"What did you go cat-acting for?" Don demanded.
He was exasperated. He felt like telling Tim to go out and let them finish the job themselves. But—There was the rub. What would happen then? Suppose Tim got hot-headed and wouldn't go? Or suppose he went, glad to be relieved of his share of the job? Or suppose he walked out sullen and grumbling, and stayed away from the meeting or came late or came untidy—and the Wolves lost points?
Don was bewildered. He wanted to do what was best—for Tim, for himself, for the patrol—but what was best? Was it best to let Tim run on in the hope that he'd be shamed into a better spirit by the other scouts? Phil Morris would have said, very quietly, "Hey, there, Tim!" and that would have been the end of it.
Don sighed. "I wish I was as big as Phil," he muttered.
For a time it seemed as though Tim had been sobered by the accident to the water pail. He worked with Andy trying to clean the walls. It seemed, though, that there were a thousand spatters.
"Gee!" said Tim. "Mr. Wall surely likes to stick a fellow. This is no cinch."
"It's your own fault," Andy grunted, trying to reach a high spot.
"Aw! shut up," cried Tim; "you fellows are always preaching. You fellows never do anything. I'm tired and I'm going to rest."
He brought out a camp stool and sat down. Don bit his lips and went on working. The other scouts cast covert glances at the stool and its occupant.
By and by it began to grow dark. The floor had been swept and mopped, but the walls still had dirty sections and there were the two windows to do.