“I’m a boob for doing it,” he said, and stopped short.  In a minute he went on again, slowly, doubtfully—­but on.

All the way to Don’s house the old questions pricked him sharply.  Why had he been shifted?  Just to be watched?  What would Don say to him now?

Don, working on the lawn, said:  “Hello, Tim.  Wait until I tack on this screening, will you?”

But the patrol leader’s heart was beating fast.  If Tim was ready to smile and dig in, the Wolves’ chances were improved 50 per cent.

But though Tim was ready to work, he was far from being in a friendly state of mind.  His flag wig-wagged short three-and four-word messages that Don could carry in his head without resorting to pad and pencil.  At four o’clock the work was over.

“Want to go to the woods tomorrow?” Tim asked gruffly.

Don nodded eagerly.

“All right; I’ll be around at one o’clock.”  He turned on his heel and was gone.

Don went indoors dejectedly.  Barbara was mixing biscuit batter in the kitchen.  He stood in the doorway and blurted out the doings of the past few days.

“Nothing there to worry about,” Barbara said brightly.  “Be honest, now.  How did Tim act a couple of months ago whenever anything displeased him?”

“He kicked things around.”

“And now he comes here and works.”

“Gosh!” said Don in a relieved voice, “that’s so.  I didn’t think of it like that.”  He went back to his screens for another hour of work before supper, and as he measured and cut molding, his whistle was cheery and good to hear.

Even Tim’s crabbiness on the next day’s trip did not dampen his spirits.  There was a thicket a mile from town.  They selected this spot for their work.

The light was different from the open.  Somehow everything seemed changed.  Messages were harder to read.  It was fine practice.

“I’m glad you thought of that,” Don said on the way home.

Tim’s stiffness melted a little.  It was hard to be stand-offish with a boy who kept praising your judgment.

As though by instinct, that night saw a gathering of the patrols at troop head-quarters.  Telegraph instruments, and dry batteries, and coils of wire, were laid together for the morrow’s hike.  The trek wagon was hauled from the old barn in back of Mr. Wall’s house.  The tents were carried from the same place and laid in the wagon.  The lanterns, swinging underneath, were cleaned and filled and put back on their hooks.

At first Tim had hung on the outskirts of the crowd.  But it was impossible to resist for long the glamour of these preparations.  The trek wagon, the tents, the night lanterns, all helped to stir his quick blood.  They whispered of evening, and night fires springing to light, and white tent walls showing ghostly through the dusk.

“Say!” called a voice, “how are you Wolves going to manage about Alex Davidson?  He works in the store.  Is he going on the hike?”