CHAPTER IV
DANGER MOUNTAIN
Next day Don pitched his second game for Chester. His pulse was steady, his control was good, and the Springfield batters seemed unable to do much with his drop. When the score-keeper marked the last play and closed his book, Chester had won 5 runs to 3.
"Didn't I tell you?" Ted Carter cried jubilantly. "Some pitching!"
"Sure," said Tim. "I doped out what the batters couldn't hit, and he threw me what I wanted."
"There's a lot of pitchers can't do that," the captain said lightly, and shot a quick look at the pitcher.
Don pretended that he had not heard; but he could not keep the color from rising in his cheeks. All during the game Tim had seemed to rasp him a bit—not enough to spoil his work, but enough to keep him on edge.
He had thought, after last night's meeting, that there would be a big change in Tim. Instead, it began to look as though Tim would continue to be the same wild, heedless, quarrelsome lad he had always been.
"Today's tussle will give you confidence," said Ted in his ear. "You'll be able to give them all a fight now."
Don flashed a smile, and then the smile was gone. So was the thrill of his triumph. It was hard, this thinking you had weathered a storm and then finding that you hadn't.
At supper Barbara and his father asked him about the game. He told of his success, but with none of the flash and fire of a conqueror. Barbara caught his glance and smiled at him understandingly.
"More trouble with Tim?" she asked.
"N—no; not exactly trouble. You see—" And then he related what had happened last night, and the great hopes that had come, and how Tim had acted today.
"Don," said Mr. Strong, "do you remember when you learned to pitch an outcurve?"
"Yes, sir."
"You used to pitch to Alex Davidson out there in the yard. One day you came running into the shop and shouted that you had it, and I went out to watch, and you couldn't throw the curve again."
"But I got it again next day," Don said quickly.
"And now you can pitch it any time you want to," said his father.
Don frowned. This was too deep! He saw Barbara smiling and nodding as much as to say, "Think it out, Don." Suddenly he straightened.
"You mean that because Tim played fair that once—"
"Just the way you pitched your curve that once," said his father.
Don sighed. It was funny how his troubles dropped away when he brought them home.
Monday there was another patrol meeting. Tim attended, but an imp of perverseness seemed to rule him. It was the first time he had seen the patrol as a group since Friday night. At first he looked hot and uncomfortable. After a while he began to scrape his feet and drum on the table. He seemed anxious to have it understood that, regardless of what had happened, no one need think that he was going to be bossed.
"Oh, keep your feet still!" Alex Davidson said at last.
Tim rolled a page of his pad into a ball and shot it across the table. The missile struck Ritter on the nose. Tim giggled, and made another ball, and shot this one at Andy Ford.
"Cut it out!" Andy said good-naturedly. "You'll get papers all over the floor."
Tim grinned, and rolled another cartridge. Don caught his bold, sidelong glance—a glance that seemed to say, "Well, what are you going to do about it?"
Others around the table caught that look, too. Don's face grew hot. In an effort to keep the scouts from paying attention to Tim, he talked rapidly about the first aid contest, now two weeks off. The Eagles and the Foxes, he said, were working hard, and the Wolves would have to give more time to practice.
"We're behind," Don finished, "and we must catch up."
Somehow, what he said sounded strained, and forced, and lame. Every scout felt it—even Tim. Andy Ford's eyes snapped. He didn't look good-humored now.
"We're not getting any better on our stretcher work," he said bluntly.
"We need practice there."
Tim stopped rolling his pad page. "That's a crack at me, isn't it?" he demanded.
"I'm in the stretcher work, too," said Andy.
"Aw, you're too clever," Tim flared. "I know what you mean." He shot the ball, and it whizzed past the assistant patrol leader's ear.
The meeting was spoiled. Tim glanced defiantly around the table. Alex
Davidson tried to get the talk going again, but discussion seemed to lag.
And then, just when Don, in his disgust, was ready to adjourn, the door
opened and Barbara came into the room.
