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.