There was no other way—­not if Tim was twice as big.  Don’s heart was in his throat.  He was afraid.  Nevertheless, without hesitation, he knocked Tim’s hands apart and the match went out.

“You will, will you?” cried Tim.  He scrambled to his feet and rushed.

There was not much light.  What there was aided Don, for Tim could not make full use of his superior weight and strength.  One rush followed another.  Don kept striking out and stepping aside.  Sometimes a fist came through his guard and stung him and made him wince.  Always, ever since becoming patrol leader, he had feared that he and Tim would some day clash.  Now the fight was on.

Slowly, as blows stung him, his blood quickened.  The boy in front of him had spoiled so much scouting.  If he could only give him the thrashing he deserved!  If he only could!  He set his teeth.  He would thrash him.  He swung, and felt a sharp pain in his knuckles.

“I’ll get you for that,” roared Tim.

Don, aroused now, scarcely felt the blows.  A hard knock caught him off his balance and sent him sprawling.

“Got enough?” Tim demanded, breathing heavily.

Don, battle mad, sprang to his feet and rushed.

That rush was a mistake.  Tim’s fist caught him as he came in and staggered him.  Another blow shook him up.  And then a third blow sent him to the ground again.  He was beaten, winded, and all but sobbing.

“I guess you’ve got enough now,” said Tim.  There was no answer.  He turned away and found his matches.

The sound of the match box being opened brought Don to his knees.  Tim, muttering, scraped the tip.

Don struggled to his feet.  The tiny flame seemed to fill him with a new strength.  If necessary he would fight again, and again, and again.  An iron doggedness was in his blood—­the same doggedness that nerves men to sacrifice everything for principle.  The lot had fallen to him to face Tim on a matter of scout discipline.  Tim might thrash him again—­but he could not light that fire!

“Drop it!” he cried.

Tim guarded the match.  “Want more?” he demanded.

“Drop it, or I’ll fight you again.”

“And I’ll lick you again,” said Tim.  He touched the flame to the dry leaves.

Don sprang forward and scattered the fire with a kick.  Tim leaped to his feet.  He was furious.  This time he’d see that he wasn’t bothered again.

The scattered fire was burning fitfully in two or three clumps.  There was just light enough to see things hazily.  Tim, his fist drawn back, caught a glimpse of Don’s white face.  He stared, relaxed, and continued to stare, and his hands fell to his sides.

He was not afraid—­and yet the fire went out of his blood.  He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and small, and beaten.  The fitful blazes dwindled and went out.  The woods were in darkness.

After a time Tim turned away.  He dropped down on his poncho and sat with his face in his hands.  Gee!  What wouldn’t he give to have the last hour back again.