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 scrapping 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 scrap?"
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 assistant 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 hitting won last Saturday'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—
"Come on, Don," called Ted Carter. "Ninth inning."
The first Chester batter doubled. Instantly all stray thoughts were swept from Don's mind. The next player fouled out. Then came a long fly to the right-fielder and the runner ran to third after the catch. Any kind of a dinky hit would score the tying run.
Don pitched to the batter. Without shifting his position, Tim snapped the ball to third base. The runner, caught asleep, scrambled frantically for the bag.
"Out!" ruled the umpire.
The game was over. Don ran to the bench.
"Pretty work, Tim," he cried.
"I guess I don't need anybody to show me how to play baseball," said Tim.
Don paused in the act of reaching for his sweater. Tim's eyes met his, a bit uncertain, a bit defiant. Ted Carter, laughing and happy, romped in between them.
"You fellows are one sweet battery," he cried joyously. Other members of the team crowded around the bench. Tim, with his mitt under his arm, walked away.
Slowly Don buttoned his sweater. Tim's change of heart was a mystery no longer.
At the edge of the field he found Andy Ford waiting.
"Mackerel!" cried the assistant patrol leader; "wasn't that a corking game? When Tim made that throw—Hello! What's the matter?"
"Tim's sore because of what Bobbie said."
"How do you know?"
Don related what had happened at the bench.
"Well, the big boob!" Andy gave a snort of anger. "Doesn't he know any better than to pay attention to a kid like Bobbie?"
"Tim's always been that way," said Don. "He's sensitive."
"Sure; but he isn't sensitive about his patrol, is he?"
Don sighed. No; Tim wasn't very sensitive about that.
After supper he came out of the house and walked down to the fence. He had an idea that Andy would be around; and when presently the assistant patrol leader came down the dark street, he held open the gate. They sat on the grass and talked in low tones.
"I've doped it out," said Andy. "Why don't you shift—you and Tim do the
Morse instead of Tim and Alex?"
Don shook his head—slowly.
"Why not?" Andy demanded. "If you worked with him and let him do things his own way wouldn't he get over his grouch?"
"I don't know. Would he?"
"Sure he would. Suppose some day when we were all hanging around you asked him to show you how to do something."
"Gee!" cried Don. "That would get him, wouldn't it?"
Andy grinned. "I guess we'll tame that roughneck, what?"
Don always rested his arm after a game. He had not planned to go to the baseball field until Tuesday. But his business with Tim was too important to wait. Monday afternoon he put away his tools and his bird-houses, and went off to the village green.
"Hello!" called Ted Carter. "What are you doing around here on a Monday?"
"I want to see Tim," Don answered. He took the catcher off to one side. "We're making some changes," he said. "Alex will work with Ritter on semaphore signaling."
Tim's eyes grew suspicious. "Who'll work with me on Morse?"
"I will," said Don.
Tim's eyes snapped. "So that's the game, is it?" he asked darkly. "What's the first order I get; practice tomorrow?"
"That's up to you," said Don. "When do you want to practice?"
Tim was taken aback. He had expected to be told, not asked; ordered, not consulted. He mumbled that tomorrow would do, and went back to practice. He could not get his thoughts back on the work. Once, when the ball was traveling around the bases, his attention wandered, and when somebody threw the sphere home, it almost struck him in the head.
"Let's call it a day," cried Ted Carter, "before Tim gets killed."
Tim smiled absently. He looked around for Don. The patrol leader was gone. He walked away slowly, turning one question over and over in his puzzled mind. What new trick was this, anyway?
Next morning he went around to Don's house. He was still sure that something had been hidden, and that at the proper moment the surprise would be sprung. He was watchful and cautious.
The practice ran its course serenely. Barbara came out, and after watching awhile, wrote a four-word message and asked Tim to send it. Don received it without a mistake.
"Isn't that splendid?" she cried. "The Wolf patrol will surely win points in the signaling, won't it?"
"We'll give them a fight," said Don.
Tim said nothing. But the fire to be something more than the Wolf patrol failure began to burn again. When the last message had flashed back and forth, he handed Don his flag.
"We'll get down to real work after this," said the patrol leader.
Ah! So here was the trick. Tim waited.
"Sending messages back and forth," Don went on, "is all right while we're brushing up the code. We know the code now. It's time to begin to specialize for the contest. One of us will have to do nothing but send, and the other nothing but receive."
