CHAPTER II
THE FIRST CLASH
Barbara and Mr. Strong were sitting on the porch when Don reached home.
He reclined on the top step and fanned himself with his hat.
"Was Tim elected?" Barbara asked.
"No," said Don; "I was."
"Don!" The girl sprang to her feet. "Isn't that fine! We must celebrate with a piece of berry cake—"
But Don said gloomily that he did not feel like celebrating. He told about having won through the aid of his own ballot.
Barbara, concerned, looked at her father. "Was it wrong for Don to vote for himself?"
"Not at all," said Mr. Strong. "A candidate always votes for himself on a secret ballot."
Don felt a load leave his heart. He decided that perhaps he would like some berry cake. While he ate he told himself that there was no sense in worrying about Tim. Tim might get over his disappointment and not make a bit of trouble.
Next morning, while he built bird-houses, his mind was busy with eager plans for his patrol. The first-aid contest would really be a test of skill. With the exception of Bobbie Brown and Wally Woods, every member of the Wolves was a first-class scout. They knew the theory of their first aid. The thing to do was to make them freshen up in the actual work of doing.
"We'll have to get on the job at once," Don told himself. "I'll call a patrol meeting for Monday night. If Bobbie comes around—"
Bobbie rode up to the gate. "Hello, Don."
"Hello, Bobbie. I was just hoping you'd show up. Take a scout message for me?"
"Sure!" The boy held on to the palings of the fence and did not dismount.
"Pass the word that there'll be a patrol meeting at my house Monday night."
Bobbie rode away as though the message had to be delivered within the next five minutes. Don smiled, and then grew thoughtful. Wouldn't it be fine if all scouts were as keen and as alert as that?
Tim did not come to the field that afternoon. On the way home Don met Mr.
Wall.
"Well," the Scoutmaster smiled, "how's the new patrol leader?"
"All right, sir."
"Think you're going to like it?"
"Yes, sir."
"It has its hard spots," Mr. Wall said seriously, "just like any other job. It isn't all milk and honey. There are lots of things you could do when you were a scout that you cannot do now. Not that they are exactly forbidden by the scout laws. They're forbidden by you, yourself. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded soberly. "I think so. You mean that when I was a plain scout I could skylark and cut up a bit, but that now I must be out in front setting the pace. I can't ask any of the fellows to be what I am not myself."
"Exactly. And there's another thing. Don't get discouraged when your plans go wrong. Get your grip and hold on. Scouts are only human. They're not angels."
Don smiled.
"I mean that. Scouting wasn't made for angels. It was made for everybody, fellows like you and me. And just because we're not angels, we sometimes kick things around and don't seem to play fair. When that happens—"
"Yes, sir?" said Don.
"That's the time we need scouting most," Mr. Wall said gravely.
It seemed to Don that the Scoutmaster was giving him a warning. But though he puzzled his head and wondered, he could not fathom what Mr. Wall might mean.
He told Barbara and his mother about Monday night's meeting and said that he would take the scouts up to his room out of the way. Barbara told him indignantly that he would do nothing of the kind. The scouts would meet, she announced, in the cool dining-room.
Monday, as soon as supper was over, she began to prepare for the coming of the patrol. Don wanted to help, but she routed him from the place. He went out to the porch and sat there in the gathering darkness. A vague sense of uneasiness stole over him.
Presently Bobbie Brown rode up and left his bicycle inside the gate. Soon he was followed by Alex Davidson and Andy Ford. Then came a long wait. At length two figures loomed in the dusk.
"Who's there?" Don called eagerly.
"Ritter and Woods," came the answer.
Don suddenly knew the cause of that vague uneasiness. The meeting had been called for eight o'clock, and it was now five minutes after, and there was no sign of Tim.
But none of the others seemed to think of the missing scout. Alex was bubbling over with the wonder of his first day in business. He told of how many orders he had delivered, and how much money he had collected, and how careful he had to be in making change. Don listened nervously. By and by he struck a match and glanced at his watch.
"Quarter past eight," he said.
"How about starting?" said Andy.
