“Aw!” he told himself hopelessly, “Don would never take me.”  He stood around listening to every word, but saying little.  His heart ached with an empty longing.  Once he caught Don’s eye, and flushed and turned away his head quickly.  And Don, who had been as high-strung as any of the others, suddenly became sober and grave.

Next day, between innings, he sat on the bench and studied his catcher.  If they should go into the woods together—­He sighed, and shook his head, and thought of Andy Ford.  Andy would pull with him.  Perhaps Andy would expect the place.

Over Sunday Wally and Ritter brought around written consents, and Bobbie announced gloomily that his father would not let him go.  Monday morning Andy brought his paper.

“Seen Tim yet?” he asked.  “No?” He fell to whistling softly.

Late that afternoon Tim appeared.  “There’s mine,” he said defiantly.  There was an awkward silence.  Presently Tim walked out through the gate and was gone.

Don sat beside his work and pondered.  As a patrol leader, what should he do?  What was expected of a patrol leader—­that he strive heart and soul to bring victory to his patrol, or that he stake everything on making one boy the kind of scout he ought to be?  Victory for the Wolves, he suspected, would soon be forgotten.  That was how it was with baseball victories.

Suppose he took Tim into the woods and nothing came of it.  But suppose something did come of it—­something big.

“I wonder,” Don mused, “I wonder what Andy thinks.”

Tuesday passed.  Wednesday came drearily with rain and chill.

That night Don purposely delayed his arrival at the troop meeting.  He did not want scouts looking at him and almost asking for the chance.  Mr. Wall was calling the gathering to order as he entered.  He slid into a seat and stole a look around.  Andy was calmly making notes in a diary.  Tim was plainly trying hard to keep his shoulders back and to appear unconcerned.

“I call on the Eagles,” said Mr. Wall, “to announce their team.”

The Eagle patrol leader chose his assistant.

“Foxes.”

The leader of the Foxes picked the oldest boy in his patrol.

“Wolves.”

Don stood up.  He saw Tim bite his lips and stare at the ceiling.  Perhaps he was making a mistake, but it seemed to him that one true scout was worth all the prize cups in the world.

“I pick Tim Lally,” he said clearly.

And then a wonderful thing happened.  Andy Ford threw down the diary and gave him a wide, approving, understanding grin.

CHAPTER IX

THE FIGHT IN THE WOODS

Slowly Tim’s eyes came away from the ceiling.  His heart stood still.  Was this a joke?  Eager hands fell on him from the rear—­Wally’s, Ritter’s, Alex Davidson’s.  There could be no doubt after that.

His heart began to thump.  Chairs were pushed back, and patrols clamored around their teams.  He found himself next to Don with one of Andy’s arms around his shoulders.