Bobbie accepted the arrangement in silence.  As the meeting broke up and the scouts crowded into the hall, he pulled at Don’s sleeve.

“Must I work with Tim?” he asked.

“Tim’s strong and you’re light,” Don explained.  “You can be handled easily on the fireman’s lift and stretcher work.”

Bobbie wet his lips and seemed to want to say something more.  Abruptly, though, he turned away and followed the others out to the porch.

“How about Tim?” Ritter asked.  “Shall I tell him about Wednesday?”

Conversation stopped.  The feeling of tension came back.

“I’ll see him at the field tomorrow,” said Don.  “I’ll tell him myself.”

Alex looked at him sharply, and the look said as plainly as words, “Going to make him toe the mark?”

Don lingered on the porch until the last footstep had died away in the distance.  Then he went up to his room and stared out of the window.  Thunder!  Why couldn’t Tim stick to his patrol and play fair, and not spoil all the fun?

He had an uneasy feeling about the morrow’s interview.  Once he had heard Mr. Wall say that there is something wrong when a patrol leader and his scouts live at loggerheads.  He did not want to start wrong, he did not want to quarrel.  But what could he do if a scout made up his mind to stay away from meetings and be nasty?

A dozen times he tried to picture what he would say to Tim and what Tim would say to him.  At last, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, he began to undress for bed.

“Tim may be as nice as pie,” he muttered.  “He may not say a word.”

Which was exactly what happened.  Tim listened in silence to a report of what the patrol meeting had decided, nodded shortly when told of Wednesday’s practice, and then moved off a few steps and called for the ball.

Don found himself, all at once, wishing that this refractory scout had spoken his mind.  As things stood now he did not know what to expect.  Tim might come to the practice, or he might stay away.

Twice, that afternoon, he walked toward the other boy, resolved to ask him point blank what he intended to do.  Twice he paused and turned away.  Perhaps it might be bad to let Tim see that he was worried.

Wednesday he was the first scout to reach troop headquarters.  Inside, on the wall, was the slate: 

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 13
Fox 14
Wolf 16

Don stared at the sign a long time.  What an honor it would be to win!  Not the mere honor of getting a prize—­he didn’t mean that.  But the honor of being the best scouts in the troop, the honor of achievement, the honor of something well done.

He heard a noise at the door.  It was Andy Ford.

“Any trouble with Tim?” Andy asked at once.

Don shook his head.

“Did you tell him?  What did he say?”