TIM STANDS BY
It was a very quiet Don who sat down to supper that night. He had the
uncomfortable conviction that he had blundered. Having started to see
Bobbie past trouble, he should have seen him past with quiet firmness. It
had been a mistake to try to bargain.
Regrets, though, would do him no good. What was past was past. It was the
future that troubled him the most.
Tim, he was sure, would now carry a chip on his shoulder. And if he tried
to make him keep step with the other scouts of the patrol, and if Tim did
not want to keep step--
"You're not eating, Don," said Barbara.
He came to himself with a start, smiled sheepishly, and gave thought to
his supper. But for the rest of the meal he could see Barbara watching
him. There was also a concerned look in the eyes of his sister Beth.
Why had he gone back that time? And having gone back, why had he not told
Tim, bluntly and plainly, that he would have to let Bobbie alone? Had
there been a clash of wills, it would all be over with now. Instead, the
time of decision had been put off. It might come any day. And because he
had hesitated to meet it once, it would be all the harder to meet it in
the future.
"I don't think Don is hungry," said Beth.
He came to himself with a start and found that he was again staring
fixedly at his plate. He was glad when the meal came to an end.
He went up to his room. There were two letters he ought to write to
Audubon societies that had ordered bird-houses. But, though he drew out
paper and ink and envelopes, he could not concentrate his thoughts on
what he had to say. At last he went downstairs and sat on the porch.
He was discouraged. Under Phil Morris, the Wolf patrol had been strong
and vigorous. Phil had refused to stand for any nonsense.
"I guess--I guess I haven't the spunk Phil had," Don told himself.
In the kitchen the sounds of dish-washing ceased. Presently Barbara came
out on the porch. The chair in which he sat was wide. She touched his
arm.
"Push over, Don."
He made room for her.
"Well," she asked, "what's the scout trouble now?"
He could always talk to Barbara as though she were an older brother. Now
he told her about his meeting with Tim, and of the sorry way he had
handled himself.
"And now," he ended, "Tim will think I'm scared of him and that he can do
just as he pleases."
"Will he think that?" Barbara asked.
"Well, won't he?"
The girl did not answer. After a moment she asked:
"How about good turns, Don? Does Tim do any?"
"Of course he does. Isn't he a scout?"
"What kind of good turns?"
"Well--" Don thought. "Remember last winter when Mr. Blair was sick?"
"Yes."
"Tim looked after their furnace three times a day."
"Don," Barbara said, "don't you think he's all right at heart if he does
acts like that?"
Don stared. This was putting things in a new light. Then he thought of
Tim riding rough-shod, and tormenting Bobbie, and wanting his own way in
everything.
"Maybe Tim's all right at heart," he said dubiously, "but he's always
making trouble just the same. I'm not going to let him stew up my patrol.
I'll go to Mr. Wall--"
"Don!"
The sharp note of disappointment in Barbara's voice sent the blood into
his cheeks.
"Stand on your own feet," she said. "What would Mr. Wall think of you?
Did the old-time scouts like Daniel Boone go running for help every time
they found themselves in trouble?"
The boy did not answer. There was a long silence. Barbara touched his
arm.
"Angry, Don?"
"No. I--I guess I'll fight my own way," he said.
Somehow, that determination seemed to lighten his worries. He went
upstairs and wrote his letters. Afterward he picked up his Handbook and
idly turned the pages. Presently his eyes fell on the tenth law:
"He has the courage to face danger in spite of fear ... and defeat does
not down him." Next he read the fourth law, "He is a friend to all and a
brother to every other scout." And then he closed the book and for a long
time stared straight ahead.
Friday brought a busy day--bird-houses all morning, baseball practice in
the afternoon, and a troop meeting at night.
During the morning, as Don planed, and sawed, and hammered, he whistled a
gay air. But after dinner, as the time for baseball practice approached,
the whistle became subdued and at last stopped.
Up to now he had pitched against high-school boys, lads of his own age.
Tomorrow, though, he was to face a town team with its older, more
experienced players. He wondered if he would be able to make good. And he
wondered, just a little, how he and Tim would work together.