She had glasses and cake, and a pitcher of lemonade. Soon a filled glass was in front of each scout.
"How is that for a good turn?" she smiled. "Why so many sober faces?
What's the matter with you, Tim?"
Tim flushed, and looked down at the floor.
"He won't tell me," Barbara cried gayly. "That's what I get for being a girl—can't learn any boy scout secrets. Have a piece of cake, Tim."
"Thank you," said Tim bashfully.
The plate was passed around the table. Tim's eyes were still downcast. At the door Barbara paused.
"Don't leave those papers on the floor, boys," she said. "Next time I come in I want to see you all smiling."
Tim ate his cake and drank his lemonade. The talk started again, a little brisker now, and a little more hopeful. Plans were made for two practice periods during the week.
"Will that be all right for you, Tim?" Don asked.
"Don't worry about me," the red-haired boy answered shortly. "I'll be there." He arose, went around to the other side of the table and stooped to pick a paper ball from the floor.
A soft smile touched Andy's mouth.
"Aw! what are you laughing at?" Tim cried.
"I'm not laughing, Tim," Andy protested. "Honest."
But, for all that, Tim was furious when he left the meeting. The others stood on the porch and chatted a moment; he strode out the gate and down the dark road.
"Gee!" he said in disgust. "They'll think I'm a little Janie."
Letting a girl make him do things! It stung his pride. Friday night he had said no, and had changed his mind and had scrubbed with the others. Tonight he had grinned when told about papers on the floor—and had ended by picking them up.
Everything had gone wrong, Tim told himself, since Don had become patrol leader. He began to blame Don for all his troubles. Don had upbraided him when the patrol had lost points. It was at Don's house that Barbara had made him pick up papers. His cheeks burned.
"I'll show them!" he vowed wrathfully. He would redeem himself in the only way he knew. He would "start something."
He started it by picking at Don all during next day's practice.
"What's the matter with you?" Ted Carter demanded sharply. "Are you sick?"
"Don's pitching like a freak," Tim answered.
"It's Saturday's pitching that counts," said Ted. "You fellows have had enough warm-up. Go out in the field, Don, and catch fungoes."
Don was glad to get away. When the work was over Ted ran to the outfield and took him by the arm and led him toward the road.
"Have you and Tim been scrapping?" the captain asked.
Don shook his head.
"You fellows are in the same scout troop. Do you pull?"
"N—no."
"What's the matter; did Tim want to be patrol leader?"
Don nodded.
Ted slapped his glove against his thigh and whistled thoughtfully. At the corner he paused. Don halted, too.
"Look here," Ted said suddenly. "You know that Tim is a harum-scarum, don't you?"
"Everybody knows that," said Don.
Ted broke into a relieved laugh. "Well, if you know it, what's the use of paying any attention to him? Just let him beef along until he gets tired. He can't hurt you."
Don tried to wrest some comfort from the captain's words—and failed. True, Tim couldn't hurt him, but he could make things mighty unpleasant, and that was almost as bad.
At home he found a post-card from Mr. Wall:
The troop will assemble tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock. Light marching order.
Don forgot all about Tim. Light marching order meant that this would not be an overnight hike, and a blanket was unnecessary. Haversack, cooking kit and rations for one meal would constitute the load.
Ordinarily, hikes were arranged in advance and discussed at troop meetings. But sometimes Mr. Wall did the unexpected. He had said once that it added spice to scouting, and the scouts had agreed. It gave them practice, too, in assembling at a few hours' notice. But the scouts did not think of that.
Don hustled upstairs and overhauled his haversack. His eating things were in their places. Frying-pan and two sauce-pans intact, can-opener, matches, salt—
"Got to get some salt," he said, and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Barbara called that supper was ready. He scooted upstairs, washed, and came down to the dining-room.
"Hiking tomorrow?" Mr. Strong asked.
