"Don't go too fast," Ritter said huskily.

Tim scarcely heard. He and Don had made no mistakes the last time they practiced. How would it be now on the day of the real thing?

"T-a-a-a-a, ta, ta," sounded the bugle.

"Every—" cried Ritter.

Tim sent the word. His hands gripped the flag staff with a nervous, straining strength.

"—patriot—"

This word followed the first.

"—places—his—all—"

Tim was breathing hard.

"—at—the—service—"

His throat was dry.

"—of—his—"

Tim's arms trembled. Was there much more?

"—country," said Ritter, as though he couldn't get the word out fast enough. "End of message."

Tim fronted his flag three times. He saw Bobbie hand the message to Don, and Don race over to Mr. Wall.

"We're first in," cried Ritter. "Come on, Tim."

But Tim was suddenly afraid. He dropped the flag and pretended that his shoe-laces were loose. Ritter ran ahead. Tim fussed with the laces a long time—was still fussing, in fact, when cries of "O you Foxes! What's the matter with the Foxes?" brought him to his feet.

This time he walked in hurriedly. Ritter met him.

"You had three mistakes, Tim," he said sadly.

"I had three mistakes?" Tim cried angrily.

"Well, we had three mistakes. The Foxes were perfect again. They're sharks on signaling. The Eagles were last."

Tim went over to Don. "Let's see that message." He read it under his breath. "Every batriot blaces his all at the sereice of his country."

The Foxes were still skylarking when he handed back what Bobbie had written. He looked around at the members of his own patrol. Bobbie shifted his eyes. Wally tried to smile that it wasn't a bad showing at all. Tim turned away slowly, went over to his equipment, and began to roll his blanket for the homeward march. All the sunshine, and the frolic, and the outdoor freshness was gone from the day.

He was sure that he had sent the message right. He couldn't send an e for a v, because e was the simplest letter in the Morse alphabet—just a single dot. And as for sending two b's where he should have sent two p's—

"I didn't," he muttered wrathfully. "They think I did because—"

His face clouded with swift suspicion, and the blanket dropped from his hands. He had been telling himself for two days that there had been no hidden reason for Don taking him as a partner, but now that was all swept aside. Don had wanted him as the goat. If any mistakes were made he would be the one to be blamed—just as he was being blamed. Wasn't he Tim Lally, the fellow who always spoiled things? Oh, what a woodenhead he had been not to see it all before!



CHAPTER VIII

DON'S CHOICE

The jubilant Foxes found enough flour to make a paste, and enough paper to stick on a blanket and make a sign. The sign read:

Eagles 122-1/2 Foxes 132 Wolves 127-1/2

They carried it, spread out like a banner, all the way home.

The hike back to Chester was a bit one-sided. The Foxes enjoyed themselves hugely, but every other scout was sober with his own thoughts. The Eagles were convinced that they were out of the race. Don and Andy Ford were trying to take some comfort from the fact that they had four weeks yet in which to overtake the Foxes. Nobody noticed that Tim, a bubbling source of energy yesterday, was now sour and glum.

It was not until next day that Don noticed any change. In the regular weekly game on the village field Tim backed him up faultlessly; but on the bench the catcher edged away and sat at the end with the score-keeper.

"Good night!" Don murmured. "What is it this time?" He was becoming used to Tim's blowing hot one minute and cold the next. He didn't worry so much over Tim's moods. By tomorrow, he reflected, this rather uncertain scout would probably be running around again like a loose cyclone.

Besides, Don had something to worry about just then, something so acute that it could not be shared with another worry. His pitching was undergoing violent assault. He was sure he had plenty of stuff on the ball. Nevertheless, the rival team was lacing his best efforts to all parts of the field.

The end of the game returned him a loser.

"Can't win them all," Ted Carter said philosophically. "They seemed to hit everything today, Tim, didn't they?"

"Everything," said Tim. He took his sweater from the bench and started for home.

Don had a notion to follow. Instead, after a moment, he walked off with several of the players. So long as Tim was losing his scrappiness, what was the use of fussing over him? Probably by tomorrow, or Monday, whatever was biting him would have stopped, and he would come around to discuss the ifs of the contest, and the what-might-have-happened. It occurred to Don, vaguely, that he had not yet heard Tim say a word about what had happened at Lonesome Woods.

Tim did not come around—neither on Monday nor Tuesday. Wednesday Don met him at the field for the regular mid-week practice.

"Where have you been keeping yourself, Tim?"

"No place."

"You haven't been around since—"

"No," Tim broke in bitterly, "and I'm not coming around. Nobody can make a booby out of me twice."

Don's face sobered. This wasn't the Tim of passing moods. This was more like the blustering Tim who had once overawed the Wolf patrol.

"Who made a boob of you?"

"You did. Oh, don't look so innocent; you can't work it the second time. Take me for a partner. Then, if anything went wrong in the contest, everybody would say that Don Strong couldn't have made a mistake—oh, no. It must have been Tim Lally because he's always queering things. And they did say it!"

"Who did?"

"Ritter. 'Too bad you made those mistakes, Tim.' I ought to have whanged him one in the eye. How did he know whether I made any mistakes?"

Gone was Don's thought that Tim would be all right in a day or so. If this firebrand scout convinced himself that he had been tricked, and if he kept thinking so—

"You've got this wrong," Don cried. "I—"

"Sure I've got it wrong," Tim mocked. His voice changed wrathfully. "But I didn't have the message wrong, and don't you forget it. I know my code. I sent the message right. Do you think I'd send an e for a v?"

"Do you think I wouldn't know an e?" Don asked.

Tim was staggered. He hadn't thought of that—that an e would be as simple to Don, receiving, as it would be to him, sending.

"Aw!" he said recklessly, "it's a trick. You can't fool me again. If you're going to pitch, get busy, else I'll go home."

Don pitched. He decided that there was no use in arguing with Tim now. Besides, he wanted time to think.

He had saved the message that Bobbie had written. That night he took it from his bureau drawer.

"Every batriot," he read aloud, "blaces his all at the sereice of his country." Funny there should be two b's instead of two p's. He repeated the letters slowly, thoughtfully.

"B, p; b, p—Gosh! I'll bet I know what happened."

He jumped up and paced the room excitedly. It was clear now. Tim had sent p, and he had called p, but p and b sound almost the same and Bobbie, tense and excited, had caught the wrong sound.

"E and v are almost the same, too," Don cried. "I'll tell Tim tomorrow."

Next day he sought Tim eagerly. Tim gave him a sarcastic sidelong glance.

"B and p do sound alike," Don said sharply.

