for? I didn't know he had gone to the city."

The hikers were demoralized and leaderless. The right word now—

"Fellows," said Don, "let us show Mr. Wall that he can leave the village as often as he pleases and not have to worry about a single scout of Chester troop."

Ritter took a step toward him. But the others were still just a bit uncertain.

Don almost held his breath. There was nothing more for him to say. He ran a nervous hand into the pocket of his sweater. His fingers closed on some cord, and something round and hard. Bobbie's whistle!

He put it to his lips and blew a long, shrill blast.

It was the voice of authority—the scout signal for attention. Instinctively the boys straightened and looked alive.

"We're going home," said Don. "We're going to show that a scout is trustworthy. Forward!"

An air of suspense seemed to come down over them there in the road. Don's pulse throbbed. Would they obey?

"March!" he ordered. The die was cast.

Three of the boys swung forward. Tim stood with his feet spread apart, frowning and glum. Presently, when the others had gone several hundred yards, he hunched his shoulders sheepishly and slowly followed after.



CHAPTER VI

SPROUTING SEEDS

Don had pitched a full game that day. He was tired. Yet, as he slowly rode the bicycle, he scarcely felt the weary complaint of his muscles.

A great peace lay over the road. The air was soft with summer's glory. Faces that had been turned toward Danger Mountain were now turned toward Chester, and that made all the difference in the world.

At first the journey back was something like a funeral. Tim shuffled along in the rear. Ritter and the two other scouts had nothing to say. Then by degrees the tension wore off. Tim still clung to the rear, but the others began to laugh and to talk.

Half way back to town they saw a man in the distance riding toward them.

"Isn't that Mr. Wall?" Ritter asked anxiously.

It was Mr. Wall. Tim hurried up from the rear. He wanted to be where he could hear what was said when scouts and Scoutmaster met.

Mr. Wall seemed to be riding hard. Suddenly, as he saw them, his pace slackened.

"He's going to dismount," said Ritter.

"He's waiting for us," said the Eagle patrol scout.

Their steps unconsciously became slower, Don jumped from the bicycle and walked with them. He studied Mr. Wall's face. Did Mr. Wall know?

He had gone to the Scoutmaster's house that morning ready to tell. Now, though, he thought he faced a different situation. He was sure that the Danger Mountain hike had been blocked—not for today alone, but for all the days of the future. To bring it up again would be like trying to re-heat a stale pie.

He had faced the situation alone. By luck—he called the use he had made of Mr. Wall's absence a lucky stroke—he had conquered. What had happened had been among scouts. They had settled it among themselves. He felt, dimly, that a great lesson had been learned. Maybe it would be better to leave things as they were.

The Scoutmaster's greeting was cheery. "Hello there, hikers! How did you find the going?"

Ritter and the others glanced at one another sideways.

"Pretty dusty," Don said promptly.

"That's how I found it. How far did you go?"

"About a mile past Christie's Brook."

"Who was the star cook?"

"We didn't cook anything today."

"Cooking ought to be a part of every hike," the Scoutmaster said pleasantly. He felt his tires. "I guess I've worked up an appetite for supper. I'm going back. Want to ride in with me, Don?"

The patrol leader of the Wolves hesitated. Did Mr. Wall suspect something and intend to question him?

"I—I guess I'll stick with the fellows," he said.

Mr. Wall called a good-by and rode off. A few minutes later his retreating figure was outlined against a patch of bronze evening sky.

Ritter drew a deep breath. He hadn't exactly expected Don to tell, and yet—

"Phew!" said the Eagle patrol scout, "That was a close shave."

"Close shave nothing," cried Tim, "He's wise. Four scouts in uniform, and a patrol leader in baseball clothes and spiked shoes, and riding a bicycle. What does that look like?"

"Well, what does it look like?" Ritter demanded.

"It looks as though somebody jumped on a bicycle and rode after us, you gilly."

"Gee!" said the scout from the Eagles. "Mr. Wall will want to know—"

"Mr. Wall doesn't go snooping around," cried the scout from the Foxes.

"And Don could have told him right here, had he wanted to," said Ritter.

Tim said nothing. The march home started again. Don, embarrassed, rode far in the van. Twice, looking back over his shoulder, he saw Tim trudging with the others, but with his hands in his pockets and his head bent thoughtfully.

For the second time that day Don was late for a meal. His father, his mother and his sister Beth had gone off to a church social. Barbara gave him his supper; and while he ate, he told her how the scouts had turned back when they learned that Mr. Wall was away.

"They must be all right at heart, Don," said Barbara.

"Of course they're all right," said Don.

Barbara went out to the kitchen for a piece of cake. He sighed, and relaxed in his chair, and waited. It seemed that she was gone a long time. Suddenly he gave a start, and jerked open his eyes, and looked up to find her shaking his shoulder.

"Better eat your cake tomorrow, Don. You're falling asleep."

He stumbled upstairs and went to bed. As he lay there, on the borderland of sleep, his thoughts drifted back to Tim walking with the others with his hands in his pockets—the way no scout who was alert and alive should walk.

"Wonder what Tim was thinking about," he muttered sleepily.

Tim had been thinking about a boy who could have made it hot for him—and who hadn't. He had expected Don to tell. He had hurried forward ready to argue heatedly in his own defense. And instead, Don had plainly tried to shield him.

He slouched his shoulders with an air of hard toughness, but deep inside he felt small and cheap. He was used to wrangling and boisterous striving for what he wanted. Yet, for all of his roughness, a finer streak of his nature could, on occasion, respond to fair dealing. Squareness—being white—was something he could understand. Don had been white.

He found himself wishing, as he walked along, that he had never started the hike. He had seen Mr. Wall's eyes travel in his direction as though picking him out as the ringleader in whatever mischief had been afoot. He wondered what the Scoutmaster thought of him.

"Aw!" he told himself uncomfortably, "I'm a mutt."

For the time being, at least, his hot blood was chastened. He had gone off that afternoon and had left several chores undone. When he reached home his mother scolded and his father threatened. It was no new experience. Nevertheless, he finished the neglected work in silence, and in silence he ate his supper.

It had begun to dawn on him that he was spoiling things for himself. He wasn't getting any fun out of scouting. He had been banished from baseball. If Ted Carter stayed behind the bat, and if he didn't get another chance to play—

"It's coming to me," he said, and his eyes blinked.

The time he had ruined Andy's fire Mr. Wall had said, "What do you think a scout should do—the square thing?" He was confronted with the same question now. What should he do—the square thing?