Still Tim waited.
"Which do you want to do, send or receive?"
"I—I'll send," said Tim. He felt like a boy who had squeezed his fingers in his ears and had waited for a gun to go off, and had then found that the gun was not loaded. He was bewildered, lost, confused.
Wednesday he came again. And still there was no bossing, no giving orders, no high hand of authority. Perhaps there was no trick.
"Ah!" Tim told himself, "there must be. Why did he shift me here? Why didn't he let me stay with Alex? There's a reason, all right."
And so, whenever he and Don were together, on the baseball field or in
Don's yard, he found himself weighing every word and act.
Friday night's meeting brought no change in the score. Each troop, eager and keen, reported faultlessly. The blackboard read:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 122-1/2
Fox 127
Wolf 124-1/2
Tonight there was silence when the scores were posted. The contest had grown too tight for mere noise and bluster. A false step now by any patrol might drop it hopelessly to the rear. When Mr. Wall's commands still held the scouts in ranks, the faces they turned to him were boyishly sober.
"I am going to keep a promise," the Scoutmaster said, "that I made some time ago. Next week's meeting will be held in Lonesome Woods."
The sober faces were suddenly aglow.
"Attention!" came the low voices of the patrol leaders. The ranks stood firm.
"It will be part of an overnight hike. We will leave here Thursday afternoon at one o'clock."
A quick murmur—then silence.
"The signaling contests will be held in the woods. Break ranks."
The pent-up enthusiasm swelled up in a wild cheer. The Scoutmaster found himself pushed and jostled. A dozen boys tried to shout questions at once. He laughed and covered his ears with his hands. When he brought them away Don spoke quickly:
"How about telegraphy, sir?"
"Each patrol will bring its own wire and rig its own instruments," was the answer.
Why, this was just like war—signaling from hidden places, and running telegraph wires over tree limbs and across the ground.
Tim's adventurous blood quickened. The troop meeting seemed tame and prosaic. He went through his setting-up exercises mechanically. He could almost smell the tang of a wood fire burning.
There was work tonight in identifying leaves and barks of trees, and stems of plants. Tim twisted restlessly. The moment the meeting was over he followed Don down the room.
"How far apart will they put us in the woods?" he demanded.
Don didn't know.
"We'd better get out among some trees and practice," Tim said.
The suggestion was good. Don said so. Tim's face flushed.
Patrols were clamoring around their patrol leaders. How much wire would be needed? Tim went back to where he had left his hat. And there, on his way out, Mr. Wall paused a moment.
"How's everything, Tim?"
"All right, sir."
"Good!" The Scoutmaster's hand ran gently over his head. Their eyes met.
There were no questions of, "Did you go to your patrol leader, Tim?" Mr.
Wall seemed to be the kind who understood without asking questions.
"Tim," he said, "I think we're going to be proud of you some day."
"I hope so," Tim said huskily. His heart beat faster as he turned back to his patrol. And then he heard Ritter's voice.
"Say, how is Tim going? Has Don got him working?"
"Stop that, Ritter," Don cried angrily. Gosh! couldn't some fellows ever learn to hold their tongues? His eyes sought Tim; one look told him enough. Tim had heard.
Here was another mess, and right on the eve of the big overnight hike. Don made up his mind that he'd square things with Tim tomorrow when they reported at the field for the regular Saturday game. A mix-up like this couldn't be neglected.
But there was a heavy fall of rain that night, and more rain the next morning. By noon the village field was flooded. Ted Carter sent word that the game had been called off.
At two o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. From the porch Don had watched the weather restlessly. The moment the sun appeared he hurried off toward the field. There was just a possibility that Tim might come around. He had to speak to him.
Tim came at last, but without his catcher's mitt. He stood around with his hands in his pockets and had very little to say. His mouth was a trifle tight, and his eyes rather hard.
"When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?" Don asked.
Tim shrugged his shoulders.
"Monday or Tuesday?"
But Tim was still indifferent. Don came nearer.
"If you're sore about what Ritter said—"
"Me sore? Why should I get sore? I'm used to it."
"Now, Tim—"
Tim walked away. He told himself that he was through. Not through with the scouts, but through with going down to Don's yard as though he were a poodle dog being taught new tricks.
