SPROUTING SEEDS
Don had pitched a full game that day. He was tired. Yet, as he slowly
rode the bicycle, he scarcely felt the weary complaint of his muscles.
A great peace lay over the road. The air was soft with summer's glory.
Faces that had been turned toward Danger Mountain were now turned toward
Chester, and that made all the difference in the world.
At first the journey back was something like a funeral. Tim shuffled
along in the rear. Ritter and the two other scouts had nothing to say.
Then by degrees the tension wore off. Tim still clung to the rear, but
the others began to laugh and to talk.
Half way back to town they saw a man in the distance riding toward them.
"Isn't that Mr. Wall?" Ritter asked anxiously.
It was Mr. Wall. Tim hurried up from the rear. He wanted to be where he
could hear what was said when scouts and Scoutmaster met.
Mr. Wall seemed to be riding hard. Suddenly, as he saw them, his pace
slackened.
"He's going to dismount," said Ritter.
"He's waiting for us," said the Eagle patrol scout.
Their steps unconsciously became slower, Don jumped from the bicycle and
walked with them. He studied Mr. Wall's face. Did Mr. Wall know?
He had gone to the Scoutmaster's house that morning ready to tell. Now,
though, he thought he faced a different situation. He was sure that the
Danger Mountain hike had been blocked--not for today alone, but for all
the days of the future. To bring it up again would be like trying to
re-heat a stale pie.
He had faced the situation alone. By luck--he called the use he had made
of Mr. Wall's absence a lucky stroke--he had conquered. What had happened
had been among scouts. They had settled it among themselves. He felt,
dimly, that a great lesson had been learned. Maybe it would be better to
leave things as they were.
The Scoutmaster's greeting was cheery. "Hello there, hikers! How did you
find the going?"
Ritter and the others glanced at one another sideways.
"Pretty dusty," Don said promptly.
"That's how I found it. How far did you go?"
"About a mile past Christie's Brook."
"Who was the star cook?"
"We didn't cook anything today."
"Cooking ought to be a part of every hike," the Scoutmaster said
pleasantly. He felt his tires. "I guess I've worked up an appetite for
supper. I'm going back. Want to ride in with me, Don?"
The patrol leader of the Wolves hesitated. Did Mr. Wall suspect something
and intend to question him?
"I--I guess I'll stick with the fellows," he said.
Mr. Wall called a good-by and rode off. A few minutes later his
retreating figure was outlined against a patch of bronze evening sky.
Ritter drew a deep breath. He hadn't exactly expected Don to tell, and
yet--
"Phew!" said the Eagle patrol scout, "That was a close shave."
"Close shave nothing," cried Tim, "He's wise. Four scouts in uniform, and
a patrol leader in baseball clothes and spiked shoes, and riding a
bicycle. What does that look like?"
"Well, what does it look like?" Ritter demanded.
"It looks as though somebody jumped on a bicycle and rode after us, you
gilly."
"Gee!" said the scout from the Eagles. "Mr. Wall will want to know--"
"Mr. Wall doesn't go snooping around," cried the scout from the Foxes.
"And Don could have told him right here, had he wanted to," said Ritter.
Tim said nothing. The march home started again. Don, embarrassed, rode
far in the van. Twice, looking back over his shoulder, he saw Tim
trudging with the others, but with his hands in his pockets and his head
bent thoughtfully.
For the second time that day Don was late for a meal. His father, his
mother and his sister Beth had gone off to a church social. Barbara gave
him his supper; and while he ate, he told her how the scouts had turned
back when they learned that Mr. Wall was away.
"They must be all right at heart, Don," said Barbara.
"Of course they're all right," said Don.
Barbara went out to the kitchen for a piece of cake. He sighed, and
relaxed in his chair, and waited. It seemed that she was gone a long
time. Suddenly he gave a start, and jerked open his eyes, and looked up
to find her shaking his shoulder.
"Better eat your cake tomorrow, Don. You're falling asleep."
He stumbled upstairs and went to bed. As he lay there, on the borderland
of sleep, his thoughts drifted back to Tim walking with the others with
his hands in his pockets--the way no scout who was alert and alive should
walk.