He might have saved himself the worry of wondering about Tim, for that
afternoon's practice gave no time for anything save work. Ted Carter
drove the players with a high-strung, nervous vim. He seemed to find
time for everything--first a signal drill, then fielding, then sliding
into bases.
Don was kept on the jump. As soon as his arm was warm and limber Ted
hustled him to the mound, and for fifteen minutes he stood there and
threw to bases as signals were flashed to him. Then Ted gave him ten
minutes of fielding bunts. By that time the sweat was running down his
face and his breath was coming hard.
"Get into a sweater," Ted ordered. "I'll want you back here in ten
minutes. Now, Tim, I'm going to let some of the fellows steal bases.
Let's see you throw them out."
Don was glad of the respite. He retired beyond the foul lines and
watched. There was no doubt but that Tim knew his job. Short and stocky
and agile, he seemed made in a catcher's mold. He could reach second base
with a forearm throw while squatting on his heels, and a snap of the
wrist was enough to send the ball to first or to third.
"He's got an awfully strong arm," said Don to himself.
"All right, Don," called Ted.
He shed his sweater and went back to the mound. One by one the batters
were called in to hit against him. He watched for Tim's signals, and
tried to put the ball where Tim wanted it. The batters hit him freely.
When the practice ended he was worried. If older players could hit him
like that--
"Forget it," said Ted. "Fielding bunts for ten minutes took a lot of your
sap. You'll go in fresh tomorrow. Isn't that right, Tim?"
"Sure," said the catcher.
"And another thing," said the captain. "Toward the end there you were
shaking your head to Tim's signals and pitching what you wanted. None of
that tomorrow. Let Tim judge the batters. This is his second year against
town teams; he knows their game better than you."
Tim swelled out his chest and swaggered.
"All right," said Don. If Ted thought nothing of the way he had been
batted, why, everything must be all right. He walked home gayly.
"Scout meeting tonight?" his father asked.
"Yes, sir," said Don, and ran upstairs to dress. He wondered if the Wolf
patrol would get another perfect score. He paused in the act of brushing
his hair. A thought that he could not push aside popped into his brain.
Would Tim come spick and span?
Tim, Andy, Alex and Ritter were at headquarters when he arrived, and Tim
was as clean as any.
"We've been inspecting each other," Andy laughed. "Look at those fellows
over there."
The Fox patrol had a box of blacking and a brush, and two scouts were
polishing their shoes. The Eagles had a needle and thread, and one scout,
under the watchful eye of his patrol leader, was sewing on a button.
"This is going to be a fight," Andy went on. "Those scouts are in
earnest."
"That's the way for a scout to be," said Don. The prospect of a struggle
sent a sparkle into his eyes. "We'll have to do that."
"Needles and thread and shoe-brushes?" Tim demanded.
Don nodded.
"Not for me," said Tim. "I'm no kid. Nobody has to tell me to clean
myself."
Don said nothing. Why, he wondered, did Tim seem to take such a delight
in going against everybody else? He was sure now that what Barbara said
was right. Tim was sound at heart. Look how clean he came to tonight's
meeting. And yet--
"Going to get needles and thread and things?" Andy whispered.
Don nodded. Oh, yes; he'd get them. What was the use of letting the other
patrols prepare for the unexpected and doing nothing yourself?
The Scoutmaster's whistle called the patrols to attention. Don gave a
quick glance as his patrol took its station. His heart sank. Bobbie Brown
was not in place.
Mr. Wall walked down the line of scouts. He was halfway through
inspection when Bobbie burst into the room. He checked himself when he
saw what was going on, came to salute, and quietly tiptoed to his
place. But his face was flushed from running, and his hair was awry.
Don hoped Bobbie might be able to make himself presentable before Mr.
Wall got that far. Then common sense told him that that was impossible.
The troop was at attention. Bobbie could not lift a hand even to touch
his hair. He had to stand there stiffly as he was.
The inspection came to an end, Mr. Wall faced the waiting lines. Don held
his breath. _Would_ the Wolf patrol--
"Fox patrol," Mr. Wall announced, "a perfect score. Eagle patrol, all
present, all clean, but one scout talking in ranks, one-half point off.
Wolf patrol, one scout untidy, one scout late, one and one-half points
off."