All of Sunday he wrestled with the problem. Monday afternoon he went to the field early. He was the first boy there. He sat under the tree; and when he saw Ted coming, he stood up slowly and went forward to meet the captain.

"Say, Ted, any chance for me to get back?"

Ted glanced at him sharply. "Get back for what?"

"To play ball."

The captain tossed him the mitt. "Sure. Here comes Don. Catch him. No curves—he worked nine innings Saturday. Just a little warm-up."

It was an awkward moment for Tim. He was not used to knuckling under. He swallowed a lump in his throat; but Don acted as though there had never been a change in the team. Slowly his restraint wore away. The other players took him back without question; nobody mentioned Saturday's disastrous game.

Tim went home from the practice whistling shrilly. There was a patrol meeting at Don's house that night. He arrived on time. The others talked eagerly of the first aid contest that was scheduled for Friday night. For once he listened without trying to break into the conversation and monopolize it, and gradually a little frown of worry wrinkled his forehead.

The dining-room table was pushed up against the wall.

"No fooling tonight, fellows," said Don. "Let's see how much work we can do."

Tim worked as faithfully as any of the others. In a corner Don and Ritter practiced with splints, and over by the bay window Wally and Alex did their bandaging. He and Andy and Bobbie had the center of the floor for artificial respiration, stretcher work, and fireman's lift.

He worked feverishly. Something whispered to him, "Why didn't you work hard before? You're too late now." Presently it was nine o'clock and the work was over.

"How does it look?" Don asked eagerly.

"All right here," said Wally.

Tim and Andy were silent. Don's eyes clouded.

The meeting broke up. The boys passed out through the hall calling back good night. Andy stayed behind.

"Tim's going to fall down," he said bluntly, "and fall down hard."

Don slowly returned the bandages to the first aid kit. "He was trying tonight."

"Sure he was—tonight. Why didn't he try at the other meetings and cut out his fooling?"

Don closed the kit and pushed it aside. "If he practiced a couple of times this week—"

"How are you going to get him to practice?" Andy demanded.

"Ask him."

"Mackerel! Ask him to do extra work? Can't you imagine what he'll tell you?"

Don could imagine it without much trouble. But he remembered how his last appeal, when everything seemed lost, had stopped the Danger Mountain hike. It cost nothing to try. He had no love for the job of intimating to Tim that his work was not satisfactory. And yet was it fair for him to keep silent? Was it fair to those scouts who had labored with a will?

He went out to the porch and lifted his voice. "Tim! O Tim!"

An answering cry came faintly.

"Now for the fireworks," said Andy.

Tim came through the gate and advanced as far as the porch steps.

"How about you and Andy and Bobbie practicing a couple of times before Friday?" Don asked.

There was a long interval of silence.

"All right," said Tim at last. He swung around and walked out the gate.

"Mackerel!" said Andy. "I thought he'd go up in the air."

Wednesday morning Tim practiced at troop headquarters. Thursday afternoon, as soon as the baseball drill was over, he practiced again. Friday morning he was even ready for more; but that morning Bobbie had to weed the vegetable garden in back of his house and could not come around. Tim went home vaguely disappointed.

That afternoon, at the baseball field, he played a butter-fingered game. He could not hold the ball, and his throws to bases were atrocious.

"Hi, there!" called Ted. "Go take a walk around the block."

Tim was frightened. "Don't you want me to play tomorrow?"

"Sure I do. Tomorrow you'll be all right. This is your bad day. Go off by yourself and get the air."

Tim went off to the maple tree and sat down. And by and by he found himself wondering, not what kind of baseball he would play on the morrow, but whether he would be good or bad in first aid that night.

He came to troop headquarters after supper with a queer, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. Outside, the Eagles were making one last hurried practice of the business of making a coat stretcher. Tim wished he could do a little practicing, too; but when he went inside and joined his patrol, he shrank from asking Andy and Bobbie to work with him.

The hands of the clock crept around to the hour of eight. The Eagles came inside. Mr. Wall called the patrol leaders.

"We don't want any lagging or fooling," he announced. "Have your scouts move lively."

"Yes, sir." The leaders went back to their patrols and repeated what the Scoutmaster had said.

Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled. The bugle sounded "To the Colors." Fifteen minutes later the inspection was over. Each patrol had a perfect score. The result was marked on the board:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 74-1/2 Fox 74 Wolf 73-1/2

It was now time for the contest. An air of tension ran through the troop. Each patrol kept to itself. There was a deal of husky excited whispering. Of all the Wolf patrol, Tim alone was silent. The muscles of his mouth twitched. How he wished he could have back those afternoons he had wasted!

"Scouts!" called Mr. Wall.

The room became silent.

"First in each division of work," he said, "will count five points, second three points, and third one point. The patrol having the greatest number of points at the finish will have five credits to its blackboard score; the second patrol, three points; the third patrol nothing. Two things will count, speed and neatness—and, oh yes, care. I say speed, but I also warn you to use your heads."

Use their heads? What did that mean? But before the scouts had much time to think about it, the first event was called.

This was bandaging. Two scouts from each patrol stepped forward, ready. Wally and Alex represented the Wolves.

"Arm sling," called Mr. Wall.

Quickly, deftly, the slings were made. There was little to choose, it seemed to the watching scouts.

"Head bandage," called the Scoutmaster.

Again there was quick work. But this time the Fox boys slipped a moment. Warning calls came from their patrol. Bobbie yelled a "Go it, Wally." The Fox scouts finished only a second behind the others.

"Broken collar bone," was the next command.

This time one of the Eagles dropped a bandage. There was a shout from the scouts. The shouting increased as the Fox bandager fumbled the binding knots. Wally worked coolly and rapidly. He was the first to finish in this particular test.

"We're going to get bandaging points sure," cried Andy. "Bully work, Wally; bully work."

"Foot bandage," said Mr. Wall.

The three teams finished only seconds apart.

The triangular bandage was now discarded.

"Spiral bandage," ordered Mr. Wall.

Here, for the first time, Wally ran into trouble. The bandage became flabby. Quickly he pulled it apart and began again. The Fox and Eagle patrols jumped to their feet and pleaded for their respective teams to hurry. Wally calmly ran the bandage up the calf of Alex's leg.

"Finished," cried the Foxes and the Eagles.

"Finished," cried Wally.

"Gosh!" whispered Bobby. "His bandage looks neater than theirs."

Then came a spiral reverse, and after that a complete spiral for all the fingers. When this last job was finished, Mr. Wall smiled, as though well pleased.

