Slowly, as blows stung him, his blood quickened. The boy in front of him had spoiled so much scouting. If he could only give him the thrashing he deserved! If he only could! He set his teeth. He would thrash him. He swung, and felt a sharp pain in his knuckles.
"I'll get you for that," roared Tim.
Don, aroused now, scarcely felt the blows. A hard knock caught him off his balance and sent him sprawling.
"Got enough?" Tim demanded, breathing heavily.
Don, battle mad, sprang to his feet and rushed.
That rush was a mistake. Tim's fist caught him as he came in and staggered him. Another blow shook him up. And then a third blow sent him to the ground again. He was beaten, winded, and all but sobbing.
"I guess you've got enough now," said Tim. There was no answer. He turned away and found his matches.
The sound of the match box being opened brought Don to his knees. Tim, muttering, scraped the tip.
Don struggled to his feet. The tiny flame seemed to fill him with a new strength. If necessary he would fight again, and again, and again. An iron doggedness was in his blood—the same doggedness that nerves men to sacrifice everything for principle. The lot had fallen to him to face Tim on a matter of scout discipline. Tim might thrash him again—but he could not light that fire!
"Drop it!" he cried.