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--