"Wonder what Tim was thinking about," he muttered sleepily.
Tim had been thinking about a boy who could have made it hot for him--and
who hadn't. He had expected Don to tell. He had hurried forward ready to
argue heatedly in his own defense. And instead, Don had plainly tried to
shield him.
He slouched his shoulders with an air of hard toughness, but deep inside
he felt small and cheap. He was used to wrangling and boisterous striving
for what he wanted. Yet, for all of his roughness, a finer streak of his
nature could, on occasion, respond to fair dealing. Squareness--being
white--was something he could understand. Don had been white.
He found himself wishing, as he walked along, that he had never started
the hike. He had seen Mr. Wall's eyes travel in his direction as though
picking him out as the ringleader in whatever mischief had been afoot. He
wondered what the Scoutmaster thought of him.
"Aw!" he told himself uncomfortably, "I'm a mutt."
For the time being, at least, his hot blood was chastened. He had gone
off that afternoon and had left several chores undone. When he reached
home his mother scolded and his father threatened. It was no new
experience. Nevertheless, he finished the neglected work in silence, and
in silence he ate his supper.
It had begun to dawn on him that he was spoiling things for himself. He
wasn't getting any fun out of scouting. He had been banished from
baseball. If Ted Carter stayed behind the bat, and if he didn't get
another chance to play--
"It's coming to me," he said, and his eyes blinked.
The time he had ruined Andy's fire Mr. Wall had said, "What do you think
a scout should do--the square thing?" He was confronted with the same
question now. What should he do--the square thing?
All of Sunday he wrestled with the problem. Monday afternoon he went to
the field early. He was the first boy there. He sat under the tree; and
when he saw Ted coming, he stood up slowly and went forward to meet the
captain.
"Say, Ted, any chance for me to get back?"
Ted glanced at him sharply. "Get back for what?"
"To play ball."
The captain tossed him the mitt. "Sure. Here comes Don. Catch him. No
curves--he worked nine innings Saturday. Just a little warm-up."
It was an awkward moment for Tim. He was not used to knuckling under. He
swallowed a lump in his throat; but Don acted as though there had never
been a change in the team. Slowly his restraint wore away. The other
players took him back without question; nobody mentioned Saturday's
disastrous game.
Tim went home from the practice whistling shrilly. There was a patrol
meeting at Don's house that night. He arrived on time. The others talked
eagerly of the first aid contest that was scheduled for Friday night. For
once he listened without trying to break into the conversation and
monopolize it, and gradually a little frown of worry wrinkled his
forehead.
The dining-room table was pushed up against the wall.
"No fooling tonight, fellows," said Don. "Let's see how much work we can
do."
Tim worked as faithfully as any of the others. In a corner Don and Ritter
practiced with splints, and over by the bay window Wally and Alex did
their bandaging. He and Andy and Bobbie had the center of the floor for
artificial respiration, stretcher work, and fireman's lift.
He worked feverishly. Something whispered to him, "Why didn't you work
hard before? You're too late now." Presently it was nine o'clock and the
work was over.
"How does it look?" Don asked eagerly.
"All right here," said Wally.
Tim and Andy were silent. Don's eyes clouded.
The meeting broke up. The boys passed out through the hall calling back
good night. Andy stayed behind.
"Tim's going to fall down," he said bluntly, "and fall down hard."
Don slowly returned the bandages to the first aid kit. "He was trying
tonight."
"Sure he was--tonight. Why didn't he try at the other meetings and cut
out his fooling?"
Don closed the kit and pushed it aside. "If he practiced a couple of
times this week--"
"How are you going to get him to practice?" Andy demanded.
"Ask him."
"Mackerel! Ask _him_ to do extra work? Can't you imagine what he'll tell
you?"
Don could imagine it without much trouble. But he remembered how his last
appeal, when everything seemed lost, had stopped the Danger Mountain
hike. It cost nothing to try. He had no love for the job of intimating to
Tim that his work was not satisfactory. And yet was it fair for him to
keep silent? Was it fair to those scouts who had labored with a will?
He went out to the porch and lifted his voice. "Tim! O Tim!"