"I'm going to ask Mr. Wall to take me out of the Wolf patrol," was Tim's response.

He meant it. He thought Don's explanation sounded fishy. Why should it take six days to discover that b and p sounded almost the same? He quite forgot that he had not thought of b and p sounding the same at all.

Don did not bother him again. Friday night he came to the troop meeting. His resolution to ask for a transfer from the Wolves had weakened. In the past he had never paid much attention to Mr. Wall, accepting him as a matter of course—every troop had to have a Scoutmaster. Now, somehow, the thought of Mr. Wall strangled his desire to complain.

The Scoutmaster had said only two weeks before, "I think we're going to be proud of you some day." A queer little lump came up into Tim's throat and made him swallow hard. He did not think Mr. Wall would like it if he asked to be changed, and—and he wouldn't ask.

The entire patrol saw that he avoided Don, for he made no effort to hide his feelings. He left the meeting as soon as it was over. Andy Ford and Alex Davidson glanced questioningly at the patrol leader.

"He thinks I took him as a partner so that he'd be blamed if the Morse signaling went wrong," Don explained.

"Oh, the mule!" Andy cried. "Why doesn't he wait until somebody blames him?"

"He says Ritter blamed him for the three mistakes."

"Good night!" Andy breathed.

Alex walked over and stared at the score-board. The Foxes had a scout absent and had been penalized two points. As a result, the Wolves had recovered the ground they had lost at Lonesome Woods. The new score read:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 138-1/2 Fox 146 Wolf 143-1/2

"Tim gets some crazy hunches," Alex said, after a time, "but I don't think he'll lose any points for us—not any more."

"Let him go fish then," Andy cried. "We should worry. How about it, Don?"

Don shook his head slowly. "I'm patrol leader of the Wolves."

"And he's a Wolf scout," Andy nodded thoughtfully. "I see what you mean. I guess you're right. What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Maybe by next Friday he'll be over it."

But next Friday found Tim unchanged. He mingled with the other scouts, but from his patrol leader he held aloof.

A Fox scout reported late, and the Foxes lost a half-point. The score read:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 154-1/2 Fox 161-1/2 Wolf 159-1/2

"Wow!" cried Bobbie. "Only two points behind now."

A gain by the Wolves meant little to Don just now. A belief was slowly growing in his mind that Tim had the makings of one of the best scouts in the troop. The right kind of patrol leader, he thought, would have had Tim where he belonged before this. He felt that he had been a failure.

He longed for advice and the wisdom of an older head. Barbara or his father would not do tonight; he wanted somebody who knew scouting. When the meeting was over he went slowly to Mr. Wall with his troubles.

"The little blue bugs surely have you tonight," the Scoutmaster said cheerily. "Let's reason this out. A month or so ago a frightened scout told me that some of my boys were off for Danger Mountain. Remember?"

Oh, yes, Don remembered.

"Tim led that expedition. Do you think he'd do a stunt like that now?"

"No, sir."

"Nor I," the Scoutmaster said gravely. "He's swinging around, probably because he's tied up with fellows who want to be real scouts. Would you call that failure?"

The boy was silent several minutes. "No, sir," he said at last.

Mr. Wall clapped his shoulder. "Then there's nothing left to worry about, is there?"

Don was somewhat surprised to find that there was not. The cloud had vanished. He went home with his mind at peace. He had given Tim his own head of late, and even Mr. Wall said that Tim was coming around. He'd give him his head again, and wait for the sulks to wear off.

But it was hard to work with Tim all next day against the Ironside nine, and to find him, even in the heat of the struggle, stiff and unbending. And it was harder still to see the days of the next week pass and bring no change. For a rumor had gone through the troop that the reason Mr. Wall had announced no contest for this month was because he was going to uncover a surprise. Don could not help feeling that the Wolves would stand very little chance. Tim, at odds with his patrol leader, would surely lack the zest and the spirit necessary to cope with unexpected orders.

Over Friday night's meeting hung the promise of something to happen. Roll-call and inspection brought to light no derelicts. The score board read:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 170 1/2 Fox 177 1/2 Wolf 175 1/2

The ranks broke. Usually there was play for a few minutes. Mr. Wall rapped for order at once.

"Next week," he said, "the contest for the Scoutmaster's Cup comes to an end. The final ordeal will start Friday. It will be a two-day test of your mettle. It will take place at Lonesome Woods. A treasure has been hidden there, and blazed trails will lead to the hiding place."

The room was still—startlingly still.

"This time," Mr. Wall went on, "we will have a real test of scouting. For that reason, I have decided to award ten points to the winning patrol. There will be no second or third points."

The troop stirred. Ten points! That gave every patrol a chance. Even the Eagles, if they won, would be tied with the Foxes for winning honors.

"Each patrol leader will select a scout to accompany him into the woods. They will enter Friday afternoon at 3:30 o'clock. Each patrol will start from a different part of the woods. They will find trees blazed with whitewash. They will follow this blaze. When night comes they will camp."

"Each two scouts by themselves?" asked a voice breathlessly.

"By themselves," the Scoutmaster answered, "unless they desire to risk capture."

The patrols murmured softly. Gosh! This was a real stunt.

"Each of the three trails leads toward the treasure; it has been hidden. When a patrol comes to a blaze mark that has a circle around it, they will know that that is the last blaze, and that the treasure is near. Two things they must then do—search for the treasure, and avoid capture by another patrol. Any patrol surprised by another patrol will be considered captured and out of the contest."

"But suppose a patrol finds the treasure, what then?" called another voice.

"Then that patrol must make its way safely from the woods and avoid capture. If it is captured, it surrenders the treasure to the captors."

"Why," cried Don, "that's just like old-fashioned Indian warfare."

Mr. Wall smiled. "I think you'll like it. There will be another meeting Wednesday night. I want every scout to notify his patrol leader in writing whether he will be allowed to make the trip if he is chosen. Wednesday night each patrol leader will announce the name of the scout who will accompany him into the woods. I think you're too excited to do scout work tonight. Would you prefer to talk this over?"

"Yes, sir," came a roar.

Mr. Wall laughed and waved his hands.

Instantly the room broke into riot. A night camp at Lonesome Woods, a blazed trail, a buried treasure and a threat of sudden capture! This was great!

"Will trails cross?" cried the leader of the Foxes. "Must we watch out for Eagles and Wolves even before we get to the treasure?"

"Perhaps," the Scoutmaster answered.

Here was uncertainty—and uncertainty made the game all the more fascinating.