"Don will be too excited to eat," Barbara said with a laugh as Don nodded in reply to the question.
But she was mistaken. Don ate a supper of healthy size. Afterward he went out to the porch and squinted up at the sky. Stars dotted the black heavens like so many small windows. Now, if it didn't rain—
It didn't; not during the night, anyway. Don awoke with the morning sun in his face. In a moment he was out of bed and into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he was downstairs.
His breakfast was merely a bite and a promise. There were too many things to do and too much to think about! What should he take along to cook at noon?
"There's some lamb chops in the ice-box," said Barbara.
Two of the chops went into the haversack. Then potatoes, and six slices of bread, and some coffee wrapped in a paper, and a small can of evaporated milk. He strapped the haversack, and suddenly remembered that he had forgotten salt, after all, and unstrapped it again. Barbara stuck in two apples, and by the time the load was slung from his shoulder, whistles and calls sounded from the gate.
Andy Ford, Ritter and Bobbie Brown were waiting impatiently. Bobbie was sure that they would be late, and kept saying that everybody knew that Mr. Wall started promptly on the minute. Don winked at the others and led the way toward troop headquarters.
They were not late. Mr. Wall's watch, hanging from a screw hook in the door, told them that they still had ten minutes. Don opened the patrol locker.
"Who'll carry the ax?" he asked.
"I will," said a voice.
He turned. Tim Lally was waiting with outstretched hand.
"Oh!" said Don uncertainly. Tim took the tool and strapped its leather sheath to his belt. He seemed to have forgotten all about his grouch.
Everything was noise and bustle and confusion. The Eagles and the Foxes were grouped in front of their patrol lockers. There were cries of, "Hey, Jimmy! what did you bring to cook? What did you bring, Charlie?"
Suddenly the silver notes of a bugle arose above the clamor. Assembly! Lockers were banged shut. Scouts scurried outdoors and fell into their places.
"Column twos," came Mr. Wall's voice. "Forward! March!"
Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded eager feet. Down to Main Street and then to the left. Alex Davidson waved to them from the door of the grocery store.
"I wish Alex were with us," Don said wistfully.
"I guess Alex wishes he was, too," Andy answered. "But nobody'll ever catch him wearing a long face just because he must work. He isn't that kind."
The troop approached the turnpike.
"Column left!" came the order.
They knew where they were going up—up toward Gipsy Grove. The place had gotten its name from the fact that whenever a gipsy tribe came to the neighborhood it pitched its tents there. It was an ideal camping ground, with plenty of firewood, a clean, running stream, and just enough open timber to let the sunlight through.
Presently they were away from the village and out in open country. The discipline of the march was dropped. In a straggling, merry line they moved along.
Twice the Scoutmaster called rest halts, and each time there was a short talk on roadside flowers, and trees, and weeds. The morning wore away. By and by the sun was almost directly overhead, and Gipsy Grove was at last in sight.
There was a race to see which patrol could get all its fires going first.
Each scout was to cook for himself.
"I'll chop," cried Tim. "Somebody get my fire going." His strong, muscular arms made short work of the dry dead wood that littered the ground under the trees.
"We win," shouted the Foxes. But their last fire went out as it was lighted, and a flustered scout prepared to try again amid cries of, "Not more than two matches." This time his wood took the flame. But now the Eagles and the Wolves also had their fires going. Mr. Wall declared the race a triple tie.
Haversacks were unpacked. Frying-pans and pots were dragged forth.
Potatoes were laid among hot coals.
Mr. Wall had chopped some wood and had his own fire going. Now he walked among the boys.
"You're getting your fire too big," he warned Bobbie. "You don't need much of a blaze to cook."
"How's mine?" said Tim.
"Fine!" said the Scoutmaster. "Keep it that way."
"Sure," said Tim. "I'll show some of these other fellows how to do theirs."
Andy Ford gave a low groan. "Good night; now we're in for it."