An answering cry came faintly.
"Now for the fireworks," said Andy.
Tim came through the gate and advanced as far as the porch steps.
"How about you and Andy and Bobbie practicing a couple of times before
Friday?" Don asked.
There was a long interval of silence.
"All right," said Tim at last. He swung around and walked out the gate.
"Mackerel!" said Andy. "I thought he'd go up in the air."
Wednesday morning Tim practiced at troop headquarters. Thursday
afternoon, as soon as the baseball drill was over, he practiced again.
Friday morning he was even ready for more; but that morning Bobbie had to
weed the vegetable garden in back of his house and could not come around.
Tim went home vaguely disappointed.
That afternoon, at the baseball field, he played a butter-fingered game.
He could not hold the ball, and his throws to bases were atrocious.
"Hi, there!" called Ted. "Go take a walk around the block."
Tim was frightened. "Don't you want me to play tomorrow?"
"Sure I do. Tomorrow you'll be all right. This is your bad day. Go off by
yourself and get the air."
Tim went off to the maple tree and sat down. And by and by he found
himself wondering, not what kind of baseball he would play on the morrow,
but whether he would be good or bad in first aid that night.
He came to troop headquarters after supper with a queer, nervous feeling
in the pit of his stomach. Outside, the Eagles were making one last
hurried practice of the business of making a coat stretcher. Tim wished
he could do a little practicing, too; but when he went inside and joined
his patrol, he shrank from asking Andy and Bobbie to work with him.
The hands of the clock crept around to the hour of eight. The Eagles came
inside. Mr. Wall called the patrol leaders.
"We don't want any lagging or fooling," he announced. "Have your scouts
move lively."
"Yes, sir." The leaders went back to their patrols and repeated what the
Scoutmaster had said.
Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled. The bugle sounded "To the Colors." Fifteen
minutes later the inspection was over. Each patrol had a perfect score.
The result was marked on the board:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 74-1/2
Fox 74
Wolf 73-1/2
It was now time for the contest. An air of tension ran through the troop.
Each patrol kept to itself. There was a deal of husky excited whispering.
Of all the Wolf patrol, Tim alone was silent. The muscles of his mouth
twitched. How he wished he could have back those afternoons he had
wasted!
"Scouts!" called Mr. Wall.
The room became silent.
"First in each division of work," he said, "will count five points,
second three points, and third one point. The patrol having the greatest
number of points at the finish will have five credits to its blackboard
score; the second patrol, three points; the third patrol nothing. Two
things will count, speed and neatness--and, oh yes, care. I say speed,
but I also warn you to use your heads."
Use their heads? What did that mean? But before the scouts had much time
to think about it, the first event was called.
This was bandaging. Two scouts from each patrol stepped forward, ready.
Wally and Alex represented the Wolves.
"Arm sling," called Mr. Wall.
Quickly, deftly, the slings were made. There was little to choose, it
seemed to the watching scouts.
"Head bandage," called the Scoutmaster.
Again there was quick work. But this time the Fox boys slipped a moment.
Warning calls came from their patrol. Bobbie yelled a "Go it, Wally." The
Fox scouts finished only a second behind the others.
"Broken collar bone," was the next command.
This time one of the Eagles dropped a bandage. There was a shout from the
scouts. The shouting increased as the Fox bandager fumbled the binding
knots. Wally worked coolly and rapidly. He was the first to finish in
this particular test.
"We're going to get bandaging points sure," cried Andy. "Bully work,
Wally; bully work."
"Foot bandage," said Mr. Wall.
The three teams finished only seconds apart.
The triangular bandage was now discarded.
"Spiral bandage," ordered Mr. Wall.
Here, for the first time, Wally ran into trouble. The bandage became
flabby. Quickly he pulled it apart and began again. The Fox and Eagle
patrols jumped to their feet and pleaded for their respective teams to
hurry. Wally calmly ran the bandage up the calf of Alex's leg.
"Finished," cried the Foxes and the Eagles.
"Finished," cried Wally.
"Gosh!" whispered Bobby. "His bandage looks neater than theirs."