Don led the patrol indoors. The dining-room lamp shed a soft glow over the table. Chairs were drawn up, and at each place was a sharpened pencil and a few sheets of paper.
"I'll bet Barbara thought of that," said Andy,
At any other time praise of Barbara would have brought a quick smile to Don's face. Now, however, he sat down soberly and gave the order to call the roll. Andy cleared his throat.
"Patrol Leader Strong."
"Here," said Don.
"Assistant Patrol Leader Ford. No doubt about me being here."
"Scout Davidson."
"Here," said Alex.
"Scout Ritter."
"Here."
"Scout Lally."
Silence.
All at once an uneasy feeling crept around the table. Alex forgot his business adventures of the day and glanced quickly from face to face.
"Tim may come later," he said.
Don looked at Bobbie. "Did you tell him?"
Bobbie nodded.
"What did he say?"
"N—nothing."
Every scout knew at once that Tim had said something. Don shut his lips tightly.
"I guess Tim forgot," Andy suggested.
Don grasped at this straw. Not that he believed it, for he didn't; but it gave him a chance to ease the tension. He forced a smile and said that Tim might come bolting in at the last minute. The moment the roll call was completed, he turned the talk to the Scoutmaster's Cup. He didn't want to give the scouts a chance to sit there and think.
"We're in the lead now," he said, "and it's up to us to stay there. It will be easy if every fellow will do his part. Attend every meeting and come ready for inspection. When Mr. Wall gives us a job to do as a patrol, let us dig in and do it right. And let us work hard so that we'll stand a good chance of winning the monthly contests."
"The first contest is easy," said Ritter. "We all know our first aid."
"We know it," said Don. "But can we do it? That's what counts."
"It's like riding a bicycle," Ritter argued. "You never forget."
Don had not expected anything like this. He didn't want the patrol to be cocksure—he wanted it to work. But there would be small chance of work if each scout was going to think that practice was unnecessary.
"Wait until I get some bandages," he said. He ran up to his room and came down with a little white roll. Ritter smiled confidently.
"Let's see you make a spiral reverse bandage," Don invited.
Ritter took the bandage and went to work on Alex's arm. Presently, after having gone half way to the elbow, he flushed and pulled the bandage off.
"It's sloppy," he said. "I see your point. I need practice."
"We all need practice," said Don. There were no further objections to hard work. The talk became eager as details were planned. The patrol would practice Wednesday afternoon at troop headquarters. Don would work with Ritter on splints, and Tim and Andy and Bobbie would form a team for artificial respiration, fireman's lift and stretcher work. Wally and Alex would practice straight bandaging at night after Alex had finished his labors at the Union grocery store.
Bobbie accepted the arrangement in silence. As the meeting broke up and the scouts crowded into the hall, he pulled at Don's sleeve.
"Must I work with Tim?" he asked.
"Tim's strong and you're light," Don explained. "You can be handled easily on the fireman's lift and stretcher work."
Bobbie wet his lips and seemed to want to say something more. Abruptly, though, he turned away and followed the others out to the porch.
"How about Tim?" Ritter asked. "Shall I tell him about Wednesday?"
Conversation stopped. The feeling of tension came back.
"I'll see him at the field tomorrow," said Don. "I'll tell him myself."
Alex looked at him sharply, and the look said as plainly as words, "Going to make him toe the mark?"
Don lingered on the porch until the last footstep had died away in the distance. Then he went up to his room and stared out of the window. Thunder! Why couldn't Tim stick to his patrol and play fair, and not spoil all the fun?
He had an uneasy feeling about the morrow's interview. Once he had heard Mr. Wall say that there is something wrong when a patrol leader and his scouts live at loggerheads. He did not want to start wrong, he did not want to quarrel. But what could he do if a scout made up his mind to stay away from meetings and be nasty?
A dozen times he tried to picture what he would say to Tim and what Tim would say to him. At last, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, he began to undress for bed.
"Tim may be as nice as pie," he muttered. "He may not say a word."
Which was exactly what happened. Tim listened in silence to a report of what the patrol meeting had decided, nodded shortly when told of Wednesday's practice, and then moved off a few steps and called for the ball.