A moment later the lines were broken. Tim turned to the unhappy Bobbie.
"See what a fine fix you got us in!" he demanded angrily.
"I couldn't help it," Bobbie explained. "My mother didn't know she was
out of sugar, and the man in the store had to open a new barrel, and he
couldn't find his hatchet, and I had to wait."
"You should have gone for the sugar this afternoon," Tim insisted. "The
rest of us take the trouble to come here right and then you spoil
things."
"I couldn't help it," Bobbie said miserably. "I--"
"It's all right, Bobbie," said Don. "Don't let it happen again." He was
disappointed, but what was the use of jumping on a scout who was trying
to do right?
"What's the use of me slicking up," Tim scowled, "if other fellows are
going to do as they please?"
The scout scribe walked toward the slate. Instantly Bobbie and his lapse
were forgotten. Every eye in the room watched while the scribe rubbed out
and wrote. Soon he stepped away from the slate. There was the new
standing:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 28-1/2
Fox 30
Wolf 30-1/2
The Wolves were still in the lead, but Don did not feel the least like
cheering. For the next hour, while the troop worked at signaling, and
map-reading, and advanced knot-tying, he did his part and forgot to be
despondent. He even brightened when the logs were brought in and the
theory of bridge building was applied. But when the bridge was done--this
time it held--he lost interest.
"The Wolf patrol--" he heard Mr. Wall say.
He roused himself and listened.
"The Wolf patrol has the assignment of having headquarters clean for the
next meeting," the Scoutmaster announced.
The session was over. Don told his patrol not to forget Monday's practice
and walked out alone. He had gone but a short distance when running
footsteps sounded in his rear.
"Don!" It was Bobbie. "I'm sorry--"
The patrol leader forced a smile. "You only lost us a point and a half,
Bobbie. Maybe you'll get that back in the first aid contest."
Bobbie's mouth tightened. "It won't be because I'm not trying," he said;
and Don went home telling himself that he knew one scout the Wolf patrol
could count on through thick and thin.
Next morning he tried to build bird-houses, but for once he could find no
pleasure in the work. His thoughts were turned on the afternoon. The
Glenrock team had a reputation as hitters, and he wondered, in spite of
what Ted had said, whether he would be able to hold his own.
When Ted had asked him to pitch for the Chester town team, he had
protested that he was only a high school player. Ted, however, had told
him earnestly that many town team pitchers were no better. Besides,
wouldn't it be fine experience to pitch against stronger batters? Weeks
ago that argument had won, but now Don made a wry face.
"Fine lot of experience it will be if they knock me out of the box," he
said.
The game had been well advertised. The Chester _Chronicle_ had carried a
story, and notices had been chalked on the bulletin board at the railroad
station. Don was sure that there would be quite a crowd.
Nor was he mistaken. Early as it was when he came to the field,
spectators were already gathering. Ted, a seasoned veteran, was calm and
undisturbed, but there was a noticeable tension among most of the other
players. Don sat on the rough bench and waited for the signal to warm up.
Presently the Glenrock players arrived. He looked at them closely and his
nerves jumped. Gosh! didn't they look big! And what big black bats!
"All right, Don," said Ted. "Warm up. Take it easy. These fellows can
strike out and pop up flies just as easily as anybody else."
Don tried to smile as he took his place. By this time a solid wall of
spectators ran along the base-lines and down toward the foul flags. There
was another gathering under the maple tree; and out in deep center a
third group lounged on the grass and waited for the call of "Play ball!"
Don began to throw. His first few pitches went wide, and Tim glanced at
him sharply. The catcher was almost as cool as Ted, and to show his
calmness, he began to toss the ball into the air as he caught it and then
catch it again in his bare hand as it came down.
As soon as his arm felt right, Don tried out his curves. His drop, his
best ball, worked nicely, but his in-curve and his out-curve were only
fair. He kept trying them, and became worried, and went back to his drop
and found that he had lost his control of this curve, too. What was the
matter? Was he getting stage fright?
"That's enough," called Ted.
He walked toward the bench. Tim hurried to his side.
"Scared?" the catcher asked.
Don nodded.
