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.