Tim wasted no time. He approached Ritter. That scout eyed him suspiciously.
"You let my fire alone," he warned.
"Go chase yourself. Mr. Wall told me to show you fellows—"
"Tim!" Don chided.
Tim flashed the patrol leader an angry glance. "I said I was going to show the fellows, didn't I? He didn't tell me not to. Anyway, Ritter's fire sprawls out too much. Wait until I get a stick. Now, all you have to do is to pull out these pieces, and—"
"You're raking out my potatoes," cried Ritter.
"It won't kill you to put them back," said Tim. He tossed the stick away and turned toward Bobbie.
"Your fire's all right now, Bobbie," Don said distinctly.
Tim turned up his nose and faced in Wally Woods's direction. But Wally's fire, small and compact, gave him no excuse to tinker. He advanced to where Andy Ford was preparing to fry his meat.
"Gee!" he said. "That sure is one sick-looking fire."
"Suits me," said Andy. He laid the meat in the pan.
Tim began to prod the fire with his foot. The flame, which had been low and even, began to flare and smoke. Andy dropped his frying-pan and sprang forward.
"Get away from there," he cried. His rush caught Tim and pushed him back. Then the red-haired boy braced, and there was a scuffle. Andy's fire was scattered.
"What's the meaning of this?" came Mr. Wall's voice.
Instantly the boys separated. Andy hung his head as though ashamed. Tim carried an injured air.
"Andy pitched into me," he complained.
"He was interfering with my fire," Andy answered.
"I wasn't. I was only showing him."
"Andy is a first-class scout," said Mr. Wall quietly. "If he doesn't know how to build a fire and cook a meal I have blundered as Scoutmaster in awarding him his first-class badge."
Tim looked away. This was putting the whole thing in a new light. He dug the toe of one shoe into the ground, and kept twisting and turning it nervously.
Mr. Wall's voice softened. "You go off the handle too quickly, Tim. You've ruined Andy's fire. What do you think you should do—the square thing?"
"I'll finish my cooking over Don's fire," Andy said quickly.
Mr. Wall never made the mistake of continuing a lecture to the point where it lost its force. He knew when to stop. This flurry was over.
"All right, scouts," he said, and went back to his own cooking. Tim shuffled off and squatted down beside his own blaze.
Andy rounded up his potatoes. They were cold and discouraged looking.
"I've enough potatoes for us both," said Don. "What kind of meat have you?"
"Sausage."
"Gosh! That ought to be fine. Let's go whack—half my lamb chops for half your sausage."
Soon eager nostrils were sniffing the glorious odor of sizzling meat touched with the tang of wood smoke. Don and Andy finished their cooking in silence. They began to eat. All over the camp scouts drew together and pooled their rations. Tim Lally sat by his fire, alone.
"He's beginning to look good and sore," Andy said in a low voice.
Don glanced toward the red-haired scout. Tim caught his eye and made a derisive face, and then turned his back and began to whistle as though he was having a gloriously good time.
But Don was not fooled. Tim was lonesome. He felt that he was frozen out.
But what could Tim expect if he was going to antagonize everybody?
By and by cooking utensils were cleaned and put away. The fires were smothered. Haversacks were slung across strong young shoulders. The troop marched away.
Up a winding road the scouts went, sometimes singing, sometimes shouting boisterously, sometimes silent. Suddenly they came out in a clearing.
To the right was Danger Mountain; to the left was Lonesome Woods.
The scouts spoke in subdued voices. Danger Mountain! They all knew how it had come by its name. A man had tried to climb one of its high, rocky walls and had fallen to his death.
And Lonesome Woods. There was another name to make scouts edge closer to one another. Three miles wide it was, and about seven miles long, and dark and dense with thick growth. The gipsy caravans kept away from it. Passing tramps gave it a wide berth. From time to time boys dipped into its edges, but soon came out. Lonesome Woods, indeed!
