CHAPTER VIII
DON'S CHOICE
The jubilant Foxes found enough flour to make a paste, and enough paper to stick on a blanket and make a sign. The sign read:
Eagles 122-1/2
Foxes 132
Wolves 127-1/2
They carried it, spread out like a banner, all the way home.
The hike back to Chester was a bit one-sided. The Foxes enjoyed themselves hugely, but every other scout was sober with his own thoughts. The Eagles were convinced that they were out of the race. Don and Andy Ford were trying to take some comfort from the fact that they had four weeks yet in which to overtake the Foxes. Nobody noticed that Tim, a bubbling source of energy yesterday, was now sour and glum.
It was not until next day that Don noticed any change. In the regular weekly game on the village field Tim backed him up faultlessly; but on the bench the catcher edged away and sat at the end with the score-keeper.
"Good night!" Don murmured. "What is it this time?" He was becoming used to Tim's blowing hot one minute and cold the next. He didn't worry so much over Tim's moods. By tomorrow, he reflected, this rather uncertain scout would probably be running around again like a loose cyclone.
Besides, Don had something to worry about just then, something so acute that it could not be shared with another worry. His pitching was undergoing violent assault. He was sure he had plenty of stuff on the ball. Nevertheless, the rival team was lacing his best efforts to all parts of the field.
The end of the game returned him a loser.
"Can't win them all," Ted Carter said philosophically. "They seemed to hit everything today, Tim, didn't they?"
"Everything," said Tim. He took his sweater from the bench and started for home.
Don had a notion to follow. Instead, after a moment, he walked off with several of the players. So long as Tim was losing his scrappiness, what was the use of fussing over him? Probably by tomorrow, or Monday, whatever was biting him would have stopped, and he would come around to discuss the ifs of the contest, and the what-might-have-happened. It occurred to Don, vaguely, that he had not yet heard Tim say a word about what had happened at Lonesome Woods.
Tim did not come around—neither on Monday nor Tuesday. Wednesday Don met him at the field for the regular mid-week practice.
"Where have you been keeping yourself, Tim?"
"No place."
"You haven't been around since—"
"No," Tim broke in bitterly, "and I'm not coming around. Nobody can make a booby out of me twice."
Don's face sobered. This wasn't the Tim of passing moods. This was more like the blustering Tim who had once overawed the Wolf patrol.
"Who made a boob of you?"
"You did. Oh, don't look so innocent; you can't work it the second time. Take me for a partner. Then, if anything went wrong in the contest, everybody would say that Don Strong couldn't have made a mistake—oh, no. It must have been Tim Lally because he's always queering things. And they did say it!"
"Who did?"
"Ritter. 'Too bad you made those mistakes, Tim.' I ought to have whanged him one in the eye. How did he know whether I made any mistakes?"
Gone was Don's thought that Tim would be all right in a day or so. If this firebrand scout convinced himself that he had been tricked, and if he kept thinking so—
"You've got this wrong," Don cried. "I—"
"Sure I've got it wrong," Tim mocked. His voice changed wrathfully. "But
I didn't have the message wrong, and don't you forget it. I know my code.
I sent the message right. Do you think I'd send an e for a v?"
"Do you think I wouldn't know an e?" Don asked.
Tim was staggered. He hadn't thought of that—that an e would be as simple to Don, receiving, as it would be to him, sending.
"Aw!" he said recklessly, "it's a trick. You can't fool me again. If you're going to pitch, get busy, else I'll go home."
Don pitched. He decided that there was no use in arguing with Tim now.
Besides, he wanted time to think.
He had saved the message that Bobbie had written. That night he took it from his bureau drawer.
"Every batriot," he read aloud, "blaces his all at the sereice of his country." Funny there should be two b's instead of two p's. He repeated the letters slowly, thoughtfully.
"B, p; b, p—Gosh! I'll bet I know what happened."
He jumped up and paced the room excitedly. It was clear now. Tim had sent p, and he had called p, but p and b sound almost the same and Bobbie, tense and excited, had caught the wrong sound.
"E and v are almost the same, too," Don cried. "I'll tell Tim tomorrow."
Next day he sought Tim eagerly. Tim gave him a sarcastic sidelong glance.
"B and p do sound alike," Don said sharply.
"I'm going to ask Mr. Wall to take me out of the Wolf patrol," was Tim's response.