Tim's breath came fast. If he could get into a thing like that—

"Aw!" he told himself hopelessly, "Don would never take me." He stood around listening to every word, but saying little. His heart ached with an empty longing. Once he caught Don's eye, and flushed and turned away his head quickly. And Don, who had been as high-strung as any of the others, suddenly became sober and grave.

Next day, between innings, he sat on the bench and studied his catcher. If they should go into the woods together—He sighed, and shook his head, and thought of Andy Ford. Andy would pull with him. Perhaps Andy would expect the place.

Over Sunday Wally and Ritter brought around written consents, and Bobbie announced gloomily that his father would not let him go. Monday morning Andy brought his paper.

"Seen Tim yet?" he asked. "No?" He fell to whistling softly.

Late that afternoon Tim appeared. "There's mine," he said defiantly. There was an awkward silence. Presently Tim walked out through the gate and was gone.

Don sat beside his work and pondered. As a patrol leader, what should he do? What was expected of a patrol leader—that he strive heart and soul to bring victory to his patrol, or that he stake everything on making one boy the kind of scout he ought to be? Victory for the Wolves, he suspected, would soon be forgotten. That was how it was with baseball victories.

Suppose he took Tim into the woods and nothing came of it. But suppose something did come of it—something big.

"I wonder," Don mused, "I wonder what Andy thinks."

Tuesday passed. Wednesday came drearily with rain and chill.

That night Don purposely delayed his arrival at the troop meeting. He did not want scouts looking at him and almost asking for the chance. Mr. Wall was calling the gathering to order as he entered. He slid into a seat and stole a look around. Andy was calmly making notes in a diary. Tim was plainly trying hard to keep his shoulders back and to appear unconcerned.

"I call on the Eagles," said Mr. Wall, "to announce their team."

The Eagle patrol leader chose his assistant.

"Foxes."

The leader of the Foxes picked the oldest boy in his patrol.

"Wolves."

Don stood up. He saw Tim bite his lips and stare at the ceiling. Perhaps he was making a mistake, but it seemed to him that one true scout was worth all the prize cups in the world.

"I pick Tim Lally," he said clearly.

And then a wonderful thing happened. Andy Ford threw down the diary and gave him a wide, approving, understanding grin.



CHAPTER IX

THE FIGHT IN THE WOODS

Slowly Tim's eyes came away from the ceiling. His heart stood still. Was this a joke? Eager hands fell on him from the rear—Wally's, Ritter's, Alex Davidson's. There could be no doubt after that.

His heart began to thump. Chairs were pushed back, and patrols clamored around their teams. He found himself next to Don with one of Andy's arms around his shoulders.

"You fellows bring that treasure out," Andy threatened, "or you'll wish you had stayed there. Hear me?"

Tim's eyes were unusually bright, but his heart had begun to drop to normal. A sudden decision had come not to let this prospect run away with him. He knew the bitter taste of disappointment and he wanted no more of it. He had started for Lonesome Woods in high spirits the last time, and had come home in the dumps. There'd be an understanding before this start. There'd be an understanding tonight.

He stuck close to Don, waiting for the moment when they could be alone. It came.

"Look here," he said sharply; "why did you pick me?"

Don was startled. "Why—why—" How could he tell the real reason without setting a new spark to the gunpowder in Tim's nature. "I thought you were the fellow to go," he ended.

It sounded lame even to Don. It sounded like an evasion to Tim. Why couldn't he be told the truth? What was there that had to be hidden?

He went back to the patrol. The thrill had begun to weaken. He tried desperately to call it back. He wasn't going to be cheated out of a good time. By and by, through dint of striving, he roused a new spirit of anticipation.

Don walked with him as the scouts crowded toward the door. "Better come around tomorrow, Tim, and talk over what we'll take," he said, and wondered if Tim would offer any objection.

"Right-o!" said Tim almost cheerily. Outside Don mopped his face. When he expected Tim to be all right, Tim was nasty; when he expected him to be surly, he was all right.

"Well," he said in relief, "it didn't last long that time, anyway."

But Tim wasn't over it. A new thought had caused him to change tactics. What was the use of his spoiling his own fun? He'd get his good time regardless of what Don had up his sleeve. He'd throw himself into this treasure hunt heart and soul. He'd work as hard as any scout could work. But once they were in Lonesome Woods he'd do what he thought was best. If Don tried to interfere with him there'd be trouble.

Next day he found the whole patrol, with the exception of Alex, at Don's yard. Ritter called him a lucky stiff, and Wally looked at him with envy. They made him feel, for the first time, that he was one of the "big" scouts.

There wasn't going to be much cooking stuff taken along. A little coffee and a little bacon—nothing else. Perhaps they would not have time to cook even that much. If they reached the treasure place and found the treasure gone, they would have to try to overtake the finders before they got out. That would mean hustle.

They decided on pilot biscuit and the always dependable beans. A blanket each and a poncho, a watch and a compass. Tim was for leaving the poncho out and taking a chance on rain, but Don said no.

"Ax," said Tim. "We'll need that, anyway. I'll go home and put an edge on mine."

He ground it until it was almost razor sharp. That night he dreamed that he was a scout of the old days and that Indians in their war-paint were stalking him through the forest.

Next morning he prepared his haversack, and rolled his blanket and strapped it. Several times he cocked his eyes at the sky. Finally he did the unheard-of thing of going down to the station and spending three cents for a city paper. On the first page was news that was worth many times three cents. It read: "Weather: Fair today and tomorrow; southwesterly winds."

There was nothing to do now but wait for dinner. Twenty minutes past noon he had his arms through the straps of the haversack and was on his way to headquarters.

The troop had already assembled. The scouts were feverish. It still lacked fifteen minutes of one o'clock when Mr. Wall appeared.

"All here?" the Scoutmaster asked. "Care to start now?"

The patrol leaders jumped to line up their patrols.

The treasure-hunting teams were treated as something precious on the way out. Scouts took turns carrying their packs so as to have them fresh when they entered the woods. Just as on their first trip, Tim wanted to leap and run. But he knew that would be folly. Besides, Mr. Wall held them down to a steady, even pace that ate up distance but did not tire.

In the general excitement the miles slipped away unnoticed. All at once the woods were ahead. Mr. Wall halted the column and called the teams.

"I want you to compare your watches with mine." The Scoutmaster's timepiece said ten minutes of three. Don and the others set their watches.

"At 3:30," Mr. Wall continued, "each team will enter the woods. Some place near where it enters it will find the first blaze. At 3:30. Is that clear?"

They said it was. He led them to a point a quarter of a mile on.

"Here's where the Wolves go in. Foxes and Eagles, follow me."