"Gee!" said Tim. "I thought you had more nerve than that. Just go out
there and stick it over. You don't see me getting rattled."
"You don't have to serve the ball," said Don.
"No," said Tim; "but I'm the fellow who has to decide what balls they
get. I guess that's some responsibility. You pitch the way I tell you to
and we'll be all right."
Glenrock was still practicing in the field. Don sat on the bench and
watched. They handled the ball well, but not any better than Chester. If
their hitting had been overrated--
"They're through," said Ted. "Come on, Don. Don't get excited now. Watch
Tim's signals and give him what he signals for. We're in back of you."
"That's what I've been telling him," said Tim.
A minute later Don faced the first batter. Tim squatted, rose up on his
toes, stuck his mitt between his legs, laid a finger on the mitt, and
then spread his hands wide.
"Come on, Don," he called. "Easy-picking here; easy picking. Put it right
over."
Tim had signaled for the drop. Don swallowed a lump in his throat. Would
the ball break true? Would this broad-shouldered young man who stood so
confidently at the plate hammer it a mile?
"Come on, now," cried Tim.
Don pitched. The batter swung and missed.
"Easy picking," chanted Tim. "He couldn't hit it with a fence post. Come
on, now."
The second signal was for an in. Don pitched. The batter tightened his
muscles to swing, changed his mind, and allowed his arms to grow limp.
And the ball that looked as though it would be outside the plate,
suddenly broke inward and crossed the corner.
"Strike two!" ruled the umpire.
The batter looked annoyed. And as for Don, a wave of gladness ran through
his veins. His curves were working, and this batter didn't seem to be any
harder to pitch to than some high school players he had faced.
Tim called for pitch-outs on the next two, hoping that the batter would
"bite." The Glenrock player, though, seemed to have become cautious. Then
Don pitched a drop, and the batter hit a bit too high and sent a grounder
toward third base, and was thrown out.
The next batter caught the first ball pitched and hammered it to center
field for a base.
Don's lips twitched. He wondered if the runner would try to steal, and if
he would be too green to hold him close to the bag. Ted motioned him to
play the plate.
Tim signaled for a pitch-out, or waste ball. He pitched.
The catcher had shrewdly judged that Glenrock would try to steal the
moment she got a runner on. He saw the runner break for second. He got
the ball, drew back his arm, and shot the sphere down without rising
from his squat.
It was a beautiful throw, and the runner was out by a yard.
"Try to get fresh with the kid pitcher, eh?" yelled Tim.
"That's turning them back," shouted Ted Carter. "Get this fellow, Don."
Don "got" him on an in-curve that was hit for a puny infield pop.
Glenrock was out. She had had her first inning and had not scored. Ted
came running in to the bench, calling instructions to Chester's first
hitter. Don drew on a sweater and sat down.
"Well," said Ted, "they aren't giant-killers, are they?"
"Tim saved me that time," Don answered. His pulse was still throbbing.
"Sure I did," said Tim. "That's what I'm there for."
Don tried to tell himself that it was only Tim's way to be so cocksure
and chesty; and yet, in a small corner of his brain, was the thought that
it might have been just as well had the runner not been thrown out. In
spite of himself, he was beginning to resent the catcher's air of
superiority.
He admitted that he was lucky to have escaped during that first inning.
But he was not so lucky in the innings that followed. Two runs were
scored by Glenrock in the third, one in the fifth, two in the seventh,
and one in the eighth. Five runs was all that Chester could gather. The
end of the game found her one run behind.
Don was disheartened. He put on his sweater and started to leave the
field. Ted called him, and he waited.
"Down in the mouth?" the captain asked. "Forget it. I knew you'd have
trouble today. You were worried, weren't you?"
Don nodded.
"And yet they beat you only six to five. That's all right. Next time you
won't be so nervous and you'll do better."
"Will I?" Don asked. "You're not fooling me, Ted?"
"Oh, Tim." Ted called to the catcher. "What did I tell you about this
game?"
"That you'd be satisfied if Don held them to a respectable score," Tim
answered. "You told me to hold him up and keep him going--"
"All right," Ted said quickly. He turned to Don. "Does that look as
though I'm stringing you? Next week you pitch against Springfield--and
next week you're going to win."
