It was true. Tim's coat, under Bobbie's weight, had popped open. Tim's face turned fiery red. Was he always going to be the fellow who made his patrol lose? Why hadn't he made sure of those buttons instead of taking a chance?
"Maybe some of the others have coats open," Bobbie whispered.
But none of the other coats were open.
Somebody cried that the contest was over. The scouts formed a pushing, excited ring around Mr. Wall and the stretchers. The Scoutmaster shook his head gravely.
"I'm afraid I cannot make a decision yet. Each patrol has excelled in some one thing and has done poorly in some other."
The pushing and the clamor ceased.
"One more test," Mr. Wall added.
The scouts fell back. The big moment of the night had come. This next event would probably seal the doom of some one patrol.
"Each team," said Mr. Wall, "will go to the rear of the room down near the door. At the word it will make its stretcher, lift in the patient, and bring him to me as though I were the doctor. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."