Poor Bobbie meant no harm, but it was about the worst thing he could have said. From Andy, or Alex, or any of the bigger scouts, Tim would not have minded so much. But to have little Bobbie hold up his shortcomings was like drawing a match across sandpaper.

"Gee!" Bobbie rattled on; "aren't you glad Don is going to show you how to do things?"

"Say," Tim said ominously, "you shut up and run along or I'll twist your ears around your head. Go on, now." He gave the astonished boy a push.

Then, scowling blackly, he pa.s.sed him and went down the street with steps that had lost their lightness and their spring.

CHAPTER VII

CROSS CURRENTS

In the days that followed, Tim became as restless as a caged animal. He had had a taste of the fun of being a real scout. He knew the dissatisfied emptiness of not pulling with his patrol. He wanted to play fair, but his high-strung nature could not shake off the dread of having anybody think that Tim Lally could be led around by the nose.

That morning's signal drill with Don had opened the door to a strange, delightful country. He tried to find the same zest when they practiced again. It was gone. Suspicious thoughts sneaked through his brain, whispering, "Maybe Don likes this because it gives him a chance to be a big fellow."

He had spells of moody silence during which he was dissatisfied with himself and his whole small world in general. The news of what he was doing had spread through the patrol. The third time he worked with Don, Andy, Ritter and Bobbie all watched from the fence.

After he was gone there was a hubbub of excited talk. Gee! Tim was getting to be a peachy scout, wasn't he! Don took the signal flags and walked thoughtfully toward the cellar. He had begun to notice a change.

Two days later Tim came back by appointment. His work was listless and dead. The next time he did not come at all. That evening Don met him on Main Street.

"I guess I can do all right now working nights with Alex," Tim said uneasily.

"All right," Don agreed. "Any time you want to come around, though--" He waited, but Tim said nothing.

Don went home feeling rather blue. "I suppose he'll start sc.r.a.pping with everybody all over again," he muttered.

But he was wrong. Tim went his way moody and silent, but with no chip on his shoulder. He came to the next troop meeting clean and tidy, and on time. Each patrol won a perfect score. The blackboard read:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 90-1/2 Fox 95 Wolf 92-1/2

"Still two and one-half points behind," Don sighed. Wasn't it hard to catch up? If the Wolves could win the next contest on signaling--But he wasn't going to think of that, now that Tim had become balky.

The other scouts spoke of it, though. Alex said earnestly that Tim was really practicing this time. Andy grinned and said that the Eagles and the Foxes had better watch out because they were heading straight for trouble. Don walked with them and said not a word.

Five days later the patrol awoke to the fact that Tim no longer practiced in Don's yard. Andy and Bobbie came around and sat on the front stoop with the patrol leader.

"Mackerel!" said Andy, "but he's a queer fish. Was there any sc.r.a.p?"

Don shook his head.

"Didn't he say anything?"

Another shake.

"Just quit, eh?"

Don nodded.

Andy whistled softly, took a scout whistle from his pocket and examined it. "How is that going to hit our signaling chances?" he asked.

"Alex says Tim works all right with him," Don answered.

"That's all right, but--" Even Bobbie knew what he meant, that the right kind of stick-together was better than all kinds of practice.

"Something must have bit him," Andy went on. "If he liked practicing here at first--He did like it, didn't he?"

"You bet," said Bobbie. "Even if he did push me and tell me to run along."

Andy sat up straight. "When was that?"

"The first day he practiced here. I asked him wasn't it fine to have Don showing him--"

"Oh!" Andy said softly.

"He liked it all right," said Bobbie.

Neither of the other boys made any comment. By and by Bobbie went off.

Don looked at his a.s.sistant patrol leader.

"Think that could be it?" he asked.

"Maybe." Andy puckered his eyes. "How is he on the ball field; all right?"

"Fine. His. .h.i.tting won last Sat.u.r.day's game."

"Maybe it isn't that," Andy said doubtfully. He was so used to Tim being grouchy when anything displeased him that he could not grasp the thought that perhaps there had been some little change.

By this time the troop contest had every scout on his toes. Friday night's meeting saw each patrol win another perfect score. Don decided gloomily that there wasn't much chance to get ahead by being clean and on time for roll call--every scout in the troop was clean and on time. It was the monthly contests that would decide the winner of the Scoutmaster's Cup.

Before going home he studied the changed figures on the blackboard:

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 106-1/2 Fox 111 Wolf 108-1/2

"Tim's doing fine on signaling," said Alex in his ear.

Don drew a deep breath. Well, maybe everything would be all right, after all.

Next day the Chester nine played St. Lawrence. It was touch and go from the start. Now Chester led; now the visitors led. The eighth inning found Chester in front by a 6 to 5 score.

All during the game Don had felt the strength of Tim's support. Not once had the catcher's playing faltered. Don, waiting on the bench, allowed his thoughts to wander. If Tim would plunge into scouting like that--