Tim nodded shortly.  He was too much engrossed in what he was doing to have thought for anything else.  Don sent him, “Give me liberty or give me death.”  He stumbled and slipped through the words, threw his cap on the grass and yelled to Don to send it again.

Factory whistles sounded, and Barbara called that dinner was ready.  Tim put down the flag regretfully and mopped the sweat from his face.  It was Saturday, and this afternoon the nine had a game.  But as he turned toward the gate, baseball was very, very far from his thoughts.

Bobbie joined him on the sidewalk.  Tim strode off briskly, and Bobbie, shorter of leg, almost had to run.

“Getting ready for the signal contest, Tim?”

Tim nodded.

“I bet you won’t make any mistakes next time.”

Poor Bobbie meant no harm, but it was about the worst thing he could have said.  From Andy, or Alex, or any of the bigger scouts, Tim would not have minded so much.  But to have little Bobbie hold up his shortcomings was like drawing a match across sandpaper.

“Gee!” Bobbie rattled on; “aren’t you glad Don is going to show you how to do things?”

“Say,” Tim said ominously, “you shut up and run along or I’ll twist your ears around your head.  Go on, now.”  He gave the astonished boy a push.  Then, scowling blackly, he passed him and went down the street with steps that had lost their lightness and their spring.

CHAPTER VII

CROSS CURRENTS

In the days that followed, Tim became as restless as a caged animal.  He had had a taste of the fun of being a real scout.  He knew the dissatisfied emptiness of not pulling with his patrol.  He wanted to play fair, but his high-strung nature could not shake off the dread of having anybody think that Tim Lally could be led around by the nose.

That morning’s signal drill with Don had opened the door to a strange, delightful country.  He tried to find the same zest when they practiced again.  It was gone.  Suspicious thoughts sneaked through his brain, whispering, “Maybe Don likes this because it gives him a chance to be a big fellow.”

He had spells of moody silence during which he was dissatisfied with himself and his whole small world in general.  The news of what he was doing had spread through the patrol.  The third time he worked with Don, Andy, Ritter and Bobbie all watched from the fence.

After he was gone there was a hubbub of excited talk.  Gee!  Tim was getting to be a peachy scout, wasn’t he!  Don took the signal flags and walked thoughtfully toward the cellar.  He had begun to notice a change.

Two days later Tim came back by appointment.  His work was listless and dead.  The next time he did not come at all.  That evening Don met him on Main Street.

“I guess I can do all right now working nights with Alex,” Tim said uneasily.