The other patrols went on, nervous, high-strung. The Wolves were left alone.

Tim tried to stretch off on the ground and lie there quietly. With his head pillowed on his arm he could see the group that followed Mr. Wall. On they went, on, on—and then a turn hid them. Everything from now on would be mysterious, unknown.

Lying there quietly became impossible. He jumped to his feet and walked up and down. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. Ten after, fifteen, twenty.

"Better get on our haversacks," said Don.

They waited. Twenty-five after. Tim felt the throb of his pulse.

"Another minute," said Ritter.

Don stood with his watch in his hand. All at once he put it away.

"Three-thirty, Tim." They walked toward the woods.

The patrol followed them to the edge and stopped. There were cries of good luck. They waved their hands and stepped among the trees. Twice they looked back; the first time the scouts were visible, the second time they were gone. The cries of good luck grew fainter and ceased. They were alone.

"There's one of two things to do," said Don, in a voice that trembled with excitement. "We do not know whether our trail crosses the others. We must either go cautiously, or go fast in the hope that they don't cross. If we go fast we may get to the treasure first."

"All right," said Tim; "fast. Let's find that blaze. If you get it, give a low whistle."

They separated and worked among the trees. A long time later, it seemed, Tim found the blaze. It pointed north. He whistled softly, cautiously. A whistle answered him. Don's footsteps sounded frightfully loud in the stillness.

They started north as fast as they could go. Three hundred feet on they found the second blaze. They lost the third and had to retrace their steps before finding it. The fourth was easy, but on the way after that they encountered a patch of dense undergrowth and a section of fallen trees. Here they had to separate and search once more. This time it was Don who found the mark. Their watches said ten minutes of five.

"Let's go on until almost dark," Tim whispered. There was a sound off on their right. He clutched Don's arm, and they stood like statues and listened, scarcely daring to breathe. By and by they relaxed.

"Must have been a squirrel or something," said Tim. They advanced cautiously.

The fright had thrown them out of their reckoning. They did not remember in which specific direction they had been heading. After a while they had the uncomfortable feeling that they had gone on farther than the ordinary distance between blazes.

"Have to search," said Don.

So they began again. They worked at a tension, running when they could. It did not take long to get out of sight of each other.

This time it was Tim who finally found the blaze. He whistled—no answer. He whistled again—still no answer. He'd have to make a louder sound. It was growing dusky, and he did not want to become separated from Don for the night. He put his fingers between his lips.

He did not mean to whistle loudly but, in the quiet woods, his summons echoed shrilly. His heart gave a frightened leap. Gee! Suppose anybody was near?

Don came crashing through the woods. "For the love of Mike, Tim, why did you do that?" he asked sharply.

Tim bristled. It was one thing for him to blame himself; it was another for Don to find fault. "I wanted you to hear me," he answered shortly.

"I did hear you!"

"Well, why didn't you answer?"

"I thought I heard something else. You'll have every Eagle and Fox around us."

"I'll have every Eagle and Fox around us," Tim thought. "See! I'm the one who's spoiling things."

They started again. Don was sorry he had spoken so hastily. So far Tim had been a real partner. He made up his mind that he'd think twice before he spoke sharply again. You had to handle a fellow like Tim with gloves.

As for Tim, the hot, angry blood was still in his cheeks. What did Don mean by jumping on him? He wouldn't stand for it. He was to blame! How about Don being to blame for not answering the signal?

"Tim!" Don called from the rear. "How about making camp? It's getting late."

"Nothing doing," said Tim. "We're between blazes. In the morning we wouldn't know which way to start."

"We have compasses," said Don.

Tim was just stubborn enough to refuse to listen to reason. Besides, he felt that his judgment was questioned.

"We'll camp at the next blaze," he said. "Then we'll know where we are."

After a moment of hesitation Don followed. The easiest way was best.

They soon reached the blaze. Tim began to gather leaves and young twigs for his bed. Before long he knew that he had blundered again. It took time to make a camp bed properly, and the failing light would not give him the time. He had made camp too late.

The knowledge of his second mistake increased his ill humor. He spread his poncho and sat on the bed. Don still gathered leaves.

"Trying to rub it in," Tim reflected. "Just like telling me, 'See, why didn't you camp when I said so?'"

Don turned from his bed, dived into his pack and brought out a can.

"How about eats, Tim?"

Tim was disgusted with the whole adventure. In this black mood he did not relish the thought of cold food in the dark. He wanted light, and a hot drink—something to chase away the gloom.

He kicked together some wood. He found small twigs, broke them and made a pile. Then he drew out matches.

Don was opening a can. "What's wrong, Tim?"

"I'm going to have a fire."

"Fire?" Don dropped the can. "Good night! do you want the Eagles and Foxes coming down and gobbling us?"

"Piffle!" said Tim. "Do you think they'll sit around in the dark? Anyway, I want a cup of coffee."

Don drew a deep breath. Why hadn't he brought Andy Ford! However, it was too late for regrets. Once Mr. Wall had said that sometimes a fellow had to brace his legs and stand firm. One of those times had come.

"There'll be no fire," he said in a voice he did not recognize as his own.

"There will be a fire," Tim retorted. "I worked as hard as you today. You can't say I didn't. But I'm not going to put up with crazy notions. Who ever heard of a night camp and no fire?"

Don's fingers twitched. He was the leader here and he had said no fire. The scout law read obedience. And yet, if Tim insisted, what was he to do? Oh, it wasn't fair for a fellow to get bull-headed and smash the rules.

Tim scraped the match. It burst into a tiny flame.

Don took a step forward. "Tim—"

"Oh, forget it," said Tim. He was going to light that fire, even if he put it out a moment afterward. He shielded the match with his hands and bent over the wood.

There was no other way—not if Tim was twice as big. Don's heart was in his throat. He was afraid. Nevertheless, without hesitation, he knocked Tim's hands apart and the match went out.

"You will, will you?" cried Tim. He scrambled to his feet and rushed.

There was not much light. What there was aided Don, for Tim could not make full use of his superior weight and strength. One rush followed another. Don kept striking out and stepping aside. Sometimes a fist came through his guard and stung him and made him wince. Always, ever since becoming patrol leader, he had feared that he and Tim would some day clash. Now the fight was on.

Slowly, as blows stung him, his blood quickened. The boy in front of him had spoiled so much scouting. If he could only give him the thrashing he deserved! If he only could! He set his teeth. He would thrash him. He swung, and felt a sharp pain in his knuckles.

"I'll get you for that," roared Tim.

