“I knew I heard something,” Tim warned.  “Listen, now.”

They held their breaths.  Voices!  No doubt of it.  And then, faintly from a distance, a call of: 

“Bobbie!  O Bobbie!  Bob—­bie!”

Don forgot that he was a woods fugitive.  “That’s Andy’s voice,” he shouted.  “We’re almost out.  Come on, Tim.  Rush for it.”

They gave no care now to what noise they made.  Don felt Tim take his arm to help him.  He hobbled and hopped and squirmed, and only paused when the tender ankle brought him up wincing and shivering.

“Easy,” said Tim.  “No hurry.  See that opening?  We’re almost out.  Easy now.”

But Don found it agony to go slow.  Suppose they were gobbled here within sight of victory!  He took another chance on a hobbling run.  Around a clump of trees, straight ahead, another turn—­and there was the wide, free outside in front of them.

“Safe!” gasped Don.  No need to hurry now.  He sank to the ground and rested his injured ankle.  The Scoutmaster’s Cup was theirs!

Three scouts, walking together, were disappearing over a knoll of ground in the distance.

“Andy!” Tim bellowed.  “Andy Ford!”

One of the scouts looked around and pointed.  He shouted to someone in the distance.  Then he and his companions came forward on a wild run.

Tim pulled the cup from the box and held it up for them to see.  At that the wild run became a desperate sprint.

“Ours, ours, ours!” cried Andy.  The other scouts, Ritter and Wally Woods, caught Tim’s arms and poured out a stream of questions.  What had become of the haversacks and blankets?  Had they been afraid in the woods?  Had they seen the Foxes?  Where had they found the cup?

Another scout came over the knoll—­Bobbie Brown.  After that came a rush of Fox scouts and Eagle scouts, and finally Mr. Wall.  Scout whistles began to blow a salute and a welcome.  Cheers came in ringing waves.  Tim, his eyes bright with excitement, stood close to Don.  Oh, but this was great!

Mr. Wall shook hands.  His grip was hard and strong and gloriously friendly, and his smile made their blood run warmly.  He stepped back and looked at them, and his gaze seemed to rest on Don’s puffed lip.  Tim caught his breath.

“How do you like it?” the Scoutmaster asked.

“Great!” said Don.  “Wasn’t it, Tim?”

Tim nodded.

“Who found the cup?”

“Tim did.”

“I didn’t,” cried Tim.  “You found the place.”

“But you said it had probably been buried and to look for freshly turned dirt.  And if you hadn’t stuck to me when I hurt my ankle we’d been captured sure.  And when the Eagles were trailing us you threw them off the scent—­”

“Aw!” said Tim, “you deserve all the credit for limping along on that bum foot.”