Then came a spiral reverse, and after that a complete spiral for all the
fingers. When this last job was finished, Mr. Wall smiled, as though well
pleased.
"Pretty work," he said. "That will be all." The contestants walked back
to their troops, and he figured on a pad.
"Wonder if he'll tell us now," whispered Bobbie.
"Of course he will," Andy answered. "That's what makes things exciting,
knowing that you are behind or ahead--"
"Sssh!" Don cautioned.
"I'll award the points now," said Mr. Wall. "Later you can look over my
scoring pad and see how I scored each individual test. Wolf patrol five
points--"
"Wow!" yelled Bobbie.
Andy dug him in the ribs. "Shut up, you shrimp. Want Mr. Wall to put us
out?"
But Mr. Wall only smiled at the excited scout. "--Eagles," he went on,
"three points, and Foxes, one point."
The Foxes seemed glum. The Eagles clamored about their patrol leader. Don
felt like dancing.
"Fine start," he said to Tim; and Tim nodded and swallowed a lump in his
throat.
He was used to having his pulse throb during the heat of a baseball game.
He was used to the wild urge to win that stirred him on the diamond. But
the breathless anxiety that ran through him now was something new. He
ached to get in and do something for his patrol.
Splints came next. This time Don and Ritter represented the Wolves. Mr.
Wall's first order was for a broken thigh.
The watching scouts were silent. All three teams worked rapidly. There
was a hush as the Scoutmaster examined the patients.
"Too tight," he said when he examined Ritter's thigh.
Tim squirmed in his seat. Don took off the splints and looked down at the
floor.
Broken leg splints came next, then broken arm splints, and then applying
a tourniquet. On this the Eagle scouts failed dismally. Don and Ritter
came back to the patrol.
"How does it look?" Andy demanded.
Don shook his head. He was afraid of that first tight splint. It was no
surprise to him when Mr. Wall gave first place to the Foxes. But his
heart leaped as he heard the Wolves rated second.
"We're ahead," Alex cried jubilantly. He pushed a paper in front of Don's
eyes.
Wolf 8
Fox 6
Eagle 4
Tim wet his lips. His turn was next--his, and Bobbie's, and Andy's.
"Artificial respiration," called Mr. Wall.
Bobbie lay on the floor, face down, and stretched his arms above his
head. Andy held his wrists lightly. Tim knelt astride the prone figure
and placed trembling hands between the short ribs.
Mr. Wall, holding a watch, walked back and forth. Tim's heart thumped.
Would he go too fast or too slow? He wondered how the other patrols were
making out, but he dared not look. Presently the Scoutmaster called,
"That's enough," and he scrambled to his feet.
"Gosh!" Bobbie said ruefully. "You surely put some pressure on."
"Wonder how we made out," said Andy.
Tim wondered, too. When the call came for a demonstration of fireman's
lift, he shut his teeth hard. He wouldn't fall down on this!
Two minutes later the lift was over.
"You were quicker than any of them," cried Andy in his ear.
"Stretchers," called Mr. Wall. "Lift the patient in and stand at
attention. Patients must not help themselves. Got your staves? Ready?
Go!"
A yell burst from the watchers.
"Go on, you Eagles!"
"Chew them up, Foxes; chew them!"
"Faster, Tim; faster!"
Tim's coat was off and on the staves. His fingers fumbled with the
buttons.
"I'm ready," came Andy's voice. "Ready, Tim."
His fingers hesitated. Were the buttons all right? He saw the Eagle
stretcher-makers begin to straighten up. He swung around to Bobbie.
"All right, Andy, lift him. Up! Now down on the stretcher. Quick! There
go the Eagles. Lift it. _Lift it!_"
They lifted their burden. Mr. Wall came down to inspect.
"Buttons out," cried a voice from the watchers. "Buttons out on the Wolf
stretcher."
It was true. Tim's coat, under Bobbie's weight, had popped open. Tim's
face turned fiery red. Was he always going to be the fellow who made his
patrol lose? Why hadn't he made sure of those buttons instead of taking a
chance?
"Maybe some of the others have coats open," Bobbie whispered.
But none of the other coats were open.