"Pretty work," he said. "That will be all." The contestants walked back to their troops, and he figured on a pad.

"Wonder if he'll tell us now," whispered Bobbie.

"Of course he will," Andy answered. "That's what makes things exciting, knowing that you are behind or ahead—"

"Sssh!" Don cautioned.

"I'll award the points now," said Mr. Wall. "Later you can look over my scoring pad and see how I scored each individual test. Wolf patrol five points—"

"Wow!" yelled Bobbie.

Andy dug him in the ribs. "Shut up, you shrimp. Want Mr. Wall to put us out?"

But Mr. Wall only smiled at the excited scout. "—Eagles," he went on, "three points, and Foxes, one point."

The Foxes seemed glum. The Eagles clamored about their patrol leader. Don felt like dancing.

"Fine start," he said to Tim; and Tim nodded and swallowed a lump in his throat.

He was used to having his pulse throb during the heat of a baseball game. He was used to the wild urge to win that stirred him on the diamond. But the breathless anxiety that ran through him now was something new. He ached to get in and do something for his patrol.

Splints came next. This time Don and Ritter represented the Wolves. Mr. Wall's first order was for a broken thigh.

The watching scouts were silent. All three teams worked rapidly. There was a hush as the Scoutmaster examined the patients.

"Too tight," he said when he examined Ritter's thigh.

Tim squirmed in his seat. Don took off the splints and looked down at the floor.

Broken leg splints came next, then broken arm splints, and then applying a tourniquet. On this the Eagle scouts failed dismally. Don and Ritter came back to the patrol.

"How does it look?" Andy demanded.

Don shook his head. He was afraid of that first tight splint. It was no surprise to him when Mr. Wall gave first place to the Foxes. But his heart leaped as he heard the Wolves rated second.

"We're ahead," Alex cried jubilantly. He pushed a paper in front of Don's eyes.

Wolf 8 Fox 6 Eagle 4

Tim wet his lips. His turn was next—his, and Bobbie's, and Andy's.

"Artificial respiration," called Mr. Wall.

Bobbie lay on the floor, face down, and stretched his arms above his head. Andy held his wrists lightly. Tim knelt astride the prone figure and placed trembling hands between the short ribs.

Mr. Wall, holding a watch, walked back and forth. Tim's heart thumped. Would he go too fast or too slow? He wondered how the other patrols were making out, but he dared not look. Presently the Scoutmaster called, "That's enough," and he scrambled to his feet.

"Gosh!" Bobbie said ruefully. "You surely put some pressure on."

"Wonder how we made out," said Andy.

Tim wondered, too. When the call came for a demonstration of fireman's lift, he shut his teeth hard. He wouldn't fall down on this!

Two minutes later the lift was over.

"You were quicker than any of them," cried Andy in his ear.

"Stretchers," called Mr. Wall. "Lift the patient in and stand at attention. Patients must not help themselves. Got your staves? Ready? Go!"

A yell burst from the watchers.

"Go on, you Eagles!"

"Chew them up, Foxes; chew them!"

"Faster, Tim; faster!"

Tim's coat was off and on the staves. His fingers fumbled with the buttons.

"I'm ready," came Andy's voice. "Ready, Tim."

His fingers hesitated. Were the buttons all right? He saw the Eagle stretcher-makers begin to straighten up. He swung around to Bobbie.

"All right, Andy, lift him. Up! Now down on the stretcher. Quick! There go the Eagles. Lift it. Lift it!"

They lifted their burden. Mr. Wall came down to inspect.

"Buttons out," cried a voice from the watchers. "Buttons out on the Wolf stretcher."

It was true. Tim's coat, under Bobbie's weight, had popped open. Tim's face turned fiery red. Was he always going to be the fellow who made his patrol lose? Why hadn't he made sure of those buttons instead of taking a chance?

"Maybe some of the others have coats open," Bobbie whispered.

But none of the other coats were open.

Somebody cried that the contest was over. The scouts formed a pushing, excited ring around Mr. Wall and the stretchers. The Scoutmaster shook his head gravely.

"I'm afraid I cannot make a decision yet. Each patrol has excelled in some one thing and has done poorly in some other."

The pushing and the clamor ceased.

"One more test," Mr. Wall added.

The scouts fell back. The big moment of the night had come. This next event would probably seal the doom of some one patrol.

"Each team," said Mr. Wall, "will go to the rear of the room down near the door. At the word it will make its stretcher, lift in the patient, and bring him to me as though I were the doctor. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Clear the room."

The watchers pushed back along the side wall in a straggling line. There was no such thing now as each scout keeping with his own patrol. Eagles, Wolves and Foxes found themselves hopelessly mixed. Don squeezed in next to Alex Davidson.

"Look at Tim," said Alex.

Tim's lips were stern. Here was the chance. The palms of his hands began to sweat. If they could win this—

"Watch your buttons," whispered Andy.

"Go!" came the word of command.

This time Tim took no chances. His fingers were cold, and every nerve cried to him to go faster, faster, faster, but he forced himself to make sure that every button was snug. Then he hitched forward on his knees and helped Andy.

"All right," Andy cried excitedly. "Get him by the shoulders, Tim."

It took them but a moment to lay Bobbie in the stretcher. Tim sprang to the front of the staves, Andy to the rear. They swung the stretcher from the ground.

"'Ray for the Wolves!" cried Wally's voice.

All Tim thought about was getting to Mr. Wall with his burden. He broke into a walk that was almost a run.

"Look at the Wolves!" The cry could be heard above the noise. "That's no way to carry an injured person."

Tim looked around, startled. What was wrong? He saw the Eagles and the Foxes carrying their loads slowly, with precious care. All at once he understood. Oh, what a blunder he had made!

He slowed up abruptly. He could hear tense voices shouting that the Wolves were out of it. He came to a stop in front of Mr. Wall.

The scouts rushed forward from the wall. Somebody's hot breath was on his neck and a squirming elbow was poked in his side. He did not look around. Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled, and the gathering became quiet.

"I am glad this happened," the Scoutmaster said. "I do not mean I am glad because a patrol has failed, but glad because now the lesson will be driven home. An injured person must always be carried carefully. That's what I had in mind when I said speed would count, but that I wanted you to think."

Tim's cheeks burned. There was more to what Mr. Wall said, but he scarcely heard. The points were awarded—Fox patrol, first; Eagles, second; Wolves, last. Bobbie slipped out of the stretcher and Tim turned away forlornly.

Don gripped his arm. "That gives us second place, anyway, Tim. The Foxes have 11 points, and we have 9, and the Eagles have 7."

