Bobbie swallowed hard. "Why, Tim, I—I—I—"
"Well, how about it?"
Bobbie looked appealingly at Don. Don laid down the tack hammer.
"Is that fair, Tim?" he asked quietly.
"Why isn't it?" Tim bristled.
And yet, after a moment, his eyes fell. He knew what Don meant. Bobbie was the "baby" of the troop, the smallest and the youngest scout. He walked out of the yard and slammed the gate defiantly.
"I'll get it without you," he called over the fence.
Don didn't do any more whistling that day. And after supper, as he heard the details of the contest for the Scoutmaster's Cup, the concerned look on his face deepened.
The patrol leader, he thought, should be a fellow who was heart and soul in scouting—a fellow who could encourage, and urge, and lend a willing hand; not a fellow who wanted to drive and show authority. If Tim, with his temper and his eagerness to come to blows, should take command—Don shook his head. Why did Phil Morris have to move away?
All next morning he built bird-houses. He had developed quite a business with Audubon societies and it took a lot of work to keep up with his orders. After dinner he trudged off to the village field. Tim greeted him as though nothing had happened.