Don, aroused now, scarcely felt the blows. A hard knock caught him off his balance and sent him sprawling.

"Got enough?" Tim demanded, breathing heavily.

Don, battle mad, sprang to his feet and rushed.

That rush was a mistake. Tim's fist caught him as he came in and staggered him. Another blow shook him up. And then a third blow sent him to the ground again. He was beaten, winded, and all but sobbing.

"I guess you've got enough now," said Tim. There was no answer. He turned away and found his matches.

The sound of the match box being opened brought Don to his knees. Tim, muttering, scraped the tip.

Don struggled to his feet. The tiny flame seemed to fill him with a new strength. If necessary he would fight again, and again, and again. An iron doggedness was in his blood—the same doggedness that nerves men to sacrifice everything for principle. The lot had fallen to him to face Tim on a matter of scout discipline. Tim might thrash him again—but he could not light that fire!

"Drop it!" he cried.

Tim guarded the match. "Want more?" he demanded.

"Drop it, or I'll fight you again."

"And I'll lick you again," said Tim. He touched the flame to the dry leaves.

Don sprang forward and scattered the fire with a kick. Tim leaped to his feet. He was furious. This time he'd see that he wasn't bothered again.

The scattered fire was burning fitfully in two or three clumps. There was just light enough to see things hazily. Tim, his fist drawn back, caught a glimpse of Don's white face. He stared, relaxed, and continued to stare, and his hands fell to his sides.

He was not afraid—and yet the fire went out of his blood. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and small, and beaten. The fitful blazes dwindled and went out. The woods were in darkness.

After a time Tim turned away. He dropped down on his poncho and sat with his face in his hands. Gee! What wouldn't he give to have the last hour back again.



CHAPTER X

GOOD LUCK AND BAD

There was not much sleep that night. The beds were too uncomfortable. Tim, lying awake, had lots of time to think, and as he tossed in the darkness, the voice of his conscience reproached him sternly. He wondered what would happen in the morning. So great was his concern that he forgot that his was a forest bed and that all around him were strange noises of the night.

At the first gray light he was out of bed. Last evening the trail had crossed running water. He went back, filled his canteen and washed. The water was like ice. The early morning air had a biting edge. Shivering, he rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his collar snug and wished that the sun was up.

Don was about when he got back to camp. One of the patrol leader's lips was puffed. Tim looked away quickly. A cup of hot coffee would have put the early morning chill to route, but not for anything would he have suggested a fire. He pretended to poke through his things, trying to kill time, trying not to look at his companion, trying to figure out how they were going to get through breakfast. That Don was sore on him for keeps he did not doubt.

Don pulled a towel from his haversack. "How's the water?" he asked. His voice was forced, as though he had strained himself to speak.

Tim's mouth dropped. Gee! was this—was this real? He caught Don's eyes.

"Cold," he gulped.

"Look for dry pine. Pine doesn't make much smoke."

Tim gathered wood, and his face burned. He saw what the patrol leader meant—a fire stood a good chance of passing unnoticed now. Flame would not reflect and smoke would mingle with the rising mist. Last night a fire would have been madness. He could see it all now and he could see, too, the sorry part he had played.

"I always was a bonehead," he told himself bitterly. The feeling that he had been brought into the woods for some selfish purpose dwindled and died. Perhaps what had happened in the signaling test had been an honest mistake, just as Don said. He began to sense dimly that in all the troubled weeks of the contest the patrol leader had been working for something big, something clean.

He had everything ready for the match long before Don came back from the brook. They made a small, cautious fire. The water came to a boil. They hastened to fry bacon before the fire died out. There was still some heat when the bacon was done and they dumped their beans into the hot pan.

Then, quickly, they killed the fire with dirt and water, and the discovery from that source was over. The hot coffee routed the morning chill. Not once were last night's happenings mentioned. Tim breathed with relief as the minutes passed. They took the trail. Before they had gone far the sun broke over the horizon and faintly touched the tops of the trees.

There was still some restraint between them. The scars of last night's fight could not heal in a moment. But as they hurried among the trees, Don gave thanks that he had forced himself to speak and had broken the ice. For Tim was almost pathetically eager to show good will—picking the hardest tasks and the roughest paths, and squirming unbidden into doubtful corners to sound them out.

Every step now increased their chances of encountering the other patrols. They passed the fourth blaze since leaving camp, and then the fifth. The trees became thicker, the foliage denser. The sun was almost shut out. Even the sounds of the birds were hushed.

Don halted. "We must be getting near the end of the trail. We've come about a mile."

Tim's voice trembled. "Let's make a rush for it."

Don shook his head. "Too dangerous. We'll go ahead, stop and listen, and go ahead again."

"Gee!" said Tim. "Like stalking an Indian in Colonial days."

Now listening breathlessly, now darting forward, now creeping, they slowly forged ahead. Two more blazes were passed. They found the next. It was marked:

-O-

"The end of the trail," said Don in a whisper.

"Maybe we're here first," said Tim.

But they dared not take the chance of haste. Rival scouts might be waiting, hidden, to pounce on them. They listened, while their hearts beat heavily.

"I'm going forward," said Tim at last, and edged out. Soon they knew that neither the Eagles nor the Foxes had yet reached the goal.

Then began a frantic search. They wanted to find the treasure and away. Not a sound broke the stillness but bird calls and their own footsteps. Yet they knew that, from some place among the trees, scouts were stealing toward them. They went out in a wide circle, worked in, and found nothing.

"Mr. Wall wouldn't make this too hard," said Tim. "He's left some sign. How could he hide it?"

"Among tree branches," said Don, "or in a tree hollow, or in the ground—"

"That's it," cried Tim. "Burying would leave a sign—freshly turned earth. Come on."

They searched again in nervous hurry, and kept looking over their shoulders as though trying to peer through the veil of trees. Don saw no earth that looked fresh, but he did see a suspicious mound near a tree. He put his feet on the spot. His heel sank softly.

"Tim!" he called.

Tim came running. "That's it. Why didn't we bring a trowel?" He dug at the earth with his ax. Don unslung his haversack, pulled out the frying-pan, and scooped with the pan handle.

The sweat rolled into their eyes. They worked feverishly. All at once Tim's ax hit something softer and more yielding than the earth.

"She's here, Don! Gee! she's here!" He dropped the axe and worked with his hands; by degrees the top of a pasteboard box appeared. They loosened the earth around the sides, found grips for their fingers, and pulled. The box came out. It was tied with string and could have been in the ground only a few days.

The prize was theirs. In their excitement they hugged each other joyously.