He meant it. He thought Don's explanation sounded fishy. Why should it take six days to discover that b and p sounded almost the same? He quite forgot that he had not thought of b and p sounding the same at all.
Don did not bother him again. Friday night he came to the troop meeting. His resolution to ask for a transfer from the Wolves had weakened. In the past he had never paid much attention to Mr. Wall, accepting him as a matter of course—every troop had to have a Scoutmaster. Now, somehow, the thought of Mr. Wall strangled his desire to complain.
The Scoutmaster had said only two weeks before, "I think we're going to be proud of you some day." A queer little lump came up into Tim's throat and made him swallow hard. He did not think Mr. Wall would like it if he asked to be changed, and—and he wouldn't ask.
The entire patrol saw that he avoided Don, for he made no effort to hide his feelings. He left the meeting as soon as it was over. Andy Ford and Alex Davidson glanced questioningly at the patrol leader.
"He thinks I took him as a partner so that he'd be blamed if the Morse signaling went wrong," Don explained.
"Oh, the mule!" Andy cried. "Why doesn't he wait until somebody blames him?"
"He says Ritter blamed him for the three mistakes."
"Good night!" Andy breathed.
Alex walked over and stared at the score-board. The Foxes had a scout absent and had been penalized two points. As a result, the Wolves had recovered the ground they had lost at Lonesome Woods. The new score read:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 138-1/2
Fox 146
Wolf 143-1/2
"Tim gets some crazy hunches," Alex said, after a time, "but I don't think he'll lose any points for us—not any more."
"Let him go fish then," Andy cried. "We should worry. How about it, Don?"
Don shook his head slowly. "I'm patrol leader of the Wolves."
"And he's a Wolf scout," Andy nodded thoughtfully. "I see what you mean.
I guess you're right. What are you going to do?"
"Nothing. Maybe by next Friday he'll be over it."
But next Friday found Tim unchanged. He mingled with the other scouts, but from his patrol leader he held aloof.
A Fox scout reported late, and the Foxes lost a half-point. The score read:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 154-1/2
Fox 161-1/2
Wolf 159-1/2
"Wow!" cried Bobbie. "Only two points behind now."
A gain by the Wolves meant little to Don just now. A belief was slowly growing in his mind that Tim had the makings of one of the best scouts in the troop. The right kind of patrol leader, he thought, would have had Tim where he belonged before this. He felt that he had been a failure.
He longed for advice and the wisdom of an older head. Barbara or his father would not do tonight; he wanted somebody who knew scouting. When the meeting was over he went slowly to Mr. Wall with his troubles.
"The little blue bugs surely have you tonight," the Scoutmaster said cheerily. "Let's reason this out. A month or so ago a frightened scout told me that some of my boys were off for Danger Mountain. Remember?"
Oh, yes, Don remembered.
"Tim led that expedition. Do you think he'd do a stunt like that now?"
"No, sir."
"Nor I," the Scoutmaster said gravely. "He's swinging around, probably because he's tied up with fellows who want to be real scouts. Would you call that failure?"
The boy was silent several minutes. "No, sir," he said at last.
Mr. Wall clapped his shoulder. "Then there's nothing left to worry about, is there?"
Don was somewhat surprised to find that there was not. The cloud had vanished. He went home with his mind at peace. He had given Tim his own head of late, and even Mr. Wall said that Tim was coming around. He'd give him his head again, and wait for the sulks to wear off.
But it was hard to work with Tim all next day against the Ironside nine, and to find him, even in the heat of the struggle, stiff and unbending. And it was harder still to see the days of the next week pass and bring no change. For a rumor had gone through the troop that the reason Mr. Wall had announced no contest for this month was because he was going to uncover a surprise. Don could not help feeling that the Wolves would stand very little chance. Tim, at odds with his patrol leader, would surely lack the zest and the spirit necessary to cope with unexpected orders.
Over Friday night's meeting hung the promise of something to happen. Roll-call and inspection brought to light no derelicts. The score board read:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 170 1/2
Fox 177 1/2
Wolf 175 1/2
The ranks broke. Usually there was play for a few minutes. Mr. Wall rapped for order at once.
"Next week," he said, "the contest for the Scoutmaster's Cup comes to an end. The final ordeal will start Friday. It will be a two-day test of your mettle. It will take place at Lonesome Woods. A treasure has been hidden there, and blazed trails will lead to the hiding place."
