“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” said Don.  What was the use of worrying Ted, he thought.

He had not deceived the captain in the least.  Ted leaned back and sighed.  He knew that here was a ball game that was lost.

The ninth inning was a slaughter.  Little Falls scored four times.  Each hit, each run, made the game last that much longer.  Don labored grimly to reach the end.

Ted asked him no questions when he came in from the mound.  In fact, the captain only half-heartedly urged his players to make a rally.  The leaderless, dispirited team fell easy victims to the rival pitcher’s curves.

The moment the last player was out, Don hurried to where Bobbie waited with the wheel.  He threw one leg over the frame.  His foot found the toe-clip.

“Got your scout whistle?” he asked.

Bobbie handed it over.  Don thrust it in his pocket and was off.

Shading his eyes, Bobbie watched wheel and rider fly down the road.  A hand touched his shoulder.

“What’s Don rushing off for?” Ted asked.

Bobbie told about Tim’s journey to Danger Mountain.  Ted’s eyes snapped.

“Think Don’ll catch him?” he asked.

“Sure he will.”

“I hope,” said the captain, “I hope he gives him a beating to remember.”

But Don, as he pedaled down the road, was not thinking of fight.  Into the Turnpike he raced at an angle of forty-five degrees.  The dry dust sifted up from under the spinning tires.  It powdered his legs, and burned his eyes, and parched his throat.

Half an hour later he came to where Christie’s Brook crossed the Pike.  It was clean water, and safe.  He threw himself on his stomach and reached down with his lips.  His whole body cried out to him to drink, drink, drink.  But he was too wise a scout not to know the dangers of such a course.  He rinsed his mouth and throat, and swallowed a few drops, mounted again and rode off.

Another twenty minutes, and he came slowly to the top of a ridge.  Down below dark forms moved along the road.  He gripped the handle-bars hard and coasted.

A few minutes later he had almost reached them.  They heard the whir of his chain and looked back.  Then they stopped.

“It’s only Don,” Tim said carelessly.

Ritter shrank back as though he wanted to hide.

Up to this point Don had thought only of overtaking the hikers.  Now he was face to face with the problem of what he should say to them.  He laid his bicycle at the side of the road and advanced with fast-beating heart.

“How many of you scouts told Mr. Wall you were going on this trip?” he demanded.

“Wasn’t necessary,” Tim answered promptly.  “Mr. Wall didn’t say we couldn’t go.”

“Mr. Wall didn’t expect that any scout would go.”

“How do you know what Mr. Wall expected?  Did he tell you?”

It was a losing argument.  Don could see the other scouts looking at Tim and nodding their heads as though agreeing with his logic—­all except Ritter, who was looking at the ground.