He kicked together some wood. He found small twigs, broke them and made a pile. Then he drew out matches.

Don was opening a can. "What's wrong, Tim?"

"I'm going to have a fire."

"Fire?" Don dropped the can. "Good night! do you want the Eagles and Foxes coming down and gobbling us?"

"Piffle!" said Tim. "Do you think _they'll_ sit around in the dark?

Anyway, I want a cup of coffee."

Don drew a deep breath. Why hadn't he brought Andy Ford! However, it was too late for regrets. Once Mr. Wall had said that sometimes a fellow had to brace his legs and stand firm. One of those times had come.

"There'll be no fire," he said in a voice he did not recognize as his own.

"There will be a fire," Tim retorted. "I worked as hard as you today. You can't say I didn't. But I'm not going to put up with crazy notions. Who ever heard of a night camp and no fire?"

Don's fingers twitched. He was the leader here and he had said no fire.

The scout law read obedience. And yet, if Tim insisted, what was he to do? Oh, it wasn't fair for a fellow to get bull-headed and smash the rules.

Tim sc.r.a.ped the match. It burst into a tiny flame.

Don took a step forward. "Tim--"

"Oh, forget it," said Tim. He was going to light that fire, even if he put it out a moment afterward. He shielded the match with his hands and bent over the wood.

There was no other way--not if Tim was twice as big. Don's heart was in his throat. He was afraid. Nevertheless, without hesitation, he knocked Tim's hands apart and the match went out.

"You will, will you?" cried Tim. He scrambled to his feet and rushed.

There was not much light. What there was aided Don, for Tim could not make full use of his superior weight and strength. One rush followed another. Don kept striking out and stepping aside. Sometimes a fist came through his guard and stung him and made him wince. Always, ever since becoming patrol leader, he had feared that he and Tim would some day clash. Now the fight was on.

Slowly, as blows stung him, his blood quickened. The boy in front of him had spoiled so much scouting. If he could only give him the thrashing he deserved! If he only could! He set his teeth. He would thrash him. He swung, and felt a sharp pain in his knuckles.

"I'll get you for that," roared Tim.

Don, aroused now, scarcely felt the blows. A hard knock caught him off his balance and sent him sprawling.

"Got enough?" Tim demanded, breathing heavily.

Don, battle mad, sprang to his feet and rushed.

That rush was a mistake. Tim's fist caught him as he came in and staggered him. Another blow shook him up. And then a third blow sent him to the ground again. He was beaten, winded, and all but sobbing.

"I guess you've got enough now," said Tim. There was no answer. He turned away and found his matches.

The sound of the match box being opened brought Don to his knees. Tim, muttering, sc.r.a.ped the tip.

Don struggled to his feet. The tiny flame seemed to fill him with a new strength. If necessary he would fight again, and again, and again. An iron doggedness was in his blood--the same doggedness that nerves men to sacrifice everything for principle. The lot had fallen to him to face Tim on a matter of scout discipline. Tim might thrash him again--_but he could not light that fire!_

"Drop it!" he cried.

Tim guarded the match. "Want more?" he demanded.

"Drop it, or I'll fight you again."

"And I'll lick you again," said Tim. He touched the flame to the dry leaves.

Don sprang forward and scattered the fire with a kick. Tim leaped to his feet. He was furious. This time he'd see that he wasn't bothered again.

The scattered fire was burning fitfully in two or three clumps. There was just light enough to see things hazily. Tim, his fist drawn back, caught a glimpse of Don's white face. He stared, relaxed, and continued to stare, and his hands fell to his sides.

He was not afraid--and yet the fire went out of his blood. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and small, and beaten. The fitful blazes dwindled and went out. The woods were in darkness.

After a time Tim turned away. He dropped down on his poncho and sat with his face in his hands. Gee! What wouldn't he give to have the last hour back again.

CHAPTER X

GOOD LUCK AND BAD

There was not much sleep that night. The beds were too uncomfortable.

Tim, lying awake, had lots of time to think, and as he tossed in the darkness, the voice of his conscience reproached him sternly. He wondered what would happen in the morning. So great was his concern that he forgot that his was a forest bed and that all around him were strange noises of the night.

At the first gray light he was out of bed. Last evening the trail had crossed running water. He went back, filled his canteen and washed. The water was like ice. The early morning air had a biting edge. Shivering, he rolled down his sleeves, b.u.t.toned his collar snug and wished that the sun was up.

Don was about when he got back to camp. One of the patrol leader's lips was puffed. Tim looked away quickly. A cup of hot coffee would have put the early morning chill to route, but not for anything would he have suggested a fire. He pretended to poke through his things, trying to kill time, trying not to look at his companion, trying to figure out how they were going to get through breakfast. That Don was sore on him for keeps he did not doubt.

Don pulled a towel from his haversack. "How's the water?" he asked. His voice was forced, as though he had strained himself to speak.

Tim's mouth dropped. Gee! was this--was this real? He caught Don's eyes.

"Cold," he gulped.

"Look for dry pine. Pine doesn't make much smoke."

Tim gathered wood, and his face burned. He saw what the patrol leader meant--a fire stood a good chance of pa.s.sing unnoticed now. Flame would not reflect and smoke would mingle with the rising mist. Last night a fire would have been madness. He could see it all now and he could see, too, the sorry part he had played.

"I always was a bonehead," he told himself bitterly. The feeling that he had been brought into the woods for some selfish purpose dwindled and died. Perhaps what had happened in the signaling test had been an honest mistake, just as Don said. He began to sense dimly that in all the troubled weeks of the contest the patrol leader had been working for something big, something clean.

He had everything ready for the match long before Don came back from the brook. They made a small, cautious fire. The water came to a boil. They hastened to fry bacon before the fire died out. There was still some heat when the bacon was done and they dumped their beans into the hot pan.

Then, quickly, they killed the fire with dirt and water, and the discovery from that source was over. The hot coffee routed the morning chill. Not once were last night's happenings mentioned. Tim breathed with relief as the minutes pa.s.sed. They took the trail. Before they had gone far the sun broke over the horizon and faintly touched the tops of the trees.

There was still some restraint between them. The scars of last night's fight could not heal in a moment. But as they hurried among the trees, Don gave thanks that he had forced himself to speak and had broken the ice. For Tim was almost pathetically eager to show good will--picking the hardest tasks and the roughest paths, and squirming unbidden into doubtful corners to sound them out.