Don found himself, all at once, wishing that this refractory scout had spoken his mind. As things stood now he did not know what to expect. Tim might come to the practice, or he might stay away.
Twice, that afternoon, he walked toward the other boy, resolved to ask him point blank what he intended to do. Twice he paused and turned away. Perhaps it might be bad to let Tim see that he was worried.
Wednesday he was the first scout to reach troop headquarters. Inside, on the wall, was the slate:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 13
Fox 14
Wolf 16
Don stared at the sign a long time. What an honor it would be to win! Not the mere honor of getting a prize—he didn't mean that. But the honor of being the best scouts in the troop, the honor of achievement, the honor of something well done.
He heard a noise at the door. It was Andy Ford.
"Any trouble with Tim?" Andy asked at once.
Don shook his head.
"Did you tell him? What did he say?"
"Nothing."
Andy puckered his eyes. "What's the matter with Tim, anyway? Is he going to grouch just because he wasn't elected patrol leader? He has the makings of a good scout."
There was the sound of a step outside.
"Sssh!" Don said softly.
Tim put his head in through the doorway. "Are we the only fellows here?" he demanded. "I want to get to the field and do some ball playing."
Don said that Ritter and Bobbie would be along any minute. Tim came in and sauntered around the room. He banged his mitt against the scout staves in the racks and seemed to find pleasure in the noise. Finally he brought up in front of the slate.
"Think we can stick in the lead?" Andy asked.
"Cinch!" said Tim. "What other patrol has anything on us?"
"It means work," said Don. "If we practice once or twice every week—"
"Once or twice?" Tim cried. "Gee! Have a heart. Isn't that rubbing it in?"
"We've got to be perfect," Andy said quickly, "and we're depending on you for the big stuff."
"What big stuff?" Tim asked.
"Stretcher work, fireman's lift, artificial respiration. The hard stuff,
Tim."
"Oh well—" The praise seemed to have soothed Tim's feelings. "Maybe I could find time."
Andy winked. Don walked to the door. Was that the way to handle this hot-tempered scout—humor him a bit, praise him a little, give him the important assignments?
"Here come Bobbie and Ritter," said Andy.
The two scouts arrived, somewhat breathless from running, and the work started. Don took splints and bandages from the troop's medicine chest. Tim and Andy fashioned a stretcher from staves and coats.
"Try it again," said Tim. "Too slow."
"Let Bobbie button as soon as the first coat goes on," said Andy.
"Let Bobbie keep out of the way," said Tim.
Don looked up quickly. However, the work seemed to be going on satisfactorily. He brought his attention back to the splint he was adjusting.
After that, from time to time, he walked over to see how Tim and Andy and Bobbie were making out. Twice he thought that Andy frowned at him and gave a cautious movement with his head.
"Ouch!" Bobbie cried toward the finish. "You're hurting, Tim."
"You can't help hurting a fellow a little on artificial respiration," Tim answered gruffly.
Don frowned. Had Andy been signaling to him? Had something been going on over there?
When the work ended the staves and the splints and the bandages were put away. Tim mopped his face and breathed heavily. Bobbie Brown edged over toward the farthest window.
"How about another session Friday?" Don asked.
"Can't," said Tim. "Saturday we play our first game. Ted Carter wants everybody out for practice Friday afternoon. He told me to tell you."
"Well—" For the moment Don wasn't interested in baseball. "How about
Monday?"
Monday, it appeared, would be all right. Tim put on his coat and walked toward the door.
"You're forgetting your mitt," Don called.
"I'm not going to the field," said Tim.
There was something peculiar in the way he said it. Don looked inquiringly at Andy. The assistant patrol leader nodded toward the window.
"Anything wrong, Bobbie?" Don asked.
Bobbie gave a start, and smiled and shook his head. "Guess I'll go along," he said; but he made no move to leave the place.
Something was wrong. Andy sauntered down to the door, peered at the woodwork as though examining it, scratched with his finger-nail, and then began to tap with his knuckle.
