Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 26

"Ah!" Tim told himself, "there must be. Why did he s.h.i.+ft 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 bl.u.s.ter. 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. Gos.h.!.+ 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 Sat.u.r.day 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. n.o.body 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 b.o.o.b for doing it," he said, and stopped short. In a minute he went on again, slowly, doubtfully--but on.