"Will he think that?" Barbara asked.

"Well, won't he?"

The girl did not answer. After a moment she asked:

"How about good turns, Don? Does Tim do any?"

"Of course he does. Isn't he a scout?"

"What kind of good turns?"

"Well--" Don thought. "Remember last winter when Mr. Blair was sick?"

"Yes."

"Tim looked after their furnace three times a day."

"Don," Barbara said, "don't you think he's all right at heart if he does acts like that?"

Don stared. This was putting things in a new light. Then he thought of Tim riding rough-shod, and tormenting Bobbie, and wanting his own way in everything.

"Maybe Tim's all right at heart," he said dubiously, "but he's always making trouble just the same. I'm not going to let him stew up my patrol.

I'll go to Mr. Wall--"

"Don!"

The sharp note of disappointment in Barbara's voice sent the blood into his cheeks.

"Stand on your own feet," she said. "What would Mr. Wall think of you?

Did the old-time scouts like Daniel Boone go running for help every time they found themselves in trouble?"

The boy did not answer. There was a long silence. Barbara touched his arm.

"Angry, Don?"

"No. I--I guess I'll fight my own way," he said.

Somehow, that determination seemed to lighten his worries. He went upstairs and wrote his letters. Afterward he picked up his Handbook and idly turned the pages. Presently his eyes fell on the tenth law:

"He has the courage to face danger in spite of fear ... and defeat does not down him." Next he read the fourth law, "He is a friend to all and a brother to every other scout." And then he closed the book and for a long time stared straight ahead.

Friday brought a busy day--bird-houses all morning, baseball practice in the afternoon, and a troop meeting at night.

During the morning, as Don planed, and sawed, and hammered, he whistled a gay air. But after dinner, as the time for baseball practice approached, the whistle became subdued and at last stopped.

Up to now he had pitched against high-school boys, lads of his own age.

Tomorrow, though, he was to face a town team with its older, more experienced players. He wondered if he would be able to make good. And he wondered, just a little, how he and Tim would work together.

He might have saved himself the worry of wondering about Tim, for that afternoon's practice gave no time for anything save work. Ted Carter drove the players with a high-strung, nervous vim. He seemed to find time for everything--first a signal drill, then fielding, then sliding into bases.

Don was kept on the jump. As soon as his arm was warm and limber Ted hustled him to the mound, and for fifteen minutes he stood there and threw to bases as signals were flashed to him. Then Ted gave him ten minutes of fielding bunts. By that time the sweat was running down his face and his breath was coming hard.

"Get into a sweater," Ted ordered. "I'll want you back here in ten minutes. Now, Tim, I'm going to let some of the fellows steal bases.

Let's see you throw them out."

Don was glad of the respite. He retired beyond the foul lines and watched. There was no doubt but that Tim knew his job. Short and stocky and agile, he seemed made in a catcher's mold. He could reach second base with a forearm throw while squatting on his heels, and a snap of the wrist was enough to send the ball to first or to third.

"He's got an awfully strong arm," said Don to himself.

"All right, Don," called Ted.

He shed his sweater and went back to the mound. One by one the batters were called in to hit against him. He watched for Tim's signals, and tried to put the ball where Tim wanted it. The batters. .h.i.t him freely.

When the practice ended he was worried. If older players could hit him like that--

"Forget it," said Ted. "Fielding bunts for ten minutes took a lot of your sap. You'll go in fresh tomorrow. Isn't that right, Tim?"

"Sure," said the catcher.

"And another thing," said the captain. "Toward the end there you were shaking your head to Tim's signals and pitching what you wanted. None of that tomorrow. Let Tim judge the batters. This is his second year against town teams; he knows their game better than you."

Tim swelled out his chest and swaggered.

"All right," said Don. If Ted thought nothing of the way he had been batted, why, everything must be all right. He walked home gayly.

"Scout meeting tonight?" his father asked.

"Yes, sir," said Don, and ran upstairs to dress. He wondered if the Wolf patrol would get another perfect score. He paused in the act of brushing his hair. A thought that he could not push aside popped into his brain.

Would Tim come spick and span?

Tim, Andy, Alex and Ritter were at headquarters when he arrived, and Tim was as clean as any.

"We've been inspecting each other," Andy laughed. "Look at those fellows over there."

The Fox patrol had a box of blacking and a brush, and two scouts were polishing their shoes. The Eagles had a needle and thread, and one scout, under the watchful eye of his patrol leader, was sewing on a b.u.t.ton.

"This is going to be a fight," Andy went on. "Those scouts are in earnest."

"That's the way for a scout to be," said Don. The prospect of a struggle sent a sparkle into his eyes. "We'll have to do that."

"Needles and thread and shoe-brushes?" Tim demanded.

Don nodded.

"Not for me," said Tim. "I'm no kid. n.o.body has to tell me to clean myself."

Don said nothing. Why, he wondered, did Tim seem to take such a delight in going against everybody else? He was sure now that what Barbara said was right. Tim was sound at heart. Look how clean he came to tonight's meeting. And yet--