Don wrinkled his forehead. Why did Andy tap like that—two taps, pause, another tap—over and over again? Suddenly he understood. Andy was sending him a message in Morse, and the first letter was C. He looked up, caught Andy's eye, and nodded. The tapping went on.
".."
"O," whispered Don.
"- -"
"M."
"."
"E. Come."
A pause, longer than the other. The tapping began again.
".. ..— … .. -.. ."
"Come outside," Don muttered. He strolled toward the door.
The moment he passed out of troop headquarters, Andy caught his arm.
"Did you see Tim roughing Bobbie all afternoon?"
"Hurting him?" Don asked quickly.
"Not really hurting him, but pulling his hair, and twisting his ears, and things like that. Bobbie's frightened. It's going to spoil all our first aid."
Don's mouth twitched. He had congratulated himself that the work had gone so well. And all the while trouble had been lurking at his elbow. He walked back into troop headquarters with his head bent. If one scout was going to nag another there would be no harmony, no pulling together, no striving toward a common goal. It would be good-by to the Wolf patrol so far as the Scoutmaster's Cup was concerned.
He paused in front of the slate. What should he do? If he went to Tim and told him plump and plain to cut it out, there might be a ruction. If he allowed the nagging to go on, there would be tension and unrest within the patrol. No matter which way he turned, disorder and adversity loomed.
He walked to the window where Bobbie stood. Suddenly he stiffened.
"Isn't that Tim down the road—that fellow leaning against the fence?"
Bobbie nodded nervously.
Don drew a deep breath. He knew what was happening. Tim was waiting to continue his plaguing.
"I—I guess I'll go," said Bobbie again.
"Wait," said Don. "I'm going down that way."
There was no help for it. He had no choice. He couldn't let Bobbie go out and get his hair pulled and his ears twisted. He'd have to see him past the danger.
There was vast relief on Bobbie's face as they came out of troop headquarters. But Don's face was grave.
It took but a minute to walk down the road to the fence. Bobbie's steps unconsciously became slower. He edged out toward the curb. Tim saw him and instantly became alert.
"Here, now," he called; "don't try to dodge past. Come over here and—"
"Hello, Tim," said Don.
Tim stopped short. His eyes darkened suspiciously, as though he suspected that Don was acting as guardian. For a moment he seemed to be debating what he should do; and while he paused, Bobbie edged past.
"Don't forget Monday," said Don. He wanted to shift the other boy's thoughts.
"I may be busy Monday," Tim answered scowlingly. He took a step after
Bobbie, but found the patrol leader in his way and stopped short.
Don continued on down the road. He knew that Tim was aware why he had walked with Bobbie, and he knew that Tim resented it. After all, what had he gained? He couldn't be with Bobbie always. If Tim wanted to plague, he could catch the little scout alone almost any day.
Abruptly Don swung around and went back. Tim, seeing him coming, set his feet farther apart. It was a fighting pose. Don's heart fluttered.
"Look here, Tim," he said; "what's the use of stewing around this way?
Why can't we all pull together?"
"Did I do anything to you?" Tim asked.
"No, but—What's the use of tormenting Bobbie?"
"Gee! Are you the keeper of the whole patrol?"
Don bit his lips. The talk wasn't going at all the way he wanted.
"We've got to work together," he said, "or we won't have a chance for the cup."
"Don't you worry about me," Tim said airily. "I'll do my share. Didn't I show up for practice today?"
"Yes."
"Well, what more do you want?"
Don hesitated. Tim began to grin. He walked back to the fence and leaned there carelessly.
"It—it's going to muss the practice if you tease Bobbie," Don said slowly. "He'll be edging away from you, not knowing what moment you'll twig him, and it will spoil the work. You can't give him a good fireman's lift if he's hanging back."
"What are you doing," Tim demanded, "asking me to let up on him or telling me?"
"I'm asking you," Don said slowly.
"Oh! Well, that's all right." Tim's grin grew broader. "I won't bother him."
All the way home Don was haunted by that grin. He knew what it meant. Tim thought he had started back to lay down the law and had wilted. Tim thought he was afraid.
Don swallowed a lump in his throat. There was no use in trying to disguise the truth. Deep in his heart he didn't know whether he was or not.