All Tim thought about was getting to Mr. Wall with his burden. He broke into a walk that was almost a run.
"Look at the Wolves!" The cry could be heard above the noise. "That's no way to carry an injured person."
Tim looked around, startled. What was wrong? He saw the Eagles and the Foxes carrying their loads slowly, with precious care. All at once he understood. Oh, what a blunder he had made!
He slowed up abruptly. He could hear tense voices shouting that the
Wolves were out of it. He came to a stop in front of Mr. Wall.
The scouts rushed forward from the wall. Somebody's hot breath was on his neck and a squirming elbow was poked in his side. He did not look around. Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled, and the gathering became quiet.
"I am glad this happened," the Scoutmaster said. "I do not mean I am glad because a patrol has failed, but glad because now the lesson will be driven home. An injured person must always be carried carefully. That's what I had in mind when I said speed would count, but that I wanted you to think."
Tim's cheeks burned. There was more to what Mr. Wall said, but he scarcely heard. The points were awarded—Fox patrol, first; Eagles, second; Wolves, last. Bobbie slipped out of the stretcher and Tim turned away forlornly.
Don gripped his arm. "That gives us second place, anyway, Tim. The Foxes have 11 points, and we have 9, and the Eagles have 7."
But Tim could take no comfort. He had fallen down again. Bonehead! That's what he was—a bonehead!
The blackboard was changed: