Only for a short time, though, did he apply himself to the work in hand.  Soon a voice shouted, “Behold a knight of old!” and when the scouts looked around there was Tim with the broom as a sword and a galvanized water bucket over his head.  Even Don laughed.

Next Tim sent the pail clattering across the floor, and Bobbie had to jump to avoid being hit in the shins.  After that this troublesome scout insisted on fighting a broom duel with Wally Woods, and a collection of dirt that had been swept into a pile was scattered right and left.

“Tim!” cried Don.

Tim stopped.  “What’s the matter?”

“Look at that dirt.  We’ll never get cleaned up this way.”

“Oh, forget it,” said Tim.  “Can’t a fellow have a little fun?  I’ll sweep it up again,” and he attacked the pile.

Ten minutes later he was chasing Ritter around the room for a piece of cake, and a pail of water that Andy had just brought in was upset over the floor.

“Yah!” shouted Tim.  “Swim for your life.”  He swished his broom through the water and swished too hard, and the dirty water flew far and high and spattered the walls.

“Now look what we’ve got to clean,” cried Andy.

“Gee!” said Tim.  “I didn’t know it was going to do that.  What did you want to leave the pail there for?”

“What did you go cat-acting for?” Don demanded.

He was exasperated.  He felt like telling Tim to go out and let them finish the job themselves.  But—­There was the rub.  What would happen then?  Suppose Tim got hot-headed and wouldn’t go?  Or suppose he went, glad to be relieved of his share of the job?  Or suppose he walked out sullen and grumbling, and stayed away from the meeting or came late or came untidy—­and the Wolves lost points?

Don was bewildered.  He wanted to do what was best—­for Tim, for himself, for the patrol—­but what was best?  Was it best to let Tim run on in the hope that he’d be shamed into a better spirit by the other scouts?  Phil Morris would have said, very quietly, “Hey, there, Tim!” and that would have been the end of it.

Don sighed.  “I wish I was as big as Phil,” he muttered.

For a time it seemed as though Tim had been sobered by the accident to the water pail.  He worked with Andy trying to clean the walls.  It seemed, though, that there were a thousand spatters.

“Gee!” said Tim.  “Mr. Wall surely likes to stick a fellow.  This is no cinch.”

“It’s your own fault,” Andy grunted, trying to reach a high spot.

“Aw! shut up,” cried Tim; “you fellows are always preaching.  You fellows never do anything.  I’m tired and I’m going to rest.”

He brought out a camp stool and sat down.  Don bit his lips and went on working.  The other scouts cast covert glances at the stool and its occupant.

By and by it began to grow dark.  The floor had been swept and mopped, but the walls still had dirty sections and there were the two windows to do.