"We'll have to explore that some day," said Mr. Wall.
"The mountain?" Tim asked eagerly.
"The woods," the Scoutmaster answered.
A shout broke from the troop. With Mr. Wall along there would be nothing to fear. When would they go? Next week?
"We'll take it up at Friday night's meeting," the Scoutmaster promised.
"Why can't we do the mountain?" Tim demanded.
"Because Danger Mountain is a bad spot. Broken bones are a heavy price to pay for foolish daring."
Tim stared off at the mountain. "It doesn't seem so hard," he said, and his eyes lighted with eagerness. Mr. Wall's face became grave.
The hike home was all downhill. The scouts swung along gayly. The prospect of penetrating Lonesome Woods shortened the miles. What would they find? What strange adventures would befall them?
"Adventure? Piffle!" said Tim. "Give me Danger Mountain."
"Sssh!" warned Ritter. "Mr. Wall will hear you."
"Gee! Can't I even say what I'd like?" Off in the distance a dog barked.
Tim barked in reply. The dog answered. It became a duel of sound.
Tim was in his glory. Weird, nerve-racking screeches came from his throat. Presently the uproar became unbearable.
Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled. The noise stopped.
"What's the matter back there?" Mr. Wall demanded. "Can't the patrol leader keep order?"
"Cut it out, Tim," said Don.
"Go on!" Tim answered sullenly. "Say it louder so Mr. Wall will hear you." He slouched through what was left of the hike and did not speak a word to anyone.
"He surely can make things pleasant," said Andy. "Some day he'll go too far and Mr. Wall will bundle him out of the troop, and it will be good riddance."
Don said nothing. He wanted to be relieved of the burden of Tim's trouble-making, but not by expulsion. That, he thought, was no way for a fellow to end as a scout. If Tim would only be a little bit more like the other fellows in the patrol!
But the chances of Tim doing that seemed remote. He had his good moments—times when it seemed that he had struck the right road and was on his way to better things. Always, though, something happened to turn him aside.
Next day there was baseball practice. Don came to the field eager for a warm-up. He nodded hopefully to Tim, and took his place, and noticed that Ted Carter was loitering near by.
"Come on," cried Tim. "Let's see if you can do a little better pitching today."
Don bit his lips. Evidently, Tim was in one of his sour, irritating moods. He served the ball and resolved to pay no attention to the catcher. By and by he threw his first curve.
"They'd kill that," said Tim.
Don pitched again.
"Oh, come on! Come on!"
Ted Carter walked out between the boys, "That will be all from you, Tim. When you come out on this field, you come out to play ball. If you can't play ball, you quit."
Slowly Tim pulled off his mitt. He was the only regular catcher. Ted was trying to bluff him. And his temper was flaring because he had been rebuked in front of Don.
"Think you can get anybody to play any better for you than I play?" he asked flippantly.
"You bet I can," said Ted. "I can use a fellow who'll be in the game every minute."
"Get him," Tim said indifferently.
"I will," said Ted. "You're through. Get off the field."
Tim was jarred. He hadn't expected anything like this. He looked at Ted.
There could be no escaping what he saw—the captain meant it.
"Where—where are you going to get another catcher?" he asked weakly.
"Is it worrying you?" Ted asked. "I'll go behind the bat myself. I guess I can get somebody to play first base. Now get off the field; you're in the way."
Tim walked over to the maple tree and stood there in its shade. He was raging. Chased from the field! Routed out as though he didn't amount to a rap, and he the best catcher in the village!
"I'll play with some of the other teams," he vowed. "I'll offer to catch for them. I'll come here and make these fellows feel sick. I'll—"
But he knew that he'd do nothing of the sort. Breaking into teams out of your own town was almost impossible. He was out of it, on the shelf, discarded.
"I ought to go out there," he muttered fiercely, "and whack Don one in the eye." He saw the pitcher begin to throw to Ted. The sight was too much for him. He swung around and plunged down the road, the big mitt under his arm, and did not once look back.
