He ground it until it was almost razor sharp.  That night he dreamed that he was a scout of the old days and that Indians in their war-paint were stalking him through the forest.

Next morning he prepared his haversack, and rolled his blanket and strapped it.  Several times he cocked his eyes at the sky.  Finally he did the unheard-of thing of going down to the station and spending three cents for a city paper.  On the first page was news that was worth many times three cents.  It read:  “Weather:  Fair today and tomorrow; southwesterly winds.”

There was nothing to do now but wait for dinner.  Twenty minutes past noon he had his arms through the straps of the haversack and was on his way to headquarters.

The troop had already assembled.  The scouts were feverish.  It still lacked fifteen minutes of one o’clock when Mr. Wall appeared.

“All here?” the Scoutmaster asked.  “Care to start now?”

The patrol leaders jumped to line up their patrols.

The treasure-hunting teams were treated as something precious on the way out.  Scouts took turns carrying their packs so as to have them fresh when they entered the woods.  Just as on their first trip, Tim wanted to leap and run.  But he knew that would be folly.  Besides, Mr. Wall held them down to a steady, even pace that ate up distance but did not tire.

In the general excitement the miles slipped away unnoticed.  All at once the woods were ahead.  Mr. Wall halted the column and called the teams.

“I want you to compare your watches with mine.”  The Scoutmaster’s timepiece said ten minutes of three.  Don and the others set their watches.

“At 3:30,” Mr. Wall continued, “each team will enter the woods.  Some place near where it enters it will find the first blaze.  At 3:30.  Is that clear?”

They said it was.  He led them to a point a quarter of a mile on.

“Here’s where the Wolves go in.  Foxes and Eagles, follow me.”

The other patrols went on, nervous, high-strung.  The Wolves were left alone.

Tim tried to stretch off on the ground and lie there quietly.  With his head pillowed on his arm he could see the group that followed Mr. Wall.  On they went, on, on—­and then a turn hid them.  Everything from now on would be mysterious, unknown.

Lying there quietly became impossible.  He jumped to his feet and walked up and down.  Every few minutes he looked at his watch.  Ten after, fifteen, twenty.

“Better get on our haversacks,” said Don.

They waited.  Twenty-five after.  Tim felt the throb of his pulse.

“Another minute,” said Ritter.

Don stood with his watch in his hand.  All at once he put it away.

“Three-thirty, Tim.”  They walked toward the woods.

The patrol followed them to the edge and stopped.  There were cries of good luck.  They waved their hands and stepped among the trees.  Twice they looked back; the first time the scouts were visible, the second time they were gone.  The cries of good luck grew fainter and ceased.  They were alone.