When the practice ended he was worried.  If older players could hit him like that—­

“Forget it,” said Ted.  “Fielding bunts for ten minutes took a lot of your sap.  You’ll go in fresh tomorrow.  Isn’t that right, Tim?”

“Sure,” said the catcher.

“And another thing,” said the captain.  “Toward the end there you were shaking your head to Tim’s signals and pitching what you wanted.  None of that tomorrow.  Let Tim judge the batters.  This is his second year against town teams; he knows their game better than you.”

Tim swelled out his chest and swaggered.

“All right,” said Don.  If Ted thought nothing of the way he had been batted, why, everything must be all right.  He walked home gayly.

“Scout meeting tonight?” his father asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Don, and ran upstairs to dress.  He wondered if the Wolf patrol would get another perfect score.  He paused in the act of brushing his hair.  A thought that he could not push aside popped into his brain.  Would Tim come spick and span?

Tim, Andy, Alex and Ritter were at headquarters when he arrived, and Tim was as clean as any.

“We’ve been inspecting each other,” Andy laughed.  “Look at those fellows over there.”

The Fox patrol had a box of blacking and a brush, and two scouts were polishing their shoes.  The Eagles had a needle and thread, and one scout, under the watchful eye of his patrol leader, was sewing on a button.

“This is going to be a fight,” Andy went on.  “Those scouts are in earnest.”

“That’s the way for a scout to be,” said Don.  The prospect of a struggle sent a sparkle into his eyes.  “We’ll have to do that.”

“Needles and thread and shoe-brushes?” Tim demanded.

Don nodded.

“Not for me,” said Tim.  “I’m no kid.  Nobody has to tell me to clean myself.”

Don said nothing.  Why, he wondered, did Tim seem to take such a delight in going against everybody else?  He was sure now that what Barbara said was right.  Tim was sound at heart.  Look how clean he came to tonight’s meeting.  And yet—­

“Going to get needles and thread and things?” Andy whispered.

Don nodded.  Oh, yes; he’d get them.  What was the use of letting the other patrols prepare for the unexpected and doing nothing yourself?

The Scoutmaster’s whistle called the patrols to attention.  Don gave a quick glance as his patrol took its station.  His heart sank.  Bobbie Brown was not in place.

Mr. Wall walked down the line of scouts.  He was halfway through inspection when Bobbie burst into the room.  He checked himself when he saw what was going on, came to salute, and quietly tiptoed to his place.  But his face was flushed from running, and his hair was awry.

Don hoped Bobbie might be able to make himself presentable before Mr. Wall got that far.  Then common sense told him that that was impossible.  The troop was at attention.  Bobbie could not lift a hand even to touch his hair.  He had to stand there stiffly as he was.