The room was still—startlingly still.
"This time," Mr. Wall went on, "we will have a real test of scouting. For that reason, I have decided to award ten points to the winning patrol. There will be no second or third points."
The troop stirred. Ten points! That gave every patrol a chance. Even the
Eagles, if they won, would be tied with the Foxes for winning honors.
"Each patrol leader will select a scout to accompany him into the woods. They will enter Friday afternoon at 3:30 o'clock. Each patrol will start from a different part of the woods. They will find trees blazed with whitewash. They will follow this blaze. When night comes they will camp."
"Each two scouts by themselves?" asked a voice breathlessly.
"By themselves," the Scoutmaster answered, "unless they desire to risk capture."
The patrols murmured softly. Gosh! This was a real stunt.
"Each of the three trails leads toward the treasure; it has been hidden. When a patrol comes to a blaze mark that has a circle around it, they will know that that is the last blaze, and that the treasure is near. Two things they must then do—search for the treasure, and avoid capture by another patrol. Any patrol surprised by another patrol will be considered captured and out of the contest."
"But suppose a patrol finds the treasure, what then?" called another voice.
"Then that patrol must make its way safely from the woods and avoid capture. If it is captured, it surrenders the treasure to the captors."
"Why," cried Don, "that's just like old-fashioned Indian warfare."
Mr. Wall smiled. "I think you'll like it. There will be another meeting Wednesday night. I want every scout to notify his patrol leader in writing whether he will be allowed to make the trip if he is chosen. Wednesday night each patrol leader will announce the name of the scout who will accompany him into the woods. I think you're too excited to do scout work tonight. Would you prefer to talk this over?"
"Yes, sir," came a roar.
Mr. Wall laughed and waved his hands.
Instantly the room broke into riot. A night camp at Lonesome Woods, a blazed trail, a buried treasure and a threat of sudden capture! This was great!
"Will trails cross?" cried the leader of the Foxes. "Must we watch out for Eagles and Wolves even before we get to the treasure?"
"Perhaps," the Scoutmaster answered.
Here was uncertainty—and uncertainty made the game all the more fascinating.
Tim's breath came fast. If he could get into a thing like that—
"Aw!" he told himself hopelessly, "Don would never take me." He stood around listening to every word, but saying little. His heart ached with an empty longing. Once he caught Don's eye, and flushed and turned away his head quickly. And Don, who had been as high-strung as any of the others, suddenly became sober and grave.
Next day, between innings, he sat on the bench and studied his catcher. If they should go into the woods together—He sighed, and shook his head, and thought of Andy Ford. Andy would pull with him. Perhaps Andy would expect the place.
Over Sunday Wally and Ritter brought around written consents, and Bobbie announced gloomily that his father would not let him go. Monday morning Andy brought his paper.
"Seen Tim yet?" he asked. "No?" He fell to whistling softly.
Late that afternoon Tim appeared. "There's mine," he said defiantly. There was an awkward silence. Presently Tim walked out through the gate and was gone.
Don sat beside his work and pondered. As a patrol leader, what should he do? What was expected of a patrol leader—that he strive heart and soul to bring victory to his patrol, or that he stake everything on making one boy the kind of scout he ought to be? Victory for the Wolves, he suspected, would soon be forgotten. That was how it was with baseball victories.
Suppose he took Tim into the woods and nothing came of it. But suppose something did come of it—something big.
"I wonder," Don mused, "I wonder what Andy thinks."
Tuesday passed. Wednesday came drearily with rain and chill.
That night Don purposely delayed his arrival at the troop meeting. He did not want scouts looking at him and almost asking for the chance. Mr. Wall was calling the gathering to order as he entered. He slid into a seat and stole a look around. Andy was calmly making notes in a diary. Tim was plainly trying hard to keep his shoulders back and to appear unconcerned.
"I call on the Eagles," said Mr. Wall, "to announce their team."
The Eagle patrol leader chose his assistant.
"Foxes."
The leader of the Foxes picked the oldest boy in his patrol.
"Wolves."
Don stood up. He saw Tim bite his lips and stare at the ceiling. Perhaps he was making a mistake, but it seemed to him that one true scout was worth all the prize cups in the world.
"I pick Tim Lally," he said clearly.
And then a wonderful thing happened. Andy Ford threw down the diary and gave him a wide, approving, understanding grin.