Tim's cheeks burned. There was more to what Mr. Wall said, but he scarcely heard. The points were awarded--Fox patrol, first; Eagles, second; Wolves, last. Bobbie slipped out of the stretcher and Tim turned away forlornly.

Don gripped his arm. "That gives us second place, anyway, Tim. The Foxes have 11 points, and we have 9, and the Eagles have 7."

But Tim could take no comfort. He had fallen down again. Bonehead! That's what he was--a bonehead!

The blackboard was changed:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 74-1/2 Fox 79 Wolf 76-1/2

"Gosh!" cried Bobbie. "Before inspection we were third, and only one point behind first place. Now we're second and two and a half points behind. Funny, isn't it?"

Tim didn't think it was funny at all. His scout honor, not yet fully awake, throbbed with a sense of guilt. Every other fellow in the troop had worked hard. Even Alex, after finishing in the grocery store, had worked at night. And yet in spite of how hard they had tried, his lapse had blackened every one of them, just as though they had been skulkers and shirkers.

Just staying around where the others were made him hot and uncomfortable.

While the room rang with cheers for the victorious Foxes he slipped out of the door and melted away in the darkness.

Suddenly the fact that he was sneaking away struck him like a blow.

Sneaking away! He stopped. With a careless, c.o.c.ky swagger he had always, before this, stood up to his troubles.

"I'll go back," he said defiantly. "I'm not afraid."

He wasn't afraid. That was true. If any fellow there had threatened to punch his head he would have peeled off his coat in an instant. He was not scared of physical force; but he was afraid of what every scout in the room might be thinking--that Tim Lally had spoiled things again.

He leaned against a tree, pulled a tender twig, and chewed it thoughtfully. He could see the glowing windows of troop headquarters, and a bright light streamed out through the open door. Shouts, and cheers, and laughter, came faintly to his ears. The whole troop seemed to be having a good time congratulating the victor without envy. He was the only boy who had slipped away.

All at once, as he watched, a great longing arose in his heart to be like other scouts. He was tired of being picked on, and blamed for everything, and spoken of with a doubtful shake of the head. Once he had not minded these things. Now he hungered wistfully for his share of what scouting had to offer: fun, and whole-hearted work, and--and respect.

The noise became subdued. The scouts began to leave. One group, talking excitedly, pa.s.sed him and he drew back behind the tree.

Then a man stepped out through the doorway and came his way. Tim drew a quick breath and walked out into the roadway.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Wall."

"h.e.l.lo, Tim. Coming my way?"

"Yes, sir."

They fell into step.

"It was my fault the Wolves lost tonight," the boy said huskily.

"Anybody can make that mistake--once," Mr. Wall told him.

"It was my fault," Tim said stubbornly. What he wanted to say next didn't come so easily. "How--" He hesitated. "How does a fellow get to be a better scout?"

Mr. Wall's hand fell on his shoulder. "Tim, it's all in the way a fellow handles the laws and the oath. If he lives up to them, he's all right.

He's a real scout."

"But if I had somebody to go to when I got stuck--"

"Go to your patrol leader, Tim. He's the one to help you."

That night, long after going to bed, Tim lay awake. Well, if speaking to Don was the right way, he'd do it.

But it wasn't easy. When he reached Don's yard next morning, he sat on the gra.s.s and tried to scare up courage to say what was in his mind.

"Signaling contest next month," Don told him, "Were you there when Mr.

Wall made the announcement?"

Tim shook his head.

"Three kinds," Don explained; "telegraph, semaph.o.r.e, and Morse. Which can you do best, Tim?"

"I don't know."

"Andy and Wally are down for telegraphy. How about you and Alex Davidson taking Morse?"

Morse was harder than semaph.o.r.e. Tim didn't want to fail again. Neither did he want to dodge something just because it was hard.

"Alex works," he said hesitatingly. "If I had somebody to practice with in the daytime--"

Don's heart leaped. Could this be rough-and-tumble Tim?

"I'll practice with you now," he cried. "Wait until I get flags."

A minute later he was out of the house. Tim went down near the gate. They began to wig-wag.

At first the work was rusty. By degrees, though, as they corrected each other's mistakes, smoothness came and a measure of speed.

Tim's eyes danced. Gee! but wasn't this fun? He wig-wagged, "Don't give up the ship," and was delighted when he found that his sending had been so sure that Don had caught every letter.

By and by Bobbie appeared and leaned over the gate.

"h.e.l.lo, Tim," he called.

Tim nodded shortly. He was too much engrossed in what he was doing to have thought for anything else. Don sent him, "Give me liberty or give me death." He stumbled and slipped through the words, threw his cap on the gra.s.s and yelled to Don to send it again.

Factory whistles sounded, and Barbara called that dinner was ready. Tim put down the flag regretfully and mopped the sweat from his face. It was Sat.u.r.day, and this afternoon the nine had a game. But as he turned toward the gate, baseball was very, very far from his thoughts.

Bobbie joined him on the sidewalk. Tim strode off briskly, and Bobbie, shorter of leg, almost had to run.

"Getting ready for the signal contest, Tim?"

Tim nodded.

"I bet you won't make any mistakes next time."