A boy who whistled as he worked was tacking wire to a door frame.

Bobbie opened the gate and pushed through with his bicycle.  The whistling boy glanced up.

“Hello, Bobbie.”

“Hello, Don.  Phil Morris is moving to Chicago.”

“To Chi—­” Don Strong paused with his tack hammer raised.  “That means a new patrol leader, doesn’t it?” The hammer fell and the work went on.

“Tim Lally wants it,” said Bobbie.

A thoughtful expression came to Don’s face.  He went on tacking the wire until it was all tight and snug.  Still thoughtful, he cut the molding and nailed it fast.  From under one of the two wooden horses on which the door lay, he took a can of green paint.

“Tim wouldn’t make a good patrol leader, would he, Don?”

“Easy, there,” Don warned.

Bobbie flushed.  “Well, he always wants to boss things and you know it.”

Don said nothing.

“Doesn’t he?” Bobbie insisted.

Don dodged the question and demanded that Bobbie show him how he was progressing with his semaphore.  Bobbie retreated to the fence and sent the message that was given him.

“Was that right, Don?” he asked eagerly.

“Right,” said Don.  He was on the point of sending the boy off with another message when the gate clicked.  Tim Lally advanced as though he had important business on his mind.

“Hello,” said Tim, and rubbed his fingers across the door.  “Gee!  Why didn’t you tell me the paint was wet?  Give it a rub or two; that will fix it up again.  Did you hear about Phil Morris?”

Don nodded.

“I guess I’ll take a crack at being patrol leader,” said Tim.

Bobbie looked up quickly.  Don stood the door aside to dry, went down to his father’s basement workshop and came up with another frame.

“I guess I’ll take a crack at being patrol leader,” Tim repeated.  “I have two votes already, Ritter and Wally Woods.  My own, of course, is three.  All I need is another.  Now, how about you fellows?”

“I’m going to vote for Alex Davidson,” said Don.

Bobbie scarcely breathed.  A spot of red flamed in each of Tim’s cheeks.

“What’s the matter with me?” he demanded.  “Don’t you think I’m good enough?” He swung around.  “How about you, Bobbie?”

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.