But Tim could take no comfort. He had fallen down again. Bonehead! That's what he was—a bonehead!

The blackboard was changed:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 74-1/2 Fox 79 Wolf 76-1/2

"Gosh!" cried Bobbie. "Before inspection we were third, and only one point behind first place. Now we're second and two and a half points behind. Funny, isn't it?"

Tim didn't think it was funny at all. His scout honor, not yet fully awake, throbbed with a sense of guilt. Every other fellow in the troop had worked hard. Even Alex, after finishing in the grocery store, had worked at night. And yet in spite of how hard they had tried, his lapse had blackened every one of them, just as though they had been skulkers and shirkers.

Just staying around where the others were made him hot and uncomfortable. While the room rang with cheers for the victorious Foxes he slipped out of the door and melted away in the darkness.

Suddenly the fact that he was sneaking away struck him like a blow. Sneaking away! He stopped. With a careless, cocky swagger he had always, before this, stood up to his troubles.

"I'll go back," he said defiantly. "I'm not afraid."

He wasn't afraid. That was true. If any fellow there had threatened to punch his head he would have peeled off his coat in an instant. He was not scared of physical force; but he was afraid of what every scout in the room might be thinking—that Tim Lally had spoiled things again.

He leaned against a tree, pulled a tender twig, and chewed it thoughtfully. He could see the glowing windows of troop headquarters, and a bright light streamed out through the open door. Shouts, and cheers, and laughter, came faintly to his ears. The whole troop seemed to be having a good time congratulating the victor without envy. He was the only boy who had slipped away.

All at once, as he watched, a great longing arose in his heart to be like other scouts. He was tired of being picked on, and blamed for everything, and spoken of with a doubtful shake of the head. Once he had not minded these things. Now he hungered wistfully for his share of what scouting had to offer: fun, and whole-hearted work, and—and respect.

The noise became subdued. The scouts began to leave. One group, talking excitedly, passed him and he drew back behind the tree.

Then a man stepped out through the doorway and came his way. Tim drew a quick breath and walked out into the roadway.

"Hello, Mr. Wall."

"Hello, Tim. Coming my way?"

"Yes, sir."

They fell into step.

"It was my fault the Wolves lost tonight," the boy said huskily.

"Anybody can make that mistake—once," Mr. Wall told him.

"It was my fault," Tim said stubbornly. What he wanted to say next didn't come so easily. "How—" He hesitated. "How does a fellow get to be a better scout?"

Mr. Wall's hand fell on his shoulder. "Tim, it's all in the way a fellow handles the laws and the oath. If he lives up to them, he's all right. He's a real scout."

"But if I had somebody to go to when I got stuck—"

"Go to your patrol leader, Tim. He's the one to help you."

That night, long after going to bed, Tim lay awake. Well, if speaking to Don was the right way, he'd do it.

But it wasn't easy. When he reached Don's yard next morning, he sat on the grass and tried to scare up courage to say what was in his mind.

"Signaling contest next month," Don told him, "Were you there when Mr. Wall made the announcement?"

Tim shook his head.

"Three kinds," Don explained; "telegraph, semaphore, and Morse. Which can you do best, Tim?"

"I don't know."

"Andy and Wally are down for telegraphy. How about you and Alex Davidson taking Morse?"

Morse was harder than semaphore. Tim didn't want to fail again. Neither did he want to dodge something just because it was hard.

"Alex works," he said hesitatingly. "If I had somebody to practice with in the daytime—"

Don's heart leaped. Could this be rough-and-tumble Tim?

"I'll practice with you now," he cried. "Wait until I get flags."

A minute later he was out of the house. Tim went down near the gate. They began to wig-wag.

At first the work was rusty. By degrees, though, as they corrected each other's mistakes, smoothness came and a measure of speed.

Tim's eyes danced. Gee! but wasn't this fun? He wig-wagged, "Don't give up the ship," and was delighted when he found that his sending had been so sure that Don had caught every letter.

By and by Bobbie appeared and leaned over the gate.

"Hello, Tim," he called.

Tim nodded shortly. He was too much engrossed in what he was doing to have thought for anything else. Don sent him, "Give me liberty or give me death." He stumbled and slipped through the words, threw his cap on the grass and yelled to Don to send it again.

Factory whistles sounded, and Barbara called that dinner was ready. Tim put down the flag regretfully and mopped the sweat from his face. It was Saturday, and this afternoon the nine had a game. But as he turned toward the gate, baseball was very, very far from his thoughts.

Bobbie joined him on the sidewalk. Tim strode off briskly, and Bobbie, shorter of leg, almost had to run.

"Getting ready for the signal contest, Tim?"

Tim nodded.

"I bet you won't make any mistakes next time."

Poor Bobbie meant no harm, but it was about the worst thing he could have said. From Andy, or Alex, or any of the bigger scouts, Tim would not have minded so much. But to have little Bobbie hold up his shortcomings was like drawing a match across sandpaper.

"Gee!" Bobbie rattled on; "aren't you glad Don is going to show you how to do things?"

"Say," Tim said ominously, "you shut up and run along or I'll twist your ears around your head. Go on, now." He gave the astonished boy a push. Then, scowling blackly, he passed him and went down the street with steps that had lost their lightness and their spring.



CHAPTER VII

CROSS CURRENTS

In the days that followed, Tim became as restless as a caged animal. He had had a taste of the fun of being a real scout. He knew the dissatisfied emptiness of not pulling with his patrol. He wanted to play fair, but his high-strung nature could not shake off the dread of having anybody think that Tim Lally could be led around by the nose.

That morning's signal drill with Don had opened the door to a strange, delightful country. He tried to find the same zest when they practiced again. It was gone. Suspicious thoughts sneaked through his brain, whispering, "Maybe Don likes this because it gives him a chance to be a big fellow."

He had spells of moody silence during which he was dissatisfied with himself and his whole small world in general. The news of what he was doing had spread through the patrol. The third time he worked with Don, Andy, Ritter and Bobbie all watched from the fence.

After he was gone there was a hubbub of excited talk. Gee! Tim was getting to be a peachy scout, wasn't he! Don took the signal flags and walked thoughtfully toward the cellar. He had begun to notice a change.

Two days later Tim came back by appointment. His work was listless and dead. The next time he did not come at all. That evening Don met him on Main Street.

"I guess I can do all right now working nights with Alex," Tim said uneasily.

"All right," Don agreed. "Any time you want to come around, though—" He waited, but Tim said nothing.

