“Well—­” For the moment Don wasn’t interested in baseball.  “How about Monday?”

Monday, it appeared, would be all right.  Tim put on his coat and walked toward the door.

“You’re forgetting your mitt,” Don called.

“I’m not going to the field,” said Tim.

There was something peculiar in the way he said it.  Don looked inquiringly at Andy.  The assistant patrol leader nodded toward the window.

“Anything wrong, Bobbie?” Don asked.

Bobbie gave a start, and smiled and shook his head.  “Guess I’ll go along,” he said; but he made no move to leave the place.

Something was wrong.  Andy sauntered down to the door, peered at the woodwork as though examining it, scratched with his finger-nail, and then began to tap with his knuckle.

Don wrinkled his forehead.  Why did Andy tap like that—­two taps, pause, another tap—­over and over again?  Suddenly he understood.  Andy was sending him a message in Morse, and the first letter was C. He looked up, caught Andy’s eye, and nodded.  The tapping went on.

“..”

“O,” whispered Don.

“- -”

“M.”

“.”

“E.  Come.”

A pause, longer than the other.  The tapping began again.

“.. ..—­ ... .. -.. .”

“Come outside,” Don muttered.  He strolled toward the door.

The moment he passed out of troop headquarters, Andy caught his arm.

“Did you see Tim roughing Bobbie all afternoon?”

“Hurting him?” Don asked quickly.

“Not really hurting him, but pulling his hair, and twisting his ears, and things like that.  Bobbie’s frightened.  It’s going to spoil all our first aid.”

Don’s mouth twitched.  He had congratulated himself that the work had gone so well.  And all the while trouble had been lurking at his elbow.  He walked back into troop headquarters with his head bent.  If one scout was going to nag another there would be no harmony, no pulling together, no striving toward a common goal.  It would be good-by to the Wolf patrol so far as the Scoutmaster’s Cup was concerned.

He paused in front of the slate.  What should he do?  If he went to Tim and told him plump and plain to cut it out, there might be a ruction.  If he allowed the nagging to go on, there would be tension and unrest within the patrol.  No matter which way he turned, disorder and adversity loomed.

He walked to the window where Bobbie stood.  Suddenly he stiffened.

“Isn’t that Tim down the road—­that fellow leaning against the fence?”

Bobbie nodded nervously.

Don drew a deep breath.  He knew what was happening.  Tim was waiting to continue his plaguing.

“I—­I guess I’ll go,” said Bobbie again.

“Wait,” said Don.  “I’m going down that way.”

There was no help for it.  He had no choice.  He couldn’t let Bobbie go out and get his hair pulled and his ears twisted.  He’d have to see him past the danger.