All at once, as he watched, a great longing arose in his heart to be like other scouts.  He was tired of being picked on, and blamed for everything, and spoken of with a doubtful shake of the head.  Once he had not minded these things.  Now he hungered wistfully for his share of what scouting had to offer:  fun, and whole-hearted work, and—­and respect.

The noise became subdued.  The scouts began to leave.  One group, talking excitedly, passed him and he drew back behind the tree.

Then a man stepped out through the doorway and came his way.  Tim drew a quick breath and walked out into the roadway.

“Hello, Mr. Wall.”

“Hello, Tim.  Coming my way?”

“Yes, sir.”

They fell into step.

“It was my fault the Wolves lost tonight,” the boy said huskily.

“Anybody can make that mistake—­once,” Mr. Wall told him.

“It was my fault,” Tim said stubbornly.  What he wanted to say next didn’t come so easily.  “How—­” He hesitated.  “How does a fellow get to be a better scout?”

Mr. Wall’s hand fell on his shoulder.  “Tim, it’s all in the way a fellow handles the laws and the oath.  If he lives up to them, he’s all right.  He’s a real scout.”

“But if I had somebody to go to when I got stuck—­”

“Go to your patrol leader, Tim.  He’s the one to help you.”

That night, long after going to bed, Tim lay awake.  Well, if speaking to Don was the right way, he’d do it.

But it wasn’t easy.  When he reached Don’s yard next morning, he sat on the grass and tried to scare up courage to say what was in his mind.

“Signaling contest next month,” Don told him, “Were you there when Mr. Wall made the announcement?”

Tim shook his head.

“Three kinds,” Don explained; “telegraph, semaphore, and Morse.  Which can you do best, Tim?”

“I don’t know.”

“Andy and Wally are down for telegraphy.  How about you and Alex Davidson taking Morse?”

Morse was harder than semaphore.  Tim didn’t want to fail again.  Neither did he want to dodge something just because it was hard.

“Alex works,” he said hesitatingly.  “If I had somebody to practice with in the daytime—­”

Don’s heart leaped.  Could this be rough-and-tumble Tim?

“I’ll practice with you now,” he cried.  “Wait until I get flags.”

A minute later he was out of the house.  Tim went down near the gate.  They began to wig-wag.

At first the work was rusty.  By degrees, though, as they corrected each other’s mistakes, smoothness came and a measure of speed.

Tim’s eyes danced.  Gee! but wasn’t this fun?  He wig-wagged, “Don’t give up the ship,” and was delighted when he found that his sending had been so sure that Don had caught every letter.

By and by Bobbie appeared and leaned over the gate.

“Hello, Tim,” he called.