"You did it, Tim!" cried Don. "You get the credit."

"You found it," Tim said huskily. "You'd have found it without me. You—" Something he had kept bottled all morning, something he had never expected to say, tumbled from his lips. "You should have knocked my block off last night."

"Forget it," Don muttered lamely, but his eyes flamed with a new light. He knew now that he had made no mistake in bringing Tim into the woods.

They stood with that queer awkwardness that moves boys when they bare their hearts. Tim fingered the string around the box.

"Say, if we could open this—"

The spell was broken. They cut the string and lifted the cover. Inside, packed in a soft bed of cotton, was a prize that shone out at them with a soft splendor—the Scoutmaster's Cup!

"One little beauty," breathed Tim. "Who ever thought Mr. Wall would hide it like that. If we lost it!"

"Let's get out of here," Don cried in fright. He ran for his haversack. They took the back trail.

"We had better go easy," Tim said in a low voice, "until we're sure there's no chance of meeting the Eagles or the Foxes—"

"Sssh!" Don caught his arm.

Was that a noise? After a time it came again—the dry swish of dead leaves and the sharp crackle of dead wood under a weight.

Tim put his lips to Don's ears. "Over there—to the right."

Another silence. Then the noise again, farther off.

"They're at the last blaze," Tim whispered. "This is too close for comfort."

They made off with stealthy caution. Whenever they found clear ground they hurried, but for the most part it was slow work. All at once came a faint cry.

"They've found the empty hole," cried Tim. "Now they'll be after us."

"How will they know which way we went?" Don asked. Nevertheless, he hurried.

Ten minutes later they paused to listen. Far back of them they heard something which made them look at each other anxiously.

"Can't waste time here," said Tim.

At first, when they paused again, there was silence. Then came that which told them of pursuit. Don's pulse quickened.

"They've got our trail, Tim."

"They're following our blazes," said Tim. "We'll fool them. Let's strike off here to the east."

They swung off at a right angle. The blazed trail they knew, but necessity counseled that they face the unknown. Tim pulled out his compass.

When next they listened the sounds of pursuit were gone.

"We've shaken them," said Don, and drew a long breath of relief.

An hour later they came to a slight ravine with a brook flowing along the bottom. They squatted on the bank and opened their beans, but beans and pilot biscuit made dry eating, and soon the canteens were empty.

"I'll fill them," said Don, and scrambled down the bank. A stone slipped under his foot; he fell, cried out sharply, and rolled to the bottom.

When Tim reached him he was sitting up and unlacing one shoe. It did not take them long to know the truth. The ankle was sprained.

Tim dipped his scarf in the water and wrapped it around the hurt. Of course, it might be a slight sprain, or it might be severe. Don kept staring at the foot and frowning. Tim, whistling softly under his breath, changed the compress twice.

"It hasn't swollen much," said Don. "Maybe I could walk on it."

"Here," said Tim; "lean on my arm."

Don hobbled. The pain was slight. He could walk on the foot if he favored it carefully, but speed was out of the question. He let go of the supporting arm and sank to the ground.

He was a hindrance—just so much dead weight. Sooner or later the pursuing scouts would find that they were on a false scent, and would begin to scour the woods. Mr. Wall had said that the treasure had to be brought out safely, but he did not say that two scouts had to bring it out.

Don bent over the ankle. "You'd better make a run for it, Tim."

"What's that?" Tim's eyes opened wide. "How about you?"

"Bring the fellows back for me after you get out. Hurry."

But instead of hurrying, Tim stood still. "Nothing doing," he said. "You'd stick to me if I were in a fix. I'd be a fine scout to run away, wouldn't I?"

Don bent lower over the ankle. Once Tim would have gone off promptly and have taken glory out of individual achievement. Now he stuck. Oh, but scouting was a great game when fellows played it right!



CHAPTER XI

CLOSE QUARTERS

After a while they bandaged the ankle tightly with wet cloths. Don put on his shoe but did not lace it. He tried to climb the ravine bank, but that was a bit too rough. Tim picked him up with a fireman's lift and surged with him to the top.

That experience set Tim to shaking his head. He could carry the patrol leader easily enough on the level, but climbing was a vastly harder job.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll see how the ground looks ahead." In ten minutes he was back. "Two or three ravines. You couldn't make them on that foot. We'll strike north and follow the brook."

Don puckered his eyes. "If the Eagles and Foxes get scouting around that will throw us right into them."

"All right," said Tim. "Maybe we'll capture some Eagles and Foxes along with the cup." He wasn't going to get scared until there was something to be scared of.

At first Don limped along with one hand on Tim's shoulder. By and by he found a tree limb that would answer as a cane, and let go the shoulder.

"You scout ahead," he told Tim. "You've got to be the eyes of this party. We can guard against surprise better if we separate. Wait for me every little while. Whistle twice if anything goes wrong."

"How about one whistle if everything's all right?" Tim asked. "Then you'll know where I am if I change direction."

"All right," Don agreed, and Tim slipped away among the trees.

After that Don followed the sound of soft, guarded whistles. The combination of a cane and a bad foot made it slow work. Once he tried to hurry, and the ankle stabbed him cruelly. He was all right so long as he used the foot carefully, and he sighed and resigned himself to a snail's pace. Every now and then he would come upon Tim, standing like a statue—waiting and listening. Once Tim took off the bandages, wet them, and put them back.

When the job was finished, Tim gave him a hand and helped him up. They stood looking at each other. Each boy read something in the other boy's eye. An embarrassed grin twisted Tim's mouth.

"You're all right," Don said suddenly.

"Well—" Tim looked away. "I'm going to be."

The flight with the treasure was resumed. Tim disappeared ahead. Almost immediately he was back.

"We've got to swing out," he said. "There's a lot of tangled underbrush near the brook. We'll go more to the west."

"That will carry us over toward our old trail," said Don.

Tim nodded. They both knew what that meant. Either Eagles or Foxes had been following the blaze. The dangers of a meeting were increased.

They had completely lost track of distance. They did not know how far they were from the edge of Lonesome Woods. They did not even know where they were.

The flight slowed down to a cautious advance. So slow did they go that Don's tender foot scarcely impeded them. Tim would go out in front and come back, and then go off to the sides. He ranged about tirelessly. And always his whistle, low, soft, kept guiding.

There came a time when for a quarter of an hour the whistle did not sound. Don became alarmed. Which way to continue he did not know. In doubt he stopped. He heard a stirring off to his right, and quickly faced that way. Tim stole toward him.

"I think I heard something," he whispered.

They listened, but heard only forest noises.

