CHAPTER VI

SPROUTING SEEDS

Don had pitched a full game that day.  He was tired.  Yet, as he slowly rode the bicycle, he scarcely felt the weary complaint of his muscles.

A great peace lay over the road.  The air was soft with summer’s glory.  Faces that had been turned toward Danger Mountain were now turned toward Chester, and that made all the difference in the world.

At first the journey back was something like a funeral.  Tim shuffled along in the rear.  Ritter and the two other scouts had nothing to say.  Then by degrees the tension wore off.  Tim still clung to the rear, but the others began to laugh and to talk.

Half way back to town they saw a man in the distance riding toward them.

“Isn’t that Mr. Wall?” Ritter asked anxiously.

It was Mr. Wall.  Tim hurried up from the rear.  He wanted to be where he could hear what was said when scouts and Scoutmaster met.

Mr. Wall seemed to be riding hard.  Suddenly, as he saw them, his pace slackened.

“He’s going to dismount,” said Ritter.

“He’s waiting for us,” said the Eagle patrol scout.

Their steps unconsciously became slower, Don jumped from the bicycle and walked with them.  He studied Mr. Wall’s face.  Did Mr. Wall know?

He had gone to the Scoutmaster’s house that morning ready to tell.  Now, though, he thought he faced a different situation.  He was sure that the Danger Mountain hike had been blocked—­not for today alone, but for all the days of the future.  To bring it up again would be like trying to re-heat a stale pie.

He had faced the situation alone.  By luck—­he called the use he had made of Mr. Wall’s absence a lucky stroke—­he had conquered.  What had happened had been among scouts.  They had settled it among themselves.  He felt, dimly, that a great lesson had been learned.  Maybe it would be better to leave things as they were.

The Scoutmaster’s greeting was cheery.  “Hello there, hikers!  How did you find the going?”

Ritter and the others glanced at one another sideways.

“Pretty dusty,” Don said promptly.

“That’s how I found it.  How far did you go?”

“About a mile past Christie’s Brook.”

“Who was the star cook?”

“We didn’t cook anything today.”

“Cooking ought to be a part of every hike,” the Scoutmaster said pleasantly.  He felt his tires.  “I guess I’ve worked up an appetite for supper.  I’m going back.  Want to ride in with me, Don?”

The patrol leader of the Wolves hesitated.  Did Mr. Wall suspect something and intend to question him?

“I—­I guess I’ll stick with the fellows,” he said.

Mr. Wall called a good-by and rode off.  A few minutes later his retreating figure was outlined against a patch of bronze evening sky.

Ritter drew a deep breath.  He hadn’t exactly expected Don to tell, and yet—­