Somebody cried that the contest was over. The scouts formed a pushing,
excited ring around Mr. Wall and the stretchers. The Scoutmaster shook
his head gravely.
"I'm afraid I cannot make a decision yet. Each patrol has excelled in
some one thing and has done poorly in some other."
The pushing and the clamor ceased.
"One more test," Mr. Wall added.
The scouts fell back. The big moment of the night had come. This next
event would probably seal the doom of some one patrol.
"Each team," said Mr. Wall, "will go to the rear of the room down near
the door. At the word it will make its stretcher, lift in the patient,
and bring him to me as though I were the doctor. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Clear the room."
The watchers pushed back along the side wall in a straggling line. There
was no such thing now as each scout keeping with his own patrol. Eagles,
Wolves and Foxes found themselves hopelessly mixed. Don squeezed in next
to Alex Davidson.
"Look at Tim," said Alex.
Tim's lips were stern. Here was _the_ chance. The palms of his hands
began to sweat. If they could win this--
"Watch your buttons," whispered Andy.
"Go!" came the word of command.
This time Tim took no chances. His fingers were cold, and every nerve
cried to him to go faster, faster, faster, but he forced himself to make
sure that every button was snug. Then he hitched forward on his knees
and helped Andy.
"All right," Andy cried excitedly. "Get him by the shoulders, Tim."
It took them but a moment to lay Bobbie in the stretcher. Tim sprang to
the front of the staves, Andy to the rear. They swung the stretcher from
the ground.
"'Ray for the Wolves!" cried Wally's voice.
All Tim thought about was getting to Mr. Wall with his burden. He broke
into a walk that was almost a run.
"Look at the Wolves!" The cry could be heard above the noise. "That's no
way to carry an injured person."
Tim looked around, startled. What was wrong? He saw the Eagles and the
Foxes carrying their loads slowly, with precious care. All at once he
understood. Oh, what a blunder he had made!
He slowed up abruptly. He could hear tense voices shouting that the
Wolves were out of it. He came to a stop in front of Mr. Wall.
The scouts rushed forward from the wall. Somebody's hot breath was on his
neck and a squirming elbow was poked in his side. He did not look around.
Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled, and the gathering became quiet.
"I am glad this happened," the Scoutmaster said. "I do not mean I am glad
because a patrol has failed, but glad because now the lesson will be
driven home. An injured person must always be carried carefully. That's
what I had in mind when I said speed would count, but that I wanted
you to think."
Tim's cheeks burned. There was more to what Mr. Wall said, but he
scarcely heard. The points were awarded--Fox patrol, first; Eagles,
second; Wolves, last. Bobbie slipped out of the stretcher and Tim turned
away forlornly.
Don gripped his arm. "That gives us second place, anyway, Tim. The Foxes
have 11 points, and we have 9, and the Eagles have 7."
But Tim could take no comfort. He had fallen down again. Bonehead! That's
what he was--a bonehead!
The blackboard was changed:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 74-1/2
Fox 79
Wolf 76-1/2
"Gosh!" cried Bobbie. "Before inspection we were third, and only one
point behind first place. Now we're second and two and a half points
behind. Funny, isn't it?"
Tim didn't think it was funny at all. His scout honor, not yet fully
awake, throbbed with a sense of guilt. Every other fellow in the troop
had worked hard. Even Alex, after finishing in the grocery store, had
worked at night. And yet in spite of how hard they had tried, his lapse
had blackened every one of them, just as though they had been skulkers
and shirkers.
Just staying around where the others were made him hot and uncomfortable.
While the room rang with cheers for the victorious Foxes he slipped out
of the door and melted away in the darkness.
Suddenly the fact that he was sneaking away struck him like a blow.
Sneaking away! He stopped. With a careless, cocky swagger he had always,
before this, stood up to his troubles.
"I'll go back," he said defiantly. "I'm not afraid."
He wasn't afraid. That was true. If any fellow there had threatened to
punch his head he would have peeled off his coat in an instant. He was
not scared of physical force; but he was afraid of what every scout in
the room might be thinking--that Tim Lally had spoiled things again.