He would not stop practicing. Nobody was going to get a chance to say that he was to blame if anything happened this time. All next morning he wig-wagged in his yard. After dinner he went at it again. The work was cruelly monotonous.
"There," he said grimly, when at last he quit; "I bet Don didn't practice that much today."
All at once a voice whispered to him, "How could Don practice? He receives. He must have somebody to send to him."
"Aw!" Tim growled, "let him go get somebody to send to him."
Somehow, that didn't seem to answer. Next afternoon, when he began his self-imposed task of signaling, the flag seemed like lead in his hands. He sat on the chopping block outside the kitchen door and stared ahead. A long time later he sighed and walked around to the front gate.
"I'm a boob for doing it," he said, and stopped short. In a minute he went on again, slowly, doubtfully—but on.
All the way to Don's house the old questions pricked him sharply. Why had he been shifted? Just to be watched? What would Don say to him now?
Don, working on the lawn, said: "Hello, Tim. Wait until I tack on this screening, will you?"
But the patrol leader's heart was beating fast. If Tim was ready to smile and dig in, the Wolves' chances were improved 50 per cent.
But though Tim was ready to work, he was far from being in a friendly state of mind. His flag wig-wagged short three-and four-word messages that Don could carry in his head without resorting to pad and pencil. At four o'clock the work was over.
"Want to go to the woods tomorrow?" Tim asked gruffly.
Don nodded eagerly.
"All right; I'll be around at one o'clock." He turned on his heel and was gone.
Don went indoors dejectedly. Barbara was mixing biscuit batter in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway and blurted out the doings of the past few days.
"Nothing there to worry about," Barbara said brightly. "Be honest, now.
How did Tim act a couple of months ago whenever anything displeased him?"
"He kicked things around."
"And now he comes here and works."
"Gosh!" said Don in a relieved voice, "that's so. I didn't think of it like that." He went back to his screens for another hour of work before supper, and as he measured and cut molding, his whistle was cheery and good to hear.
Even Tim's crabbiness on the next day's trip did not dampen his spirits. There was a thicket a mile from town. They selected this spot for their work.
The light was different from the open. Somehow everything seemed changed.
Messages were harder to read. It was fine practice.
"I'm glad you thought of that," Don said on the way home.
Tim's stiffness melted a little. It was hard to be stand-offish with a boy who kept praising your judgment.
As though by instinct, that night saw a gathering of the patrols at troop head-quarters. Telegraph instruments, and dry batteries, and coils of wire, were laid together for the morrow's hike. The trek wagon was hauled from the old barn in back of Mr. Wall's house. The tents were carried from the same place and laid in the wagon. The lanterns, swinging underneath, were cleaned and filled and put back on their hooks.
At first Tim had hung on the outskirts of the crowd. But it was impossible to resist for long the glamour of these preparations. The trek wagon, the tents, the night lanterns, all helped to stir his quick blood. They whispered of evening, and night fires springing to light, and white tent walls showing ghostly through the dusk.
"Say!" called a voice, "how are you Wolves going to manage about Alex
Davidson? He works in the store. Is he going on the hike?"
"No," said Don.
"Well, how about the signaling?"
"He has half a day off Friday. He'll come out Friday afternoon."
The nine o'clock fire bell sent the scouts scurrying for home. The trek wagon was left against the wall of troop headquarters.
Next morning the patrols assembled early. Mr. Wall dispatched a scout to the baker's for two dozen loaves of bread. Another boy hurried off to the grocer's shop for molasses, cocoa, and evaporated milk. When these had been put safely in place, the last strap was adjusted. The trek wagon was ready for the journey.
"You fellows get home," Mr. Wall ordered, "and get back here on time. Remember, the same rule as always—individual cooking. Two or three scouts or a whole patrol can team up, but each scout must bring enough food to feed himself for three meals—supper tonight, and breakfast and dinner tomorrow. The troop treasury furnishes the bread, molasses and cocoa. Everybody understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right. We leave here at one o'clock sharp."
The Scoutmaster could have saved himself the warning. At 12:30 o'clock the last scout was there, haversack and blanket on his back, ax and canteen on his hip.
At 12:55 the bugle blew. The scouts fell into line.
"Each patrol," said Mr. Wall, "will take its turn hauling the trek wagon.
The Wolves first."
Don's patrol dropped back.