Don went home feeling rather blue. "I suppose he'll start scrapping with everybody all over again," he muttered.

But he was wrong. Tim went his way moody and silent, but with no chip on his shoulder. He came to the next troop meeting clean and tidy, and on time. Each patrol won a perfect score. The blackboard read:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 90-1/2 Fox 95 Wolf 92-1/2

"Still two and one-half points behind," Don sighed. Wasn't it hard to catch up? If the Wolves could win the next contest on signaling—But he wasn't going to think of that, now that Tim had become balky.

The other scouts spoke of it, though. Alex said earnestly that Tim was really practicing this time. Andy grinned and said that the Eagles and the Foxes had better watch out because they were heading straight for trouble. Don walked with them and said not a word.

Five days later the patrol awoke to the fact that Tim no longer practiced in Don's yard. Andy and Bobbie came around and sat on the front stoop with the patrol leader.

"Mackerel!" said Andy, "but he's a queer fish. Was there any scrap?"

Don shook his head.

"Didn't he say anything?"

Another shake.

"Just quit, eh?"

Don nodded.

Andy whistled softly, took a scout whistle from his pocket and examined it. "How is that going to hit our signaling chances?" he asked.

"Alex says Tim works all right with him," Don answered.

"That's all right, but—" Even Bobbie knew what he meant, that the right kind of stick-together was better than all kinds of practice. "Something must have bit him," Andy went on. "If he liked practicing here at first—He did like it, didn't he?"

"You bet," said Bobbie. "Even if he did push me and tell me to run along."

Andy sat up straight. "When was that?"

"The first day he practiced here. I asked him wasn't it fine to have Don showing him—"

"Oh!" Andy said softly.

"He liked it all right," said Bobbie.

Neither of the other boys made any comment. By and by Bobbie went off. Don looked at his assistant patrol leader.

"Think that could be it?" he asked.

"Maybe." Andy puckered his eyes. "How is he on the ball field; all right?"

"Fine. His hitting won last Saturday's game."

"Maybe it isn't that," Andy said doubtfully. He was so used to Tim being grouchy when anything displeased him that he could not grasp the thought that perhaps there had been some little change.

By this time the troop contest had every scout on his toes. Friday night's meeting saw each patrol win another perfect score. Don decided gloomily that there wasn't much chance to get ahead by being clean and on time for roll call—every scout in the troop was clean and on time. It was the monthly contests that would decide the winner of the Scoutmaster's Cup.

Before going home he studied the changed figures on the blackboard:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 106-1/2 Fox 111 Wolf 108-1/2

"Tim's doing fine on signaling," said Alex in his ear.

Don drew a deep breath. Well, maybe everything would be all right, after all.

Next day the Chester nine played St. Lawrence. It was touch and go from the start. Now Chester led; now the visitors led. The eighth inning found Chester in front by a 6 to 5 score.

All during the game Don had felt the strength of Tim's support. Not once had the catcher's playing faltered. Don, waiting on the bench, allowed his thoughts to wander. If Tim would plunge into scouting like that—

"Come on, Don," called Ted Carter. "Ninth inning."

The first Chester batter doubled. Instantly all stray thoughts were swept from Don's mind. The next player fouled out. Then came a long fly to the right-fielder and the runner ran to third after the catch. Any kind of a dinky hit would score the tying run.

Don pitched to the batter. Without shifting his position, Tim snapped the ball to third base. The runner, caught asleep, scrambled frantically for the bag.

"Out!" ruled the umpire.

The game was over. Don ran to the bench.

"Pretty work, Tim," he cried.

"I guess I don't need anybody to show me how to play baseball," said Tim.

Don paused in the act of reaching for his sweater. Tim's eyes met his, a bit uncertain, a bit defiant. Ted Carter, laughing and happy, romped in between them.

"You fellows are one sweet battery," he cried joyously. Other members of the team crowded around the bench. Tim, with his mitt under his arm, walked away.

Slowly Don buttoned his sweater. Tim's change of heart was a mystery no longer.

At the edge of the field he found Andy Ford waiting.

"Mackerel!" cried the assistant patrol leader; "wasn't that a corking game? When Tim made that throw—Hello! What's the matter?"

"Tim's sore because of what Bobbie said."

"How do you know?"

Don related what had happened at the bench.

"Well, the big boob!" Andy gave a snort of anger. "Doesn't he know any better than to pay attention to a kid like Bobbie?"

"Tim's always been that way," said Don. "He's sensitive."

"Sure; but he isn't sensitive about his patrol, is he?"

Don sighed. No; Tim wasn't very sensitive about that.

After supper he came out of the house and walked down to the fence. He had an idea that Andy would be around; and when presently the assistant patrol leader came down the dark street, he held open the gate. They sat on the grass and talked in low tones.

"I've doped it out," said Andy. "Why don't you shift—you and Tim do the Morse instead of Tim and Alex?"

Don shook his head—slowly.

"Why not?" Andy demanded. "If you worked with him and let him do things his own way wouldn't he get over his grouch?"

"I don't know. Would he?"

"Sure he would. Suppose some day when we were all hanging around you asked him to show you how to do something."

"Gee!" cried Don. "That would get him, wouldn't it?"

Andy grinned. "I guess we'll tame that roughneck, what?"

Don always rested his arm after a game. He had not planned to go to the baseball field until Tuesday. But his business with Tim was too important to wait. Monday afternoon he put away his tools and his bird-houses, and went off to the village green.

"Hello!" called Ted Carter. "What are you doing around here on a Monday?"

"I want to see Tim," Don answered. He took the catcher off to one side. "We're making some changes," he said. "Alex will work with Ritter on semaphore signaling."

Tim's eyes grew suspicious. "Who'll work with me on Morse?"

"I will," said Don.

Tim's eyes snapped. "So that's the game, is it?" he asked darkly. "What's the first order I get; practice tomorrow?"

"That's up to you," said Don. "When do you want to practice?"

Tim was taken aback. He had expected to be told, not asked; ordered, not consulted. He mumbled that tomorrow would do, and went back to practice. He could not get his thoughts back on the work. Once, when the ball was traveling around the bases, his attention wandered, and when somebody threw the sphere home, it almost struck him in the head.

"Let's call it a day," cried Ted Carter, "before Tim gets killed."

Tim smiled absently. He looked around for Don. The patrol leader was gone. He walked away slowly, turning one question over and over in his puzzled mind. What new trick was this, anyway?

Next morning he went around to Don's house. He was still sure that something had been hidden, and that at the proper moment the surprise would be sprung. He was watchful and cautious.

