It had begun to dawn on him that he was spoiling things for himself.  He wasn’t getting any fun out of scouting.  He had been banished from baseball.  If Ted Carter stayed behind the bat, and if he didn’t get another chance to play—­

“It’s coming to me,” he said, and his eyes blinked.

The time he had ruined Andy’s fire Mr. Wall had said, “What do you think a scout should do—­the square thing?” He was confronted with the same question now.  What should he do—­the square thing?

All of Sunday he wrestled with the problem.  Monday afternoon he went to the field early.  He was the first boy there.  He sat under the tree; and when he saw Ted coming, he stood up slowly and went forward to meet the captain.

“Say, Ted, any chance for me to get back?”

Ted glanced at him sharply.  “Get back for what?”

“To play ball.”

The captain tossed him the mitt.  “Sure.  Here comes Don.  Catch him.  No curves—­he worked nine innings Saturday.  Just a little warm-up.”

It was an awkward moment for Tim.  He was not used to knuckling under.  He swallowed a lump in his throat; but Don acted as though there had never been a change in the team.  Slowly his restraint wore away.  The other players took him back without question; nobody mentioned Saturday’s disastrous game.

Tim went home from the practice whistling shrilly.  There was a patrol meeting at Don’s house that night.  He arrived on time.  The others talked eagerly of the first aid contest that was scheduled for Friday night.  For once he listened without trying to break into the conversation and monopolize it, and gradually a little frown of worry wrinkled his forehead.

The dining-room table was pushed up against the wall.

“No fooling tonight, fellows,” said Don.  “Let’s see how much work we can do.”

Tim worked as faithfully as any of the others.  In a corner Don and Ritter practiced with splints, and over by the bay window Wally and Alex did their bandaging.  He and Andy and Bobbie had the center of the floor for artificial respiration, stretcher work, and fireman’s lift.

He worked feverishly.  Something whispered to him, “Why didn’t you work hard before?  You’re too late now.”  Presently it was nine o’clock and the work was over.

“How does it look?” Don asked eagerly.

“All right here,” said Wally.

Tim and Andy were silent.  Don’s eyes clouded.

The meeting broke up.  The boys passed out through the hall calling back good night.  Andy stayed behind.

“Tim’s going to fall down,” he said bluntly, “and fall down hard.”

Don slowly returned the bandages to the first aid kit.  “He was trying tonight.”

“Sure he was—­tonight.  Why didn’t he try at the other meetings and cut out his fooling?”

Don closed the kit and pushed it aside.  “If he practiced a couple of times this week—­”