"Careful," warned Tim, and slipped away once more.

Don watched him until he disappeared. Following, he made sure not to stray from the direction Tim had taken. He limped around trees, and tried to avoid places where there were deep leaves and dead branches, because leaves and branches made noise.

Suddenly a sound halted him abruptly—two low, short whistles—the signal of danger.

Tim came back with concern on his face. "They're over there, Don. Quick! this way."

They changed their course to the east again. After a while they halted. For a moment they heard nothing. Then, to the left, came unmistakably the faint sound of voice.

Again they changed their course. Each step now was made with caution. By and by, when they thought they were safe, they stood still and strained their ears.

This time the sound was even nearer.

"We can't go back deeper into the woods," Tim argued breathlessly. "Your ankle won't stand it. We've got to get out. We can't go to our right—there's the ravine and the underbrush. If we keep going ahead they'll overtake us. If we try to get off to the left, we're sure to cross them on an angle."

"Never mind me," Don urged. "Make a dash for it."

Tim shook his head stubbornly. "Wouldn't it be fine for a scout to leave his patrol leader in the lurch? Maybe we'll think of something. Come on; no use of standing here."

They wormed their way forward. They began to meet patches of thick brush. All at once Tim gave a suppressed cry.

"Look at that brush, Don. If we can get them off on a false scent—Where are they?"

The sound was still off to the left.

"Give me your haversack." Tim shed his own. "Now your canteen. Now over there. Lie behind that brush. Quick."

Don hobbled over to the dense growth. Watching, he saw Tim go off a short distance and drop a haversack; going on, he dropped a canteen and disappeared.

Don expected him to come back the way he had gone. Instead, Tim made a wide swing and approached the brush from the rear. He stretched off on his stomach alongside the patrol leader.

"I laid the canteens and the haversacks in a row," he whispered, "about a hundred feet apart toward the ravine. They'll think we went that way in a hurry and dropped our things so as to travel light. It will take them time to search that underbrush. As soon as they pass we'll go off to the left. Every minute we'll be getting farther away from them."

"Why won't they think we dropped the haversacks while heading the other way?" Don asked.

"What, toward them?" Tim grinned. "That would have walked us right into their arms."

Don thought it out. Through a peephole in the brush he could see the first haversack on the ground.

"Suppose they find it out there, Tim, and don't see the canteen?"

"Well, what of it?"

"Suppose they start to search right around here?"

"Gee!" Tim gave a low whistle. "I hadn't thought of that. How's this: if we see them coming, jump up and surprise them and yell 'Capture!'"

"Suppose they yell, too?" Don asked. "Mr. Wall may say that two sound scouts would have a better chance to capture than a team with one limping scout."

That was reasonable. The situation became tense. If the searchers took the false trail and went on, all right. If they started to search—good night!

They lay behind the brush and waited. It seemed, after a while, that they had been there an hour. Don had just begun to believe that the pursuit had gone off in a new direction, when Tim's hand grasped his shoulder with a convulsive pressure.

There had been a faint sound of cracking wood.

Nearer it came, almost directly in front of them. Then another sound echoed off to one side. All at once a khaki-clad figure slipped between two trees.

Tim's hand grew rigid. Don tried to flatten himself into the earth.

They knew the boy—Larkins, patrol leader of the Foxes. On he came. Suddenly he saw the haversack. He halted and jumped sideways behind a tree.

Don and Tim knew what that meant. Larkins thought it might be a trap. It was not going to be easy to fool him.

Would he never come out from behind the tree? They had heard, after he disappeared, a queer woody sound that somehow did not seem out of place. Now they heard it again and recognized its source. Larkins was hitting a stick of light wood against other wood.

At the first signal, the echoing sounds they had heard off to the side had ceased. At this new signal it began again. Larkins walked out and picked up the haversack. A moment later another khaki figure came into view. It was Rood, another Fox scout.

"It's Don's," Larkins said in excitement; "here's his name."

"Maybe they're hiding around here," said Rood.

Don's heart almost stood still.

"Maybe." Larkins stood up and walked slowly toward the brush.

Don felt Tim gather his muscles. He knew what that meant. If discovery was certain, Tim was prepared to spring out and cry "Capture!" and let Mr. Wall decide.

"Say," Rood called, "what's that?"

Larkins paused suspiciously. "What's what?"

"Down there. Looks like a canteen."

"Get it." Larkins turned quickly from the brush. Don buried his face in his arm so that the searcher would not hear his sigh of relief.

Rood brought back the canteen. "I could see another haversack, too. I bet they heard us and are making a run for it after dropping everything." His voice shook with excitement.

"We've got to get on then," cried Larkins. "Where's the other haversack? Which way? Never mind bothering with it. Spread out. No use being cautious—not until we think we're getting close."

He ran straight on. Rood sprinted off at an angle.

Behind the brush Don and Tim waited. The sounds of feet crashing through the forest grew fainter and at last ceased.

Tim jumped to his feet. "That settles the Foxes," he cried. "Now if we can duck the Eagles we're all right."



CHAPTER XII

OUT OF THE WOODS

Joyously Don broke from cover. The Eagles might threaten later, but just now the field was clear. He took great breaths of the fresh air. It was good to breathe deeply after having been almost afraid to breathe at all.

Tim brought back the haversacks and canteens and pushed them out of sight behind the wall of brush. After a moment's thought he changed his mind and pulled out one of the canteens.

"That ankle may need another wetting," he said. "For the rest of the way we'll travel light. We should have dropped that load long ago."

"How will we find it again?" Don asked. "There's lots of brush."

Tim took out a handkerchief and tied it where it could be plainly seen.

"Believe me," he said, "we're some team. What one forgets the other thinks about."

Some team! Don smiled. He had never thought to hear Tim say a thing like that. All at once the troubles that Tim had given him in the past seemed as nothing. That was what a patrol leader was for—to stand up under thoughtless knocks from wayward scouts and to bring them back.

They struck off north. Tim had decided that the Eagles could not be in this neck of the woods, else they would have run into the Foxes and somebody would have been captured. He led the way more boldly, with a swing to his shoulders. Don, watching him, smiled again, this time wistfully. What a dandy patrol leader Tim would make—now.

At the first rest, while the red-haired boy poured water over the ankle bandages, Don said:

"You've heard about the new patrol, haven't you?"

Tim shook his head.

"It came up in the last patrol leader's meeting. We've had six fellows on the waiting list for a long time. Mr. Wall's going to organize a fourth patrol and take them in. There's a big chance for you."

Tim looked up quickly. "For patrol leader?"

"Yes."