The practice ran its course serenely. Barbara came out, and after watching awhile, wrote a four-word message and asked Tim to send it. Don received it without a mistake.

"Isn't that splendid?" she cried. "The Wolf patrol will surely win points in the signaling, won't it?"

"We'll give them a fight," said Don.

Tim said nothing. But the fire to be something more than the Wolf patrol failure began to burn again. When the last message had flashed back and forth, he handed Don his flag.

"We'll get down to real work after this," said the patrol leader.

Ah! So here was the trick. Tim waited.

"Sending messages back and forth," Don went on, "is all right while we're brushing up the code. We know the code now. It's time to begin to specialize for the contest. One of us will have to do nothing but send, and the other nothing but receive."

Still Tim waited.

"Which do you want to do, send or receive?"

"I—I'll send," said Tim. He felt like a boy who had squeezed his fingers in his ears and had waited for a gun to go off, and had then found that the gun was not loaded. He was bewildered, lost, confused.

Wednesday he came again. And still there was no bossing, no giving orders, no high hand of authority. Perhaps there was no trick.

"Ah!" Tim told himself, "there must be. Why did he shift me here? Why didn't he let me stay with Alex? There's a reason, all right."

And so, whenever he and Don were together, on the baseball field or in Don's yard, he found himself weighing every word and act.

Friday night's meeting brought no change in the score. Each troop, eager and keen, reported faultlessly. The blackboard read:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 122-1/2 Fox 127 Wolf 124-1/2

Tonight there was silence when the scores were posted. The contest had grown too tight for mere noise and bluster. A false step now by any patrol might drop it hopelessly to the rear. When Mr. Wall's commands still held the scouts in ranks, the faces they turned to him were boyishly sober.

"I am going to keep a promise," the Scoutmaster said, "that I made some time ago. Next week's meeting will be held in Lonesome Woods."

The sober faces were suddenly aglow.

"Attention!" came the low voices of the patrol leaders. The ranks stood firm.

"It will be part of an overnight hike. We will leave here Thursday afternoon at one o'clock."

A quick murmur—then silence.

"The signaling contests will be held in the woods. Break ranks."

The pent-up enthusiasm swelled up in a wild cheer. The Scoutmaster found himself pushed and jostled. A dozen boys tried to shout questions at once. He laughed and covered his ears with his hands. When he brought them away Don spoke quickly:

"How about telegraphy, sir?"

"Each patrol will bring its own wire and rig its own instruments," was the answer.

Why, this was just like war—signaling from hidden places, and running telegraph wires over tree limbs and across the ground.

Tim's adventurous blood quickened. The troop meeting seemed tame and prosaic. He went through his setting-up exercises mechanically. He could almost smell the tang of a wood fire burning.

There was work tonight in identifying leaves and barks of trees, and stems of plants. Tim twisted restlessly. The moment the meeting was over he followed Don down the room.

"How far apart will they put us in the woods?" he demanded.

Don didn't know.

"We'd better get out among some trees and practice," Tim said.

The suggestion was good. Don said so. Tim's face flushed.

Patrols were clamoring around their patrol leaders. How much wire would be needed? Tim went back to where he had left his hat. And there, on his way out, Mr. Wall paused a moment.

"How's everything, Tim?"

"All right, sir."

"Good!" The Scoutmaster's hand ran gently over his head. Their eyes met. There were no questions of, "Did you go to your patrol leader, Tim?" Mr. Wall seemed to be the kind who understood without asking questions.

"Tim," he said, "I think we're going to be proud of you some day."

"I hope so," Tim said huskily. His heart beat faster as he turned back to his patrol. And then he heard Ritter's voice.

"Say, how is Tim going? Has Don got him working?"

"Stop that, Ritter," Don cried angrily. Gosh! couldn't some fellows ever learn to hold their tongues? His eyes sought Tim; one look told him enough. Tim had heard.

Here was another mess, and right on the eve of the big overnight hike. Don made up his mind that he'd square things with Tim tomorrow when they reported at the field for the regular Saturday game. A mix-up like this couldn't be neglected.

But there was a heavy fall of rain that night, and more rain the next morning. By noon the village field was flooded. Ted Carter sent word that the game had been called off.

At two o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. From the porch Don had watched the weather restlessly. The moment the sun appeared he hurried off toward the field. There was just a possibility that Tim might come around. He had to speak to him.

Tim came at last, but without his catcher's mitt. He stood around with his hands in his pockets and had very little to say. His mouth was a trifle tight, and his eyes rather hard.

"When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?" Don asked.

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

"Monday or Tuesday?"

But Tim was still indifferent. Don came nearer.

"If you're sore about what Ritter said—"

"Me sore? Why should I get sore? I'm used to it."

"Now, Tim—"

Tim walked away. He told himself that he was through. Not through with the scouts, but through with going down to Don's yard as though he were a poodle dog being taught new tricks.

He would not stop practicing. Nobody was going to get a chance to say that he was to blame if anything happened this time. All next morning he wig-wagged in his yard. After dinner he went at it again. The work was cruelly monotonous.

"There," he said grimly, when at last he quit; "I bet Don didn't practice that much today."

All at once a voice whispered to him, "How could Don practice? He receives. He must have somebody to send to him."

"Aw!" Tim growled, "let him go get somebody to send to him."

Somehow, that didn't seem to answer. Next afternoon, when he began his self-imposed task of signaling, the flag seemed like lead in his hands. He sat on the chopping block outside the kitchen door and stared ahead. A long time later he sighed and walked around to the front gate.

"I'm a boob for doing it," he said, and stopped short. In a minute he went on again, slowly, doubtfully—but on.

All the way to Don's house the old questions pricked him sharply. Why had he been shifted? Just to be watched? What would Don say to him now?

Don, working on the lawn, said: "Hello, Tim. Wait until I tack on this screening, will you?"

But the patrol leader's heart was beating fast. If Tim was ready to smile and dig in, the Wolves' chances were improved 50 per cent.

But though Tim was ready to work, he was far from being in a friendly state of mind. His flag wig-wagged short three-and four-word messages that Don could carry in his head without resorting to pad and pencil. At four o'clock the work was over.

"Want to go to the woods tomorrow?" Tim asked gruffly.

Don nodded eagerly.

"All right; I'll be around at one o'clock." He turned on his heel and was gone.

Don went indoors dejectedly. Barbara was mixing biscuit batter in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway and blurted out the doings of the past few days.

"Nothing there to worry about," Barbara said brightly. "Be honest, now. How did Tim act a couple of months ago whenever anything displeased him?"