He leaned against a tree, pulled a tender twig, and chewed it
thoughtfully. He could see the glowing windows of troop headquarters,
and a bright light streamed out through the open door. Shouts, and
cheers, and laughter, came faintly to his ears. The whole troop seemed to
be having a good time congratulating the victor without envy. He was the
only boy who had slipped away.
All at once, as he watched, a great longing arose in his heart to be like
other scouts. He was tired of being picked on, and blamed for everything,
and spoken of with a doubtful shake of the head. Once he had not minded
these things. Now he hungered wistfully for his share of what scouting
had to offer: fun, and whole-hearted work, and--and respect.
The noise became subdued. The scouts began to leave. One group, talking
excitedly, passed him and he drew back behind the tree.
Then a man stepped out through the doorway and came his way. Tim drew a
quick breath and walked out into the roadway.
"Hello, Mr. Wall."
"Hello, Tim. Coming my way?"
"Yes, sir."
They fell into step.
"It was my fault the Wolves lost tonight," the boy said huskily.
"Anybody can make that mistake--once," Mr. Wall told him.
"It was my fault," Tim said stubbornly. What he wanted to say next didn't
come so easily. "How--" He hesitated. "How does a fellow get to be a
better scout?"
Mr. Wall's hand fell on his shoulder. "Tim, it's all in the way a fellow
handles the laws and the oath. If he lives up to them, he's all right.
He's a real scout."
"But if I had somebody to go to when I got stuck--"
"Go to your patrol leader, Tim. He's the one to help you."
That night, long after going to bed, Tim lay awake. Well, if speaking to
Don was the right way, he'd do it.
But it wasn't easy. When he reached Don's yard next morning, he sat on
the grass and tried to scare up courage to say what was in his mind.
"Signaling contest next month," Don told him, "Were you there when Mr.
Wall made the announcement?"
Tim shook his head.
"Three kinds," Don explained; "telegraph, semaphore, and Morse. Which can
you do best, Tim?"
"I don't know."
"Andy and Wally are down for telegraphy. How about you and Alex Davidson
taking Morse?"
Morse was harder than semaphore. Tim didn't want to fail again. Neither
did he want to dodge something just because it was hard.
"Alex works," he said hesitatingly. "If I had somebody to practice with
in the daytime--"
Don's heart leaped. Could this be rough-and-tumble Tim?
"I'll practice with you now," he cried. "Wait until I get flags."
A minute later he was out of the house. Tim went down near the gate. They
began to wig-wag.
At first the work was rusty. By degrees, though, as they corrected each
other's mistakes, smoothness came and a measure of speed.
Tim's eyes danced. Gee! but wasn't this fun? He wig-wagged, "Don't give
up the ship," and was delighted when he found that his sending had been
so sure that Don had caught every letter.
By and by Bobbie appeared and leaned over the gate.
"Hello, Tim," he called.
Tim nodded shortly. He was too much engrossed in what he was doing to
have thought for anything else. Don sent him, "Give me liberty or give me
death." He stumbled and slipped through the words, threw his cap on the
grass and yelled to Don to send it again.
Factory whistles sounded, and Barbara called that dinner was ready. Tim
put down the flag regretfully and mopped the sweat from his face. It was
Saturday, and this afternoon the nine had a game. But as he turned toward
the gate, baseball was very, very far from his thoughts.
Bobbie joined him on the sidewalk. Tim strode off briskly, and Bobbie,
shorter of leg, almost had to run.
"Getting ready for the signal contest, Tim?"
Tim nodded.
"I bet you won't make any mistakes next time."
Poor Bobbie meant no harm, but it was about the worst thing he could have
said. From Andy, or Alex, or any of the bigger scouts, Tim would not have
minded so much. But to have little Bobbie hold up his shortcomings was
like drawing a match across sandpaper.
"Gee!" Bobbie rattled on; "aren't you glad Don is going to show you how
to do things?"
"Say," Tim said ominously, "you shut up and run along or I'll twist your
ears around your head. Go on, now." He gave the astonished boy a push.
Then, scowling blackly, he passed him and went down the street with steps
that had lost their lightness and their spring.