At one o'clock the bugle sounded again.
"Forward!" cried Mr. Wall. "March!"
"Forward!" echoed the patrol leaders. "March!"
Chester troop was off. Small boys followed along the sidewalk and on past the village limits. After that, one by one, they dropped back, and at last the troop swung on through the early afternoon alone.
Tim threw himself joyously into the work of hauling the wagon. When Mr. Wall ordered route step, and the discipline of the hike gave way to laughter and song, Tim's voice rose above all the rest.
He felt like dancing in the road. The first hill found him impatient to run the wagon to the top. His zeal caused a quickened pace. Oh! there was no loafing or shirking today.
At the end of a half-mile the Foxes took the load. Tim strode on with a swinging step. His doubts were vanishing. Not once had Don tried to force him to do what he did not want to do. If there was some hidden reason for switching him from Alex, it should show itself now, shouldn't it? Maybe he had been wrong all along.
Don fell into step with him. "How about some practice in the woods this afternoon, Tim?"
"Sure." Tim's eyes danced. "We'll be first if we win this time."
Now it was Don who felt like dancing in the road. Tim, for some reason, had had another change of heart, and was once more eager.
Soon the whole patrol was walking with Don and Tim. And Tim, light-hearted, irrepressible, kept the talk flying merrily. When the call came for the Wolves to take the wagon again, he was the first to reach the shafts.
"Come on, slaves," he called.
Andy winked at Don. Don clutched the assistant patrol leader's arm and squeezed hard.
Tim made lively work of the next half-mile. The relief found Bobbie Brown gasping and wilted.
"Gee!" said Tim; "you're packing too heavy a load for a runt. Here, I'll take your blanket."
Bobbie straightened his shoulders. "I'm all right. I—"
"Aw! forget it." Tim turned him around, unstrapped the blanket, and stuck it under his arm. "Feels better, doesn't it?"
"Y-yes," said Bobbie.
Mr. Wall, coming down the line to watch for stragglers, saw what happened, smiled quietly, and went back to the head of the column.
After a time the jokes and the laughter stopped. They were approaching Lonesome Woods. Of course, this was going to be all kinds of fun, but—but—Well, Lonesome Woods was Lonesome Woods, wasn't it? A mile from camp Mr. Wall halted the column.
"Volunteers to go forward and cut firewood," he called.
But though the scouts might draw together a bit, here was too good an adventure to be missed. There was a rush for the Scoutmaster. Tim got there first.
"The Wolves have it," Mr. Wall decided.
"Little more load for the Eagles and the Foxes," sang Tim, and pitched his blanket and haversack into the trek wagon. Don and the others unslung theirs. Two minutes later the Wolf patrol was running in advance of the column with only their axes and canteens.
They plunged into the woods with a whoop. Presently they all drew together and listened. The place was still—ghostly still. The air was cooler, and heavier, and—and different.
"Gee!" said Bobbie. "It is lonesome in here, isn't it?"
Tim shrugged his shoulders. "Come on. Let's get firewood."
The sound of the axes chased away the quiet. The firewood became a small pile, a great pile, and then a fat, clumsy pyramid.
"Hello there, Wolves," came a faint hail.
The troop had arrived. Soon the woods rang with high-pitched shouts and cries.
The problem now was to find a camp site. Scouts swung out in all directions. One group tried to advance the wagon. Now the wheels would get tangled in clumps of underbrush, and now there would be seemingly no way to squeeze through the trees. At last it could be advanced no further.
The Foxes had found a clearing on sloping ground. A brook ran at one end.
The ground slope insured good drainage in case of rain.
The Wolves went back to bring in their firewood, and the Eagles and the
Foxes carted tents and equipment from the trek wagon.
Tim's blood ran riot in his veins. As he carried in the last of the kindling, the second tent arose against the background of trees.
"Say," he called eagerly, "let's help there."
The tent squad made a place for him.
He seemed tireless. By and by, with the last tent up and the last rope guyed, he wiped the sweat from his face and grinned.
"Doesn't look like Lonesome Woods now, does it?"
Mr. Wall's watch showed four o'clock. Supper cooking would start at five.
There was an hour in which to string telegraph wires.
"The messages," Mr. Wall said, "will be received here. Do not get too close to each other with your instruments."
Scouts hustled out to the trek wagon for batteries, wire and instruments.