"He kicked things around."

"And now he comes here and works."

"Gosh!" said Don in a relieved voice, "that's so. I didn't think of it like that." He went back to his screens for another hour of work before supper, and as he measured and cut molding, his whistle was cheery and good to hear.

Even Tim's crabbiness on the next day's trip did not dampen his spirits. There was a thicket a mile from town. They selected this spot for their work.

The light was different from the open. Somehow everything seemed changed. Messages were harder to read. It was fine practice.

"I'm glad you thought of that," Don said on the way home.

Tim's stiffness melted a little. It was hard to be stand-offish with a boy who kept praising your judgment.

As though by instinct, that night saw a gathering of the patrols at troop head-quarters. Telegraph instruments, and dry batteries, and coils of wire, were laid together for the morrow's hike. The trek wagon was hauled from the old barn in back of Mr. Wall's house. The tents were carried from the same place and laid in the wagon. The lanterns, swinging underneath, were cleaned and filled and put back on their hooks.

At first Tim had hung on the outskirts of the crowd. But it was impossible to resist for long the glamour of these preparations. The trek wagon, the tents, the night lanterns, all helped to stir his quick blood. They whispered of evening, and night fires springing to light, and white tent walls showing ghostly through the dusk.

"Say!" called a voice, "how are you Wolves going to manage about Alex Davidson? He works in the store. Is he going on the hike?"

"No," said Don.

"Well, how about the signaling?"

"He has half a day off Friday. He'll come out Friday afternoon."

The nine o'clock fire bell sent the scouts scurrying for home. The trek wagon was left against the wall of troop headquarters.

Next morning the patrols assembled early. Mr. Wall dispatched a scout to the baker's for two dozen loaves of bread. Another boy hurried off to the grocer's shop for molasses, cocoa, and evaporated milk. When these had been put safely in place, the last strap was adjusted. The trek wagon was ready for the journey.

"You fellows get home," Mr. Wall ordered, "and get back here on time. Remember, the same rule as always—individual cooking. Two or three scouts or a whole patrol can team up, but each scout must bring enough food to feed himself for three meals—supper tonight, and breakfast and dinner tomorrow. The troop treasury furnishes the bread, molasses and cocoa. Everybody understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. We leave here at one o'clock sharp."

The Scoutmaster could have saved himself the warning. At 12:30 o'clock the last scout was there, haversack and blanket on his back, ax and canteen on his hip.

At 12:55 the bugle blew. The scouts fell into line.

"Each patrol," said Mr. Wall, "will take its turn hauling the trek wagon. The Wolves first."

Don's patrol dropped back.

At one o'clock the bugle sounded again.

"Forward!" cried Mr. Wall. "March!"

"Forward!" echoed the patrol leaders. "March!"

Chester troop was off. Small boys followed along the sidewalk and on past the village limits. After that, one by one, they dropped back, and at last the troop swung on through the early afternoon alone.

Tim threw himself joyously into the work of hauling the wagon. When Mr. Wall ordered route step, and the discipline of the hike gave way to laughter and song, Tim's voice rose above all the rest.

He felt like dancing in the road. The first hill found him impatient to run the wagon to the top. His zeal caused a quickened pace. Oh! there was no loafing or shirking today.

At the end of a half-mile the Foxes took the load. Tim strode on with a swinging step. His doubts were vanishing. Not once had Don tried to force him to do what he did not want to do. If there was some hidden reason for switching him from Alex, it should show itself now, shouldn't it? Maybe he had been wrong all along.

Don fell into step with him. "How about some practice in the woods this afternoon, Tim?"

"Sure." Tim's eyes danced. "We'll be first if we win this time."

Now it was Don who felt like dancing in the road. Tim, for some reason, had had another change of heart, and was once more eager.

Soon the whole patrol was walking with Don and Tim. And Tim, light-hearted, irrepressible, kept the talk flying merrily. When the call came for the Wolves to take the wagon again, he was the first to reach the shafts.

"Come on, slaves," he called.

Andy winked at Don. Don clutched the assistant patrol leader's arm and squeezed hard.

Tim made lively work of the next half-mile. The relief found Bobbie Brown gasping and wilted.

"Gee!" said Tim; "you're packing too heavy a load for a runt. Here, I'll take your blanket."

Bobbie straightened his shoulders. "I'm all right. I—"

"Aw! forget it." Tim turned him around, unstrapped the blanket, and stuck it under his arm. "Feels better, doesn't it?"

"Y-yes," said Bobbie.

Mr. Wall, coming down the line to watch for stragglers, saw what happened, smiled quietly, and went back to the head of the column.

After a time the jokes and the laughter stopped. They were approaching Lonesome Woods. Of course, this was going to be all kinds of fun, but—but—Well, Lonesome Woods was Lonesome Woods, wasn't it? A mile from camp Mr. Wall halted the column.

"Volunteers to go forward and cut firewood," he called.

But though the scouts might draw together a bit, here was too good an adventure to be missed. There was a rush for the Scoutmaster. Tim got there first.

"The Wolves have it," Mr. Wall decided.

"Little more load for the Eagles and the Foxes," sang Tim, and pitched his blanket and haversack into the trek wagon. Don and the others unslung theirs. Two minutes later the Wolf patrol was running in advance of the column with only their axes and canteens.

They plunged into the woods with a whoop. Presently they all drew together and listened. The place was still—ghostly still. The air was cooler, and heavier, and—and different.

"Gee!" said Bobbie. "It is lonesome in here, isn't it?"

Tim shrugged his shoulders. "Come on. Let's get firewood."

The sound of the axes chased away the quiet. The firewood became a small pile, a great pile, and then a fat, clumsy pyramid.

"Hello there, Wolves," came a faint hail.

The troop had arrived. Soon the woods rang with high-pitched shouts and cries.

The problem now was to find a camp site. Scouts swung out in all directions. One group tried to advance the wagon. Now the wheels would get tangled in clumps of underbrush, and now there would be seemingly no way to squeeze through the trees. At last it could be advanced no further.

The Foxes had found a clearing on sloping ground. A brook ran at one end. The ground slope insured good drainage in case of rain.

The Wolves went back to bring in their firewood, and the Eagles and the Foxes carted tents and equipment from the trek wagon.

Tim's blood ran riot in his veins. As he carried in the last of the kindling, the second tent arose against the background of trees.

"Say," he called eagerly, "let's help there."

The tent squad made a place for him.

