DANGER MOUNTAIN

Next day Don pitched his second game for Chester. His pulse was steady, his control was good, and the Springfield batters seemed unable to do much with his drop. When the score-keeper marked the last play and closed his book, Chester had won 5 runs to 3.

"Didn't I tell you?" Ted Carter cried jubilantly. "Some pitching!"

"Sure," said Tim. "I doped out what the batters couldn't hit, and he threw me what I wanted."

"There's a lot of pitchers can't do that," the captain said lightly, and shot a quick look at the pitcher.

Don pretended that he had not heard; but he could not keep the color from rising in his cheeks. All during the game Tim had seemed to rasp him a bit--not enough to spoil his work, but enough to keep him on edge.

He had thought, after last night's meeting, that there would be a big change in Tim. Instead, it began to look as though Tim would continue to be the same wild, heedless, quarrelsome lad he had always been.

"Today's tussle will give you confidence," said Ted in his ear. "You'll be able to give them all a fight now."

Don flashed a smile, and then the smile was gone. So was the thrill of his triumph. It was hard, this thinking you had weathered a storm and then finding that you hadn't.

At supper Barbara and his father asked him about the game. He told of his success, but with none of the flash and fire of a conqueror. Barbara caught his glance and smiled at him understandingly.

"More trouble with Tim?" she asked.

"N--no; not exactly trouble. You see--" And then he related what had happened last night, and the great hopes that had come, and how Tim had acted today.

"Don," said Mr. Strong, "do you remember when you learned to pitch an outcurve?"

"Yes, sir."

"You used to pitch to Alex Davidson out there in the yard. One day you came running into the shop and shouted that you had it, and I went out to watch, and you couldn't throw the curve again."

"But I got it again next day," Don said quickly.

"And now you can pitch it any time you want to," said his father.

Don frowned. This was too deep! He saw Barbara smiling and nodding as much as to say, "Think it out, Don." Suddenly he straightened.

"You mean that because Tim played fair that once--"

"Just the way you pitched your curve that once," said his father.

Don sighed. It was funny how his troubles dropped away when he brought them home.

Monday there was another patrol meeting. Tim attended, but an imp of perverseness seemed to rule him. It was the first time he had seen the patrol as a group since Friday night. At first he looked hot and uncomfortable. After a while he began to sc.r.a.pe his feet and drum on the table. He seemed anxious to have it understood that, regardless of what had happened, no one need think that he was going to be bossed.

"Oh, keep your feet still!" Alex Davidson said at last.

Tim rolled a page of his pad into a ball and shot it across the table.

The missile struck Ritter on the nose. Tim giggled, and made another ball, and shot this one at Andy Ford.

"Cut it out!" Andy said good-naturedly. "You'll get papers all over the floor."

Tim grinned, and rolled another cartridge. Don caught his bold, sidelong glance--a glance that seemed to say, "Well, what are you going to do about it?"

Others around the table caught that look, too. Don's face grew hot. In an effort to keep the scouts from paying attention to Tim, he talked rapidly about the first aid contest, now two weeks off. The Eagles and the Foxes, he said, were working hard, and the Wolves would have to give more time to practice.

"We're behind," Don finished, "and we must catch up."

Somehow, what he said sounded strained, and forced, and lame. Every scout felt it--even Tim. Andy Ford's eyes snapped. He didn't look good-humored now.

"We're not getting any better on our stretcher work," he said bluntly.

"We need practice there."

Tim stopped rolling his pad page. "That's a crack at me, isn't it?" he demanded.

"I'm in the stretcher work, too," said Andy.

"Aw, you're too clever," Tim flared. "I know what you mean." He shot the ball, and it whizzed past the a.s.sistant patrol leader's ear.

The meeting was spoiled. Tim glanced defiantly around the table. Alex Davidson tried to get the talk going again, but discussion seemed to lag.

And then, just when Don, in his disgust, was ready to adjourn, the door opened and Barbara came into the room.

She had gla.s.ses and cake, and a pitcher of lemonade. Soon a filled gla.s.s was in front of each scout.

"How is that for a good turn?" she smiled. "Why so many sober faces?

What's the matter with you, Tim?"

Tim flushed, and looked down at the floor.

"He won't tell me," Barbara cried gayly. "That's what I get for being a girl--can't learn any boy scout secrets. Have a piece of cake, Tim."

"Thank you," said Tim bashfully.

The plate was pa.s.sed around the table. Tim's eyes were still downcast. At the door Barbara paused.

"Don't leave those papers on the floor, boys," she said. "Next time I come in I want to see you all smiling."

Tim ate his cake and drank his lemonade. The talk started again, a little brisker now, and a little more hopeful. Plans were made for two practice periods during the week.

"Will that be all right for you, Tim?" Don asked.

"Don't worry about me," the red-haired boy answered shortly. "I'll be there." He arose, went around to the other side of the table and stooped to pick a paper ball from the floor.

A soft smile touched Andy's mouth.

"Aw! what are you laughing at?" Tim cried.

"I'm not laughing, Tim," Andy protested. "Honest."

But, for all that, Tim was furious when he left the meeting. The others stood on the porch and chatted a moment; he strode out the gate and down the dark road.