Tim staked a claim for the Wolves' receiving station.
"How much wire must each patrol have out?" Andy Ford asked.
"Two hundred feet," was the answer.
Eagles and Foxes gathered and broke into clamorous discussion. How should the wire be measured? Don gathered his patrol and took it to one side.
"Andy has a fifty-foot tape. We'll measure as we unwind. Bobbie, you stay here and hold this end. Come on, fellows."
Into the dense growth of trees they wormed their way. It was slow work passing the wire through the branches of trees. Tim climbed and shinned his way from limb to limb like a monkey. Wherever the wire was laid, it was fastened in place with rubber tape.
About one hundred and twenty-five feet were out when the Scoutmaster's whistle sounded the recall. The scouts came back to camp. There was a comparison of results. The Eagles had strung about seventy feet of wire, and the Foxes less than sixty.
"We'll have ours finished before the others know what's happening," chuckled Andy. "And then we'll get in some practice."
"Tim and I are going to get some practice after supper," said Don.
"Sure thing," said Tim.
Fires were lighted and pots and pans appeared. Somebody yelled that cocoa was ready. The Foxes dished it out, and Mr. Wall distributed bread thickly covered with molasses.
"Some feast," said Tim. He took his place in the circle of Wolves. He was one of them—at home.
There was still some daylight left after dishes had been washed and put away, and the supper refuse burned. Tim and Don walked off a way with their flags. Teams from the other patrols scrambled for their flags, too, and practiced until the last light began to go.
The night-fire grew brighter in the darkness. A hush fell over the camp. The boys formed a circle about the blaze. Where they sat there was light and warmth, but ten feet back were the trees, and darkness, and the melancholy whispering of the breeze through stirring branches.
There was sober discussion of the morrow's contest. No voice lifted itself loudly. Mr. Wall told an Indian story. The scouts drew closer to the fire, and Bobbie glanced back over his shoulder. After a time heads began to nod.
"Time to turn in," said the Scoutmaster. "Better fill your canteens. You may want a drink during the night."
The brook was a hundred yards away, out in the darkness—and this was
Lonesome Woods. Bobbie said he never took a drink during the night.
"Aw!" cried Tim. "Let's go down there and fill them up."
He led the way. Bobbie decided that he might need a drink after all.
Twenty minutes later they were all in the tents. Out at the dying camp-fire the bugler sounded "taps." As the mournful notes echoed, more than one scout, under his blanket, felt goose-flesh.
Ordinarily, in camp, the first night is one of restlessness. But Chester troop was tired. For a while voices sounded faintly. They grew fitful and yawny. Finally they ceased. The camp was asleep under the stars.
And then the bugle blew again. Reveille! The scouts tumbled out to a new world. The darkness was gone. Lonesome Woods was no longer spooky. The whole world smelled clean, and green, and damp, and sweet.
Breakfast was rushed. The Foxes were the first to get away from camp. The
Wolves were next. They finished stringing their wire, adjusted a sender,
and came back to install the receiver. As soon as everything was ready,
Wally went off to the end of the line to send to Andy Ford.
The Foxes were the next to get rigged. The Eagles rushed in almost on their heels. Morse and semaphore teams practiced frantically. Over everything lay a fever of preparation.
At ten o'clock Mr. Wall sent a squad to take down the tents and pack them away in the trek wagon. Another squad brought wood and water. The camp prepared for dinner.
It was a happy, noisy, high-strung meal.
"Clean camp for the contests," Mr. Wall ordered next.
Empty cans and refuse went flying into the fire, to be raked out later and buried. Presently the last sign of litter was gone. The scouts waited expectantly.
"Telegraphy first," said the Scoutmaster. He handed a sealed envelope to each sender. "There's your message. Read it when you get to your instrument. Off you go. A bugle blast will be the signal to start. Speed and accuracy will count."
Wally Woods ran off with Andy yelling after him to take his time and not get rattled. Then came a wait. Mr. Wall nodded to the bugler. The woods echoed to a sharp blast.
Almost at once telegraph instruments began to click. Andy, with puckered eyes, bent down and wrote slowly. The scout at the Fox receiver was supremely confident, but the Eagle scout seemed worried and harassed.
To the watching boys it was impossible to tell who was ahead. The minutes passed, the excitement grew. All at once the Fox scout sprang to his feet and came running to Mr. Wall with his paper.