Had he stayed, he would have seen that Ted Carter called the pitching to a halt in a very few minutes. The captain was no fool. The first six balls Don threw him proved to him that the pitcher was upset.
"Don't let this bother you," he said. "Tim had it coming to him. It wasn't your fault. Go home and forget it, and tomorrow you and I'll work out and get acquainted."
Don went home, but he did not forget. He was sure that this latest twist would only pile up trouble for him as patrol leader.
Next morning the news was all over the village. Don heard it when he went on an errand for his father. Afterward he worked on his bird-houses and tried to brush aside the worried thoughts that plagued him. Andy Ford came to the yard, and was followed by Bobbie Brown and Wally Woods. The three boys looked at Don, and looked at each other, and looked away.
"Was Tim chased?" Andy asked at last.
Don laid down his plane. "Fellows," he said seriously, "if you hear any talk about Tim just—just keep your mouths shut. Talk always makes things worse and—and we're after the Scoutmaster's Cup."
The three boys nodded that they understood. There wasn't much to say after that. One by one they went their way and left Don alone.
Late in the afternoon he went to the field. He did not see Tim, and at once a weight seemed taken from his heart. He pitched to Ted. His control was better now, and presently he found himself enjoying the work. His curves broke well, and Ted kept calling, "That' a boy, Don; that' a boy!" and he felt a thrilling desire to give Ted the best he had. Tim never made him feel like that.
Next night came the troop meeting. He wondered if Tim would carry his bad temper so far as to come carelessly dressed. Evidently others shared his anxiety, for as soon as he reached headquarters Andy asked him anxiously if Tim would be "all right."
Tim came to the meeting as clean as any scout in the troop. The patrol leader of the Foxes had left the key of his locker at home, and Fox patrol scouts who had expected to brush their shoes before the meeting was called found themselves face to face with a difficulty.
The "fall in" signal came all too soon for the flustered Foxes. Quietly
Mr. Wall walked down the line of stiff-backed, silent boys.
"A perfect score for the Wolves," he said. "Four points off the Foxes for untidiness. Two points from the Eagles for a scout absent."
Up went the new standing:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 58-1/2
Fox 58
Wolf 57-1/2
"Gosh!" breathed Andy. "We're close now, aren't we?"
"It's all in sticking together," said Don. In spite of himself his voice trembled. He looked at Tim. The trouble-making scout was staring at the board with puckered eyes. Don would have given much to know of what he was thinking.
There was a lot of work that night—knot-tying, drowning grips and how to
break them, identifying leaves from trees and bushes, and map reading.
Finally that part of the meeting was over. A voice cried, "How about
Lonesome Woods?" There were cheers and shouts.
There wasn't much debate about the trip. There was, however, a hot wrangle about the day. Finally it went to a vote, and Thursday was selected.
"Gee!" said Tim. "I bet that will be a great hike."
The meeting adjourned. A scout of the Eagle patrol caught Don's arm.
"What team do you pitch against tomorrow?" he asked.
"Little Falls," said Don.
Tim's face lost its animation and grew dark. He walked toward the door. And Don, watching him, wondered why it was that fellows were always asked questions at the wrong time.
By this time Don knew that Tim, whenever anything peeved him, could be counted on to display a reckless streak. For a moment this worried him; then he brushed the thought aside. He was always fretting about Tim, and nothing serious was ever happening.
He had planned to mow the lawn and spade the flower beds next morning. It was well that he went early to his task, for at ten o'clock Ted Carter came for him.
"You had better come to the field," the captain said. "No pitching—just a little throwing to bases. I've dug up a fellow named Marty Smith to cover first. I want you to get used to each other."
Don evened off the flower beds, carried the raked-up grass around to the chickens, and put the gardening tools away.
"Dinner at twelve sharp," Barbara called after him.