He seemed tireless. By and by, with the last tent up and the last rope guyed, he wiped the sweat from his face and grinned.

"Doesn't look like Lonesome Woods now, does it?"

Mr. Wall's watch showed four o'clock. Supper cooking would start at five. There was an hour in which to string telegraph wires.

"The messages," Mr. Wall said, "will be received here. Do not get too close to each other with your instruments."

Scouts hustled out to the trek wagon for batteries, wire and instruments. Tim staked a claim for the Wolves' receiving station.

"How much wire must each patrol have out?" Andy Ford asked.

"Two hundred feet," was the answer.

Eagles and Foxes gathered and broke into clamorous discussion. How should the wire be measured? Don gathered his patrol and took it to one side.

"Andy has a fifty-foot tape. We'll measure as we unwind. Bobbie, you stay here and hold this end. Come on, fellows."

Into the dense growth of trees they wormed their way. It was slow work passing the wire through the branches of trees. Tim climbed and shinned his way from limb to limb like a monkey. Wherever the wire was laid, it was fastened in place with rubber tape.

About one hundred and twenty-five feet were out when the Scoutmaster's whistle sounded the recall. The scouts came back to camp. There was a comparison of results. The Eagles had strung about seventy feet of wire, and the Foxes less than sixty.

"We'll have ours finished before the others know what's happening," chuckled Andy. "And then we'll get in some practice."

"Tim and I are going to get some practice after supper," said Don.

"Sure thing," said Tim.

Fires were lighted and pots and pans appeared. Somebody yelled that cocoa was ready. The Foxes dished it out, and Mr. Wall distributed bread thickly covered with molasses.

"Some feast," said Tim. He took his place in the circle of Wolves. He was one of them—at home.

There was still some daylight left after dishes had been washed and put away, and the supper refuse burned. Tim and Don walked off a way with their flags. Teams from the other patrols scrambled for their flags, too, and practiced until the last light began to go.

The night-fire grew brighter in the darkness. A hush fell over the camp. The boys formed a circle about the blaze. Where they sat there was light and warmth, but ten feet back were the trees, and darkness, and the melancholy whispering of the breeze through stirring branches.

There was sober discussion of the morrow's contest. No voice lifted itself loudly. Mr. Wall told an Indian story. The scouts drew closer to the fire, and Bobbie glanced back over his shoulder. After a time heads began to nod.

"Time to turn in," said the Scoutmaster. "Better fill your canteens. You may want a drink during the night."

The brook was a hundred yards away, out in the darkness—and this was Lonesome Woods. Bobbie said he never took a drink during the night.

"Aw!" cried Tim. "Let's go down there and fill them up."

He led the way. Bobbie decided that he might need a drink after all.

Twenty minutes later they were all in the tents. Out at the dying camp-fire the bugler sounded "taps." As the mournful notes echoed, more than one scout, under his blanket, felt goose-flesh.

Ordinarily, in camp, the first night is one of restlessness. But Chester troop was tired. For a while voices sounded faintly. They grew fitful and yawny. Finally they ceased. The camp was asleep under the stars.

And then the bugle blew again. Reveille! The scouts tumbled out to a new world. The darkness was gone. Lonesome Woods was no longer spooky. The whole world smelled clean, and green, and damp, and sweet.

Breakfast was rushed. The Foxes were the first to get away from camp. The Wolves were next. They finished stringing their wire, adjusted a sender, and came back to install the receiver. As soon as everything was ready, Wally went off to the end of the line to send to Andy Ford.

The Foxes were the next to get rigged. The Eagles rushed in almost on their heels. Morse and semaphore teams practiced frantically. Over everything lay a fever of preparation.

At ten o'clock Mr. Wall sent a squad to take down the tents and pack them away in the trek wagon. Another squad brought wood and water. The camp prepared for dinner.

It was a happy, noisy, high-strung meal.

"Clean camp for the contests," Mr. Wall ordered next.

Empty cans and refuse went flying into the fire, to be raked out later and buried. Presently the last sign of litter was gone. The scouts waited expectantly.

"Telegraphy first," said the Scoutmaster. He handed a sealed envelope to each sender. "There's your message. Read it when you get to your instrument. Off you go. A bugle blast will be the signal to start. Speed and accuracy will count."

Wally Woods ran off with Andy yelling after him to take his time and not get rattled. Then came a wait. Mr. Wall nodded to the bugler. The woods echoed to a sharp blast.

Almost at once telegraph instruments began to click. Andy, with puckered eyes, bent down and wrote slowly. The scout at the Fox receiver was supremely confident, but the Eagle scout seemed worried and harassed.

To the watching boys it was impossible to tell who was ahead. The minutes passed, the excitement grew. All at once the Fox scout sprang to his feet and came running to Mr. Wall with his paper.

"Shucks!" said Tim. "He may have it all mixed up. Look at Andy."

The assistant patrol leader of the Wolves was now running toward the Scoutmaster. Two minutes later the Eagle scout came forward reluctantly.

"It's fierce," he said in disgust. "It doesn't make sense nohow."

The message had been, "A hundred men searched the hills for the Indian." The Fox scout had made but one error. Andy had made four, and the Eagle scout had twisted the message into a knot.

"Well," said Tim, "that gives us three points for second place. Now, if Alex gets here—"

The calling cry of the Wolves sounded faintly.

"That's him," said Tim, and shrieked an answer. Andy and Bobbie went out to meet the newcomer and show him the way. Presently they led him into camp. He had ridden to Lonesome Woods on his bicycle, and had ridden hard. He was hot, dusty and thirsty.

After half an hour's rest on the grass he was ready. The semaphore signaling started.

All three patrols scored perfect messages, but the Foxes finished first, the Wolves second, and the distracted Eagles last.

"That gives the Foxes 10 points and us 6," said Bobbie. "The Eagles have 2."

Don shook his head uneasily. The Foxes had been in the lead ever since the last contest. If they won again, they would be out so far in front that it would be almost impossible to catch them.

It was time for the Morse. Tim put his flag under his arm and went out to his station. Ritter went along to read the message to him, word for word, so that there would be no loss of time. Bobbie, at the receiving end, was to write the message as Don called him the letters.

Ritter tore open the envelope and took out the paper.

"How long?" Tim demanded.

"Eleven words." Tim reached out his hand and Ritter drew back. "Never mind reading it. Just send what I give you. You won't get twisted thinking about the next word, because you won't know what it is."

Tim did not argue. He could see Bobbie lying on the ground with pad and pencil, and Don crouched on one knee above him. Gee! when would the bugle blow?