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.