Don drew a deep breath. A big part of his courage had come back. Now, if
Tim would only stop saying how important _he_ was--
"I know those Springfield batters," said Tim. "I'll signal him what to
throw."
Don turned away. Was Tim going to act like that all summer?
Monday the Wolf patrol had its second first-aid practice. This time there
was no trouble. Tim appeared, and did his work, and then went shouting
and hallooing down the street. Andy Ford laughed and shook his head.
"He's a wild Indian, Don. You can't do much with him."
"I--I can't do anything with him," said Don.
The days that followed were busy ones. There was a rush of orders for
window screens, and he dropped his bird-houses and helped his father.
Twice he went to the field. Once he met Tim there, and Tim caught his
delivery and called instructions in a breezy, high-handed way. Andy Ford
was right, Don thought. A wild, untamed, careless, unthinking Indian!
Friday, in response to Don's orders, the patrol came to headquarters to
clean up for that night's meeting. Tim brought with him an impish,
reckless desire for fun. While the others tried to sweep, he lined up a
string of camp stools and played leap-frog down the length of the
meeting-place, and got in everybody's way.
"Come on, Tim," Don called. "Cut it out!"
"Cut what out?" Tim asked innocently.
"That jumping. You're scattering the dust. Put the stools away and get a
broom."
Tim shook his head, and sat on the nearest stool, and looked as though he
was going to dispute the order. Andy and Ritter nudged him and told him
to be a good sport and help. He looked at them doubtfully, and then,
apparently convinced, he piled the stools in a corner and got a broom.
Only for a short time, though, did he apply himself to the work in hand.
Soon a voice shouted, "Behold a knight of old!" and when the scouts
looked around there was Tim with the broom as a sword and a galvanized
water bucket over his head. Even Don laughed.
Next Tim sent the pail clattering across the floor, and Bobbie had to
jump to avoid being hit in the shins. After that this troublesome scout
insisted on fighting a broom duel with Wally Woods, and a collection of
dirt that had been swept into a pile was scattered right and left.
"Tim!" cried Don.
Tim stopped. "What's the matter?"
"Look at that dirt. We'll never get cleaned up this way."
"Oh, forget it," said Tim. "Can't a fellow have a little fun? I'll sweep
it up again," and he attacked the pile.
Ten minutes later he was chasing Ritter around the room for a piece of
cake, and a pail of water that Andy had just brought in was upset over
the floor.
"Yah!" shouted Tim. "Swim for your life." He swished his broom through
the water and swished too hard, and the dirty water flew far and high and
spattered the walls.
"Now look what we've got to clean," cried Andy.
"Gee!" said Tim. "I didn't know it was going to do that. What did you
want to leave the pail there for?"
"What did you go cat-acting for?" Don demanded.
He was exasperated. He felt like telling Tim to go out and let them
finish the job themselves. But--There was the rub. What would happen
then? Suppose Tim got hot-headed and wouldn't go? Or suppose he went,
glad to be relieved of his share of the job? Or suppose he walked out
sullen and grumbling, and stayed away from the meeting or came late or
came untidy--and the Wolves lost points?
Don was bewildered. He wanted to do what was best--for Tim, for himself,
for the patrol--but what was best? Was it best to let Tim run on in the
hope that he'd be shamed into a better spirit by the other scouts? Phil
Morris would have said, very quietly, "Hey, there, Tim!" and that would
have been the end of it.
Don sighed. "I wish I was as big as Phil," he muttered.
For a time it seemed as though Tim had been sobered by the accident to
the water pail. He worked with Andy trying to clean the walls. It seemed,
though, that there were a thousand spatters.
"Gee!" said Tim. "Mr. Wall surely likes to stick a fellow. This is no
cinch."
"It's your own fault," Andy grunted, trying to reach a high spot.
"Aw! shut up," cried Tim; "you fellows are always preaching. You fellows
never do anything. I'm tired and I'm going to rest."
He brought out a camp stool and sat down. Don bit his lips and went on
working. The other scouts cast covert glances at the stool and its
occupant.
By and by it began to grow dark. The floor had been swept and mopped, but
the walls still had dirty sections and there were the two windows to do.
