Don’s mind worked feverishly.  They were scouts.  They were breaking the scout law that said that a scout was trustworthy.  He tried to grasp words that would make them feel what he felt, but the words would not come.

“We can’t stay here all day,” Tim hinted.

The sound of a locomotive came faintly.  Perhaps it was the train bringing Mr. Wall back from the city.  All at once Don’s mind, groping, searching, caught the first vague outline of an idea.

“Wait a minute, fellows.”  His eyes were on fire.  “If you thought Mr. Wall would have no objection to a Danger Mountain hike, why did you wait until you got him out of the village?”

“What do you mean by that?” Tim asked suspiciously.

“Why did you wait until he went away for the day and then sneak off on this hike?”

Indignant cries broke from Tim and from the scouts.  They had not known that Mr. Wall had gone to the city.  Ritter caught Don’s arm.

“Is Mr. Wall away today, Don?  Honest?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?” Tim asked.

“I went to his house at noon to tell him about this hike.”

Silence fell over the group.  The scout from the Eagle patrol took off his hat and fanned his face.

“Mr. Wall won’t think we sneaked off just because he was away,” he said uneasily.

“Why shouldn’t he think it?” cried Don.  One of the party was weakening, anyway.  He pressed his advantage.  “You fellows know what he said on the last hike—­that Danger Mountain was a bad place.  And the moment he leaves town, a bunch of scouts start for the mountain.  How does that look?”

It looked distinctly bad.  Tim’s carelessness vanished.

“Well,” he demanded of Ritter angrily, “what are you looking at me for? I didn’t know he had gone to the city.”

The hikers were demoralized and leaderless.  The right word now—­

“Fellows,” said Don, “let us show Mr. Wall that he can leave the village as often as he pleases and not have to worry about a single scout of Chester troop.”

Ritter took a step toward him.  But the others were still just a bit uncertain.

Don almost held his breath.  There was nothing more for him to say.  He ran a nervous hand into the pocket of his sweater.  His fingers closed on some cord, and something round and hard.  Bobbie’s whistle!

He put it to his lips and blew a long, shrill blast.

It was the voice of authority—­the scout signal for attention.  Instinctively the boys straightened and looked alive.

“We’re going home,” said Don.  “We’re going to show that a scout is trustworthy.  Forward!”

An air of suspense seemed to come down over them there in the road.  Don’s pulse throbbed.  Would they obey?

“March!” he ordered.  The die was cast.

Three of the boys swung forward.  Tim stood with his feet spread apart, frowning and glum.  Presently, when the others had gone several hundred yards, he hunched his shoulders sheepishly and slowly followed after.