Tim came to the meeting as clean as any scout in the troop.  The patrol leader of the Foxes had left the key of his locker at home, and Fox patrol scouts who had expected to brush their shoes before the meeting was called found themselves face to face with a difficulty.

The “fall in” signal came all too soon for the flustered Foxes.  Quietly Mr. Wall walked down the line of stiff-backed, silent boys.

“A perfect score for the Wolves,” he said.  “Four points off the Foxes for untidiness.  Two points from the Eagles for a scout absent.”

Up went the new standing: 

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 58-1/2
Fox 58
Wolf 57-1/2

“Gosh!” breathed Andy.  “We’re close now, aren’t we?”

“It’s all in sticking together,” said Don.  In spite of himself his voice trembled.  He looked at Tim.  The trouble-making scout was staring at the board with puckered eyes.  Don would have given much to know of what he was thinking.

There was a lot of work that night—­knot-tying, drowning grips and how to break them, identifying leaves from trees and bushes, and map reading.  Finally that part of the meeting was over.  A voice cried, “How about Lonesome Woods?” There were cheers and shouts.

There wasn’t much debate about the trip.  There was, however, a hot wrangle about the day.  Finally it went to a vote, and Thursday was selected.

“Gee!” said Tim.  “I bet that will be a great hike.”

The meeting adjourned.  A scout of the Eagle patrol caught Don’s arm.

“What team do you pitch against tomorrow?” he asked.

“Little Falls,” said Don.

Tim’s face lost its animation and grew dark.  He walked toward the door.  And Don, watching him, wondered why it was that fellows were always asked questions at the wrong time.

By this time Don knew that Tim, whenever anything peeved him, could be counted on to display a reckless streak.  For a moment this worried him; then he brushed the thought aside.  He was always fretting about Tim, and nothing serious was ever happening.

He had planned to mow the lawn and spade the flower beds next morning.  It was well that he went early to his task, for at ten o’clock Ted Carter came for him.

“You had better come to the field,” the captain said.  “No pitching—­just a little throwing to bases.  I’ve dug up a fellow named Marty Smith to cover first.  I want you to get used to each other.”

Don evened off the flower beds, carried the raked-up grass around to the chickens, and put the gardening tools away.

“Dinner at twelve sharp,” Barbara called after him.

At first he felt odd, throwing to the bag and not finding Ted there.  He made some crazy tosses.  But Marty’s long reach always saved him, and Marty’s cheery voice kept calling, “That’s the stuff; that’s what will get them.”