"We're not going to get this clean in time," said Andy.
Tim stirred from the chair and came over and helped. The light failed
rapidly. The lamps were in the troop "treasure chest," and Don though a
patrol leader, had not yet received a key to the locker.
"No use wasting any more time here," he said at last. "Let's do the
windows."
"Maybe we have the walls all clean," said Andy. Ritter struck a match. By
the feeble flame they looked intently, but could not be sure.
They did the windows. Tim was silent and apparently not anxious to
attract attention to himself. It was almost dark when the last window had
been finished.
"Could we try the walls again?" Bobbie asked.
"Too late," Don answered. "They may be all right. We'll know tonight,
anyway. Everybody on time tonight, and everybody clean."
He walked off with Andy. The assistant patrol leader said after a moment:
"I think Tim's sorry now."
"What good does it do to be sorry now?" Don asked bitterly.
As soon as his supper was over, he hurried back to headquarters. Nobody
was there yet. Presently the patrol leader of the Foxes, a boy named
Kearney, came along, whistling shrilly. He opened the treasure chest and
brought out the lamps, cleaned the chimneys and lighted them.
"Hello!" he said. "Wasn't it the turn of your patrol to clean house?"
Don nodded miserably. One patch of wall, by a window, was a mess. The
windows themselves, cleaned in semi-darkness, were streaked. And some of
the floor, down by the door, had not been mopped at all.
Scouts began to arrive. Bobbie brought a shoe brush and a can of
blacking, and Ritter brought a hair brush and a comb. Andy brought
needles and khaki-colored thread. These things were laid quietly in the
patrol's locker. Nobody said anything about the walls.
By and by Tim arrived. He looked around and his face became red. Don gave
him a quick glance. He met it and his flush grew deeper, and all at once
he seemed to force his shoulders back and his eyes became defiant.
"He's stung, all right," thought Don, "but he doesn't want to show it."
Mr. Wall called the patrol leaders forward to discuss the plans for a
hike. Don scarcely heard the details. All he knew was that somebody said,
"Wednesday, then," and the Scoutmaster's whistle shrilled, and the troop
lined up by patrols.
Slowly the inspection was made--first the scouts, then the room. Don
forced himself to keep his eyes level, but he felt like hanging his head.
"Every scout present," Mr. Wall announced, "and every scout clean. Each
patrol is awarded sixteen points."
Fleeting smiles through the ranks of the Foxes and the Eagles. Sober
faces among the Wolves.
"However," the Scoutmaster went on, "the Wolf patrol had the detail of
cleaning the meeting place. I am sorry to say that the patrol has been
derelict. I am, therefore, compelled to fine the Wolf patrol five
points."
Don's heart was like lead. He knew what the slate would show; and yet,
when it was changed, he stared at it miserably:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 44-1/2
Fox 46
Wolf 41-1/2
The meeting was over at last. He ordered his patrol to wait. The other
scouts, looking at the Wolves queerly, went out into the night and
scattered. Mr. Wall passed out.
"Good night, scouts," he called.
"Good night," they answered, and looked at Don.
"We're going to clean this place," he said. "Get some water."
There was a rush for pails. Tim hesitated. He knew he was the cause of
the disaster that had overtaken the patrol, but he had the mistaken idea
that it would seem babyish and weak to jump in and show contrition. He
had always been looked upon as a little "hard." This, he thought, was
soft--and he didn't want anybody to regard him as a softy.
"Aw!" he said, "what's the use? We've lost the points, haven't we?"
"Is that your idea of being a scout?" Don asked.
Tim flushed again. For a few minutes he lounged around; then, looking ill
at ease, he slouched out.
"I didn't think he'd do that," Andy said thoughtfully.
Don's lips had gone a little white. He turned toward the spattered wall
and stopped all at once. For Tim was coming back through the doorway.
"I'm as good a scout as you," Tim said passionately. "If you say I'm not,
I'll bang you in the eye."
Don said nothing. While Tim selected a pail and a floor cloth, Don rubbed
away at the wall. Slowly a little smile spread across his face. He was
quite content the way things had gone. What did five points amount to,
if their loss would make Tim a better scout?