“It’s fierce,” he said in disgust.  “It doesn’t make sense nohow.”

The message had been, “A hundred men searched the hills for the Indian.”  The Fox scout had made but one error.  Andy had made four, and the Eagle scout had twisted the message into a knot.

“Well,” said Tim, “that gives us three points for second place.  Now, if Alex gets here—­”

The calling cry of the Wolves sounded faintly.

“That’s him,” said Tim, and shrieked an answer.  Andy and Bobbie went out to meet the newcomer and show him the way.  Presently they led him into camp.  He had ridden to Lonesome Woods on his bicycle, and had ridden hard.  He was hot, dusty and thirsty.

After half an hour’s rest on the grass he was ready.  The semaphore signaling started.

All three patrols scored perfect messages, but the Foxes finished first, the Wolves second, and the distracted Eagles last.

“That gives the Foxes 10 points and us 6,” said Bobbie.  “The Eagles have 2.”

Don shook his head uneasily.  The Foxes had been in the lead ever since the last contest.  If they won again, they would be out so far in front that it would be almost impossible to catch them.

It was time for the Morse.  Tim put his flag under his arm and went out to his station.  Ritter went along to read the message to him, word for word, so that there would be no loss of time.  Bobbie, at the receiving end, was to write the message as Don called him the letters.

Ritter tore open the envelope and took out the paper.

“How long?” Tim demanded.

“Eleven words.”  Tim reached out his hand and Ritter drew back.  “Never mind reading it.  Just send what I give you.  You won’t get twisted thinking about the next word, because you won’t know what it is.”

Tim did not argue.  He could see Bobbie lying on the ground with pad and pencil, and Don crouched on one knee above him.  Gee! when would the bugle blow?

“Don’t go too fast,” Ritter said huskily.

Tim scarcely heard.  He and Don had made no mistakes the last time they practiced.  How would it be now on the day of the real thing?

“T-a-a-a-a, ta, ta,” sounded the bugle.

“Every—­” cried Ritter.

Tim sent the word.  His hands gripped the flag staff with a nervous, straining strength.

“—­patriot—­”

This word followed the first.

“—­places—­his—­all—­”

Tim was breathing hard.

“—­at—­the—­service—­”

His throat was dry.

“—­of—­his—­”

Tim’s arms trembled.  Was there much more?

“—­country,” said Ritter, as though he couldn’t get the word out fast enough.  “End of message.”

Tim fronted his flag three times.  He saw Bobbie hand the message to Don, and Don race over to Mr. Wall.

“We’re first in,” cried Ritter.  “Come on, Tim.”

But Tim was suddenly afraid.  He dropped the flag and pretended that his shoe-laces were loose.  Ritter ran ahead.  Tim fussed with the laces a long time—­was still fussing, in fact, when cries of “O you Foxes!  What’s the matter with the Foxes?” brought him to his feet.