Tim stopped rolling his pad page.  “That’s a crack at me, isn’t it?” he demanded.

“I’m in the stretcher work, too,” said Andy.

“Aw, you’re too clever,” Tim flared.  “I know what you mean.”  He shot the ball, and it whizzed past the assistant patrol leader’s ear.

The meeting was spoiled.  Tim glanced defiantly around the table.  Alex Davidson tried to get the talk going again, but discussion seemed to lag.  And then, just when Don, in his disgust, was ready to adjourn, the door opened and Barbara came into the room.

She had glasses and cake, and a pitcher of lemonade.  Soon a filled glass was in front of each scout.

“How is that for a good turn?” she smiled.  “Why so many sober faces?  What’s the matter with you, Tim?”

Tim flushed, and looked down at the floor.

“He won’t tell me,” Barbara cried gayly.  “That’s what I get for being a girl—­can’t learn any boy scout secrets.  Have a piece of cake, Tim.”

“Thank you,” said Tim bashfully.

The plate was passed around the table.  Tim’s eyes were still downcast.  At the door Barbara paused.

“Don’t leave those papers on the floor, boys,” she said.  “Next time I come in I want to see you all smiling.”

Tim ate his cake and drank his lemonade.  The talk started again, a little brisker now, and a little more hopeful.  Plans were made for two practice periods during the week.

“Will that be all right for you, Tim?” Don asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” the red-haired boy answered shortly.  “I’ll be there.”  He arose, went around to the other side of the table and stooped to pick a paper ball from the floor.

A soft smile touched Andy’s mouth.

“Aw! what are you laughing at?” Tim cried.

“I’m not laughing, Tim,” Andy protested.  “Honest.”

But, for all that, Tim was furious when he left the meeting.  The others stood on the porch and chatted a moment; he strode out the gate and down the dark road.

“Gee!” he said in disgust.  “They’ll think I’m a little Janie.”

Letting a girl make him do things!  It stung his pride.  Friday night he had said no, and had changed his mind and had scrubbed with the others.  Tonight he had grinned when told about papers on the floor—­and had ended by picking them up.

Everything had gone wrong, Tim told himself, since Don had become patrol leader.  He began to blame Don for all his troubles.  Don had upbraided him when the patrol had lost points.  It was at Don’s house that Barbara had made him pick up papers.  His cheeks burned.

“I’ll show them!” he vowed wrathfully.  He would redeem himself in the only way he knew.  He would “start something.”

He started it by picking at Don all during next day’s practice.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ted Carter demanded sharply.  “Are you sick?”

“Don’s pitching like a freak,” Tim answered.