Tim knelt motionless. After a while he slung the canteen on his back and slowly shook his head. "Nothing doing. What a fine mess I'd have made if I had become patrol leader of the Wolves! I can see it now."

"Just the same," said Don, "I'm going to recommend you."

Tim stared away through the trees. Patrol leader! He had always wanted that. As for Don recommending him—Gee! wasn't that a hot one?

"If I get it," he said in a low voice, "will you stand by me if I get stuck? I'm an awful bonehead sometimes."

"Every patrol leader in the troop will be glad to help," said Don.

"I know." Tim nodded. "But I'd sooner go to you."

Their course still carried them north. By degrees, as they advanced, Tim's boldness became tinged with caution. They had gone quite some distance from their hiding place; there might be Eagles around.

The old whistling signals were resumed. Tim would slip off through the trees and whistle after a while, and Don would go forward and join him. There seemed to be no end to the trees. Were they never going to get out?

The third time Don went forward, Tim was frowning and biting his lips.

"I thought I heard something again," he said nervously. "It can't be that the Foxes swung down and around and headed us off. Wait here; I'll sneak closer."

When the whistle sounded, several minutes later, Don limped forward eagerly.

"I knew I heard something," Tim warned. "Listen, now."

They held their breaths. Voices! No doubt of it. And then, faintly from a distance, a call of:

"Bobbie! O Bobbie! Bob—bie!"

Don forgot that he was a woods fugitive. "That's Andy's voice," he shouted. "We're almost out. Come on, Tim. Rush for it."

They gave no care now to what noise they made. Don felt Tim take his arm to help him. He hobbled and hopped and squirmed, and only paused when the tender ankle brought him up wincing and shivering.

"Easy," said Tim. "No hurry. See that opening? We're almost out. Easy now."

But Don found it agony to go slow. Suppose they were gobbled here within sight of victory! He took another chance on a hobbling run. Around a clump of trees, straight ahead, another turn—and there was the wide, free outside in front of them.

"Safe!" gasped Don. No need to hurry now. He sank to the ground and rested his injured ankle. The Scoutmaster's Cup was theirs!

Three scouts, walking together, were disappearing over a knoll of ground in the distance.

"Andy!" Tim bellowed. "Andy Ford!"

One of the scouts looked around and pointed. He shouted to someone in the distance. Then he and his companions came forward on a wild run.

Tim pulled the cup from the box and held it up for them to see. At that the wild run became a desperate sprint.

"Ours, ours, ours!" cried Andy. The other scouts, Ritter and Wally Woods, caught Tim's arms and poured out a stream of questions. What had become of the haversacks and blankets? Had they been afraid in the woods? Had they seen the Foxes? Where had they found the cup?

Another scout came over the knoll—Bobbie Brown. After that came a rush of Fox scouts and Eagle scouts, and finally Mr. Wall. Scout whistles began to blow a salute and a welcome. Cheers came in ringing waves. Tim, his eyes bright with excitement, stood close to Don. Oh, but this was great!

Mr. Wall shook hands. His grip was hard and strong and gloriously friendly, and his smile made their blood run warmly. He stepped back and looked at them, and his gaze seemed to rest on Don's puffed lip. Tim caught his breath.

"How do you like it?" the Scoutmaster asked.

"Great!" said Don. "Wasn't it, Tim?"

Tim nodded.

"Who found the cup?"

"Tim did."

"I didn't," cried Tim. "You found the place."

"But you said it had probably been buried and to look for freshly turned dirt. And if you hadn't stuck to me when I hurt my ankle we'd been captured sure. And when the Eagles were trailing us you threw them off the scent—"

"Aw!" said Tim, "you deserve all the credit for limping along on that bum foot."

A light of satisfaction leaped into Mr. Wall's eyes. There was little that went on in Chester troop of which he was in ignorance. He had known what that trip into the woods meant, and he had wondered many times that morning what would come of it. From the look of Don's lip and from a lumpy look above one of Tim's eyes, he would say there had been a fight. He proposed, though, to ask no questions. Whatever had happened, the atmosphere was clear. The Tim who had come out was a vastly different boy from the Tim who had gone in, and that was all that mattered.

He slipped off Don's shoe and examined the foot. "Nothing much," he said. "A couple of days' rest and you'll be as good as new." As he stood up his hand rested in the old familiar way on Tim's shoulder.

"I told you it would happen some day, Tim."

Tim looked up timidly. "What, sir?"

"That we'd be proud of you."

Tim's eyes dropped. A thrill ran through his veins. Not because he had been praised—paugh! that didn't mean so much—but because Mr. Wall seemed to speak to him as man scout to boy scout. He was accepted without question as worthy. He could see it in the eyes of Andy Ford and of every scout there. Gee! what a difference it made.

The scouts had been shrilling a succession of short, sharp blasts, the rallying signal. Now Larkins and Rood burst out of the woods. When they saw Don and Tim their faces lengthened, but they came forward and offered their congratulations.

The whole story had to be told. Don related how they had followed the trail, he told of finding the treasure, of getting away and learning of pursuit, of cutting away from their trail, and of his tumble at the ravine, and of how Tim had refused to leave him.

"Good boy," cried Andy.

Next Don described their journey with Tim ranging around as scout. When he told of laying out the haversacks Larkins' face went red.

"Were you fellows hiding behind that brush?" he demanded.

"You bet," said Don. "We hid the haversacks there after you went on. You'll find Tim's handkerchief tied there now."

A grudging look of admiration came into the Fox leader's eyes. "It was some plan," he admitted, "and it surely fooled us. That's one we owe you, Tim."

Tim laughed.

The story was over at last, and the position of the sun warned the troop that it was time to start for home. At Mr. Wall's orders a coat stretcher was made and Don was lifted in. Just before the start he thought of something.

"What became of the Eagles?" he demanded.

"Shucks!" said Larkins. "They built a fire the first night, and we sneaked up and bagged them."

Tim looked at Don miserably, and Don flashed a glance that told him to forget it. It was their secret. Nobody would ever know.

Tim walked a step behind the stretcher, with his head bent thoughtfully. What a good scout Don was—fair, and square, and willing to be white where another fellow would hold a grudge! Tim sighed. He wasn't built like that. He scrapped and got himself in Dutch, and let himself think things that he shouldn't think.

Well, he was going to stop that. He had thought of the laws and the oath back there in the woods and they had begun to mean something serious. Fellows like Andy, and Alex Davidson, and Don showed what the laws and the oath were. Some day—The muscles in Tim's jaw hardened. Some day he would be that kind of scout, too.

THE END