Tim went home from the practice whistling shrilly. There was a patrol meeting at Don's house that night. He arrived on time. The others talked eagerly of the first aid contest that was scheduled for Friday night. For once he listened without trying to break into the conversation and monopolize it, and gradually a little frown of worry wrinkled his forehead.
The dining-room table was pushed up against the wall.
"No fooling tonight, fellows," said Don. "Let's see how much work we can do."
Tim worked as faithfully as any of the others. In a corner Don and Ritter practiced with splints, and over by the bay window Wally and Alex did their bandaging. He and Andy and Bobbie had the center of the floor for artificial respiration, stretcher work, and fireman's lift.
He worked feverishly. Something whispered to him, "Why didn't you work hard before? You're too late now." Presently it was nine o'clock and the work was over.
"How does it look?" Don asked eagerly.
"All right here," said Wally.
Tim and Andy were silent. Don's eyes clouded.
The meeting broke up. The boys passed out through the hall calling back good night. Andy stayed behind.
"Tim's going to fall down," he said bluntly, "and fall down hard."