At first he felt odd, throwing to the bag and not finding Ted there. He made some crazy tosses. But Marty's long reach always saved him, and Marty's cheery voice kept calling, "That's the stuff; that's what will get them."
Another first-baseman, Don thought, would be scolding about the throws. His heart warmed to the newcomer. He began to feel at home. His throws steadied and became sure.
"That's enough," Ted called. "Nobody'll get much of a lead on you fellows. Now for some fielding."
Don walked over to the shade of the maple tree. Intent on watching the field, he did not notice the small figure that took a place at his side.
"Hello, Don," said a voice.
"Oh! Hello, Bobbie! What's the matter, you look worried?"
"I'm all right," Bobbie said hastily.
Don turned his eyes to the field. Even though his interest was completely absorbed, he thought, subconsciously, that the boy at his elbow was very restless.
By and by the dwindling tree shadows warned him that it was time he started for home. He walked out to the road. Bobbie walked with him.
"Going my way?" he asked.
"Y-yes," said Bobbie. They passed one corner, then another.
"I—I want to ask you something," Bobbie said haltingly. "If a scout knows that some other scout is going to do something—something dangerous, maybe—is it blabbing if he tells?"
Don stopped short. "Who's doing something dangerous?"
"Is it carrying tales?" Bobbie insisted.
Don thought a moment. "I don't think so, Bobbie."
"But when a fellow tells about other things—"
"Could you stop this scout from doing something dangerous if you told?"
Don asked.
"I—I think so."
"Does he know it's dangerous?"
Bobbie nodded slowly.
"Then you ought to tell," said Don.
Bobbie looked at the ground. "Tim Lally is getting up a party to go to
Danger Mountain today," he said.
A shiver ran through Don's nerves. "Where's Tim now?" he asked.
"Home, getting ready."
Don turned back toward the ball field. Past the maple tree he strode. A factory whistle sounded the noon hour. He broke into a run.
Two blocks farther on he stopped short. Tim was coming toward him carrying an oil can.
"Are you going to Danger Mountain?" Don demanded.
Tim put down the can and cocked his cap over one eye. "Sure. Why?"
"You can't. Mr. Wall said it's a bad spot."
"He didn't say we couldn't go."
"That's what he meant."
"How do you know?"
"Everybody knows. That's why he won't take us there. He said you could get broken bones."
"I'm not afraid." Tim picked up the can and swung it carelessly. "I guess Mr. Wall was trying to scare little fellows like Bobbie. He didn't mean a big fellow like me."
Don knew that arguing with Tim would be useless. And yet, as the trouble-maker stepped around him, he made a last plea.
"You'll get the patrol in trouble, Tim, and we're only one point behind the Eagles."
"I knew you weren't worrying about me," said Tim.
Don followed slowly. He had pleaded for the troop thinking that that might win where all else had failed. And, as usual, Tim had misunderstood.
At the corner he paused. New thoughts were crowding through his brain. Tim's recklessness was jeopardizing not only himself—it was threatening the entire troop.
Suppose he fell and broke an arm, or a leg, or—or worse. People would say, "There; that's what comes from letting boys become scouts and go hiking." Boys would be taken from the troop. The troop might even break up. All Mr. Wall's plans for the future would be ruined.
"It isn't fair," Don told himself bitterly. "If there was somebody who could make him stay home—"
His eyes puckered and his mouth grew tight. He had told Bobbie that this wasn't carrying tales. It wasn't. Suddenly he turned to his left and went up a side street.
A few minute's later he rang the doorbell of a plain, pleasant-looking house. The screen door opened.
"Good afternoon, Donald," said a woman's voice. "Are you looking for Mr.
Wall?"
"Yes, Mrs. Wall." Don's cap was in his hand. "Is he home? Could I see him right away?"
Mrs. Wall shook her head. "He went to the city this morning. I do not expect him until evening. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"N-no," said Don. He went down the stoop, stumbling on the last step, and walked slowly toward home.