Regrets, though, would do him no good.  What was past was past.  It was the future that troubled him the most.

Tim, he was sure, would now carry a chip on his shoulder.  And if he tried to make him keep step with the other scouts of the patrol, and if Tim did not want to keep step—­

“You’re not eating, Don,” said Barbara.

He came to himself with a start, smiled sheepishly, and gave thought to his supper.  But for the rest of the meal he could see Barbara watching him.  There was also a concerned look in the eyes of his sister Beth.

Why had he gone back that time?  And having gone back, why had he not told Tim, bluntly and plainly, that he would have to let Bobbie alone?  Had there been a clash of wills, it would all be over with now.  Instead, the time of decision had been put off.  It might come any day.  And because he had hesitated to meet it once, it would be all the harder to meet it in the future.

“I don’t think Don is hungry,” said Beth.

He came to himself with a start and found that he was again staring fixedly at his plate.  He was glad when the meal came to an end.

He went up to his room.  There were two letters he ought to write to Audubon societies that had ordered bird-houses.  But, though he drew out paper and ink and envelopes, he could not concentrate his thoughts on what he had to say.  At last he went downstairs and sat on the porch.

He was discouraged.  Under Phil Morris, the Wolf patrol had been strong and vigorous.  Phil had refused to stand for any nonsense.

“I guess—­I guess I haven’t the spunk Phil had,” Don told himself.

In the kitchen the sounds of dish-washing ceased.  Presently Barbara came out on the porch.  The chair in which he sat was wide.  She touched his arm.

“Push over, Don.”

He made room for her.

“Well,” she asked, “what’s the scout trouble now?”

He could always talk to Barbara as though she were an older brother.  Now he told her about his meeting with Tim, and of the sorry way he had handled himself.

“And now,” he ended, “Tim will think I’m scared of him and that he can do just as he pleases.”

“Will he think that?” Barbara asked.

“Well, won’t he?”

The girl did not answer.  After a moment she asked: 

“How about good turns, Don?  Does Tim do any?”

“Of course he does.  Isn’t he a scout?”

“What kind of good turns?”

“Well—­” Don thought.  “Remember last winter when Mr. Blair was sick?”

“Yes.”

“Tim looked after their furnace three times a day.”

“Don,” Barbara said, “don’t you think he’s all right at heart if he does acts like that?”

Don stared.  This was putting things in a new light.  Then he thought of Tim riding rough-shod, and tormenting Bobbie, and wanting his own way in everything.

“Maybe Tim’s all right at heart,” he said dubiously, “but he’s always making trouble just the same.  I’m not going to let him stew up my patrol.  I’ll go to Mr. Wall—­”