Patrols were clamoring around their patrol leaders.  How much wire would be needed?  Tim went back to where he had left his hat.  And there, on his way out, Mr. Wall paused a moment.

“How’s everything, Tim?”

“All right, sir.”

“Good!” The Scoutmaster’s hand ran gently over his head.  Their eyes met. 
There were no questions of, “Did you go to your patrol leader, Tim?” Mr.
Wall seemed to be the kind who understood without asking questions.

“Tim,” he said, “I think we’re going to be proud of you some day.”

“I hope so,” Tim said huskily.  His heart beat faster as he turned back to his patrol.  And then he heard Ritter’s voice.

“Say, how is Tim going?  Has Don got him working?”

“Stop that, Ritter,” Don cried angrily.  Gosh! couldn’t some fellows ever learn to hold their tongues?  His eyes sought Tim; one look told him enough.  Tim had heard.

Here was another mess, and right on the eve of the big overnight hike.  Don made up his mind that he’d square things with Tim tomorrow when they reported at the field for the regular Saturday game.  A mix-up like this couldn’t be neglected.

But there was a heavy fall of rain that night, and more rain the next morning.  By noon the village field was flooded.  Ted Carter sent word that the game had been called off.

At two o’clock the sun broke through the clouds.  From the porch Don had watched the weather restlessly.  The moment the sun appeared he hurried off toward the field.  There was just a possibility that Tim might come around.  He had to speak to him.

Tim came at last, but without his catcher’s mitt.  He stood around with his hands in his pockets and had very little to say.  His mouth was a trifle tight, and his eyes rather hard.

“When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?” Don asked.

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

“Monday or Tuesday?”

But Tim was still indifferent.  Don came nearer.

“If you’re sore about what Ritter said—­”

“Me sore?  Why should I get sore?  I’m used to it.”

“Now, Tim—­”

Tim walked away.  He told himself that he was through.  Not through with the scouts, but through with going down to Don’s yard as though he were a poodle dog being taught new tricks.

He would not stop practicing.  Nobody was going to get a chance to say that he was to blame if anything happened this time.  All next morning he wig-wagged in his yard.  After dinner he went at it again.  The work was cruelly monotonous.

“There,” he said grimly, when at last he quit; “I bet Don didn’t practice that much today.”

All at once a voice whispered to him, “How could Don practice?  He receives.  He must have somebody to send to him.”

“Aw!” Tim growled, “let him go get somebody to send to him.”

Somehow, that didn’t seem to answer.  Next afternoon, when he began his self-imposed task of signaling, the flag seemed like lead in his hands.  He sat on the chopping block outside the kitchen door and stared ahead.  A long time later he sighed and walked around to the front gate.