Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 27

All the way to Don's house the old questions p.r.i.c.ked him sharply. Why _had_ he been s.h.i.+fted? Just to be watched? What would Don say to him now?

Don, working on the lawn, said: "h.e.l.lo, 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."

"Gos.h.!.+" 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 a.s.sembled 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 mola.s.ses, 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, mola.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+rking today.

At the end of a half-mile the Foxes took the load. Tim strode on with a swinging step. His doubts were vanis.h.i.+ng. 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 a.s.sistant 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--"