"Shucks!" said Tim. "He may have it all mixed up. Look at Andy."
The assistant patrol leader of the Wolves was now running toward the
Scoutmaster. Two minutes later the Eagle scout came forward reluctantly.
"It's fierce," he said in disgust. "It doesn't make sense nohow."
The message had been, "A hundred men searched the hills for the Indian." The Fox scout had made but one error. Andy had made four, and the Eagle scout had twisted the message into a knot.
"Well," said Tim, "that gives us three points for second place. Now, if
Alex gets here—"
The calling cry of the Wolves sounded faintly.
"That's him," said Tim, and shrieked an answer. Andy and Bobbie went out to meet the newcomer and show him the way. Presently they led him into camp. He had ridden to Lonesome Woods on his bicycle, and had ridden hard. He was hot, dusty and thirsty.
After half an hour's rest on the grass he was ready. The semaphore signaling started.
All three patrols scored perfect messages, but the Foxes finished first, the Wolves second, and the distracted Eagles last.
"That gives the Foxes 10 points and us 6," said Bobbie. "The Eagles have 2."
Don shook his head uneasily. The Foxes had been in the lead ever since the last contest. If they won again, they would be out so far in front that it would be almost impossible to catch them.
It was time for the Morse. Tim put his flag under his arm and went out to his station. Ritter went along to read the message to him, word for word, so that there would be no loss of time. Bobbie, at the receiving end, was to write the message as Don called him the letters.
Ritter tore open the envelope and took out the paper.
"How long?" Tim demanded.
"Eleven words." Tim reached out his hand and Ritter drew back. "Never mind reading it. Just send what I give you. You won't get twisted thinking about the next word, because you won't know what it is."
Tim did not argue. He could see Bobbie lying on the ground with pad and pencil, and Don crouched on one knee above him. Gee! when would the bugle blow?
"Don't go too fast," Ritter said huskily.
Tim scarcely heard. He and Don had made no mistakes the last time they practiced. How would it be now on the day of the real thing?
"T-a-a-a-a, ta, ta," sounded the bugle.
"Every—" cried Ritter.
Tim sent the word. His hands gripped the flag staff with a nervous, straining strength.
"—patriot—"
This word followed the first.
"—places—his—all—"
Tim was breathing hard.
"—at—the—service—"
His throat was dry.
"—of—his—"
Tim's arms trembled. Was there much more?
"—country," said Ritter, as though he couldn't get the word out fast enough. "End of message."
Tim fronted his flag three times. He saw Bobbie hand the message to Don, and Don race over to Mr. Wall.
"We're first in," cried Ritter. "Come on, Tim."
But Tim was suddenly afraid. He dropped the flag and pretended that his shoe-laces were loose. Ritter ran ahead. Tim fussed with the laces a long time—was still fussing, in fact, when cries of "O you Foxes! What's the matter with the Foxes?" brought him to his feet.
This time he walked in hurriedly. Ritter met him.
"You had three mistakes, Tim," he said sadly.
"I had three mistakes?" Tim cried angrily.
"Well, we had three mistakes. The Foxes were perfect again. They're sharks on signaling. The Eagles were last."
Tim went over to Don. "Let's see that message." He read it under his breath. "Every batriot blaces his all at the sereice of his country."
The Foxes were still skylarking when he handed back what Bobbie had written. He looked around at the members of his own patrol. Bobbie shifted his eyes. Wally tried to smile that it wasn't a bad showing at all. Tim turned away slowly, went over to his equipment, and began to roll his blanket for the homeward march. All the sunshine, and the frolic, and the outdoor freshness was gone from the day.
He was sure that he had sent the message right. He couldn't send an e for a v, because e was the simplest letter in the Morse alphabet—just a single dot. And as for sending two b's where he should have sent two p's—
"I didn't," he muttered wrathfully. "They think I did because—"
His face clouded with swift suspicion, and the blanket dropped from his hands. He had been telling himself for two days that there had been no hidden reason for Don taking him as a partner, but now that was all swept aside. Don had wanted him as the goat. If any mistakes were made he would be the one to be blamed—just as he was being blamed. Wasn't he Tim Lally, the fellow who always spoiled things? Oh, what a woodenhead he had been not to see it all before!