“We win,” shouted the Foxes.  But their last fire went out as it was lighted, and a flustered scout prepared to try again amid cries of, “Not more than two matches.”  This time his wood took the flame.  But now the Eagles and the Wolves also had their fires going.  Mr. Wall declared the race a triple tie.

Haversacks were unpacked.  Frying-pans and pots were dragged forth.  Potatoes were laid among hot coals.

Mr. Wall had chopped some wood and had his own fire going.  Now he walked among the boys.

“You’re getting your fire too big,” he warned Bobbie.  “You don’t need much of a blaze to cook.”

“How’s mine?” said Tim.

“Fine!” said the Scoutmaster.  “Keep it that way.”

“Sure,” said Tim.  “I’ll show some of these other fellows how to do theirs.”

Andy Ford gave a low groan.  “Good night; now we’re in for it.”

Tim wasted no time.  He approached Ritter.  That scout eyed him suspiciously.

“You let my fire alone,” he warned.

“Go chase yourself.  Mr. Wall told me to show you fellows—­”

“Tim!” Don chided.

Tim flashed the patrol leader an angry glance.  “I said I was going to show the fellows, didn’t I?  He didn’t tell me not to.  Anyway, Ritter’s fire sprawls out too much.  Wait until I get a stick.  Now, all you have to do is to pull out these pieces, and—­”

“You’re raking out my potatoes,” cried Ritter.

“It won’t kill you to put them back,” said Tim.  He tossed the stick away and turned toward Bobbie.

“Your fire’s all right now, Bobbie,” Don said distinctly.

Tim turned up his nose and faced in Wally Woods’s direction.  But Wally’s fire, small and compact, gave him no excuse to tinker.  He advanced to where Andy Ford was preparing to fry his meat.

“Gee!” he said.  “That sure is one sick-looking fire.”

“Suits me,” said Andy.  He laid the meat in the pan.

Tim began to prod the fire with his foot.  The flame, which had been low and even, began to flare and smoke.  Andy dropped his frying-pan and sprang forward.

“Get away from there,” he cried.  His rush caught Tim and pushed him back.  Then the red-haired boy braced, and there was a scuffle.  Andy’s fire was scattered.

“What’s the meaning of this?” came Mr. Wall’s voice.

Instantly the boys separated.  Andy hung his head as though ashamed.  Tim carried an injured air.

“Andy pitched into me,” he complained.

“He was interfering with my fire,” Andy answered.

“I wasn’t.  I was only showing him.”

“Andy is a first-class scout,” said Mr. Wall quietly.  “If he doesn’t know how to build a fire and cook a meal I have blundered as Scoutmaster in awarding him his first-class badge.”

Tim looked away.  This was putting the whole thing in a new light.  He dug the toe of one shoe into the ground, and kept twisting and turning it nervously.