CROSS CURRENTS
In the days that followed, Tim became as restless as a caged animal. He
had had a taste of the fun of being a real scout. He knew the
dissatisfied emptiness of not pulling with his patrol. He wanted to play
fair, but his high-strung nature could not shake off the dread of having
anybody think that Tim Lally could be led around by the nose.
That morning's signal drill with Don had opened the door to a strange,
delightful country. He tried to find the same zest when they practiced
again. It was gone. Suspicious thoughts sneaked through his brain,
whispering, "Maybe Don likes this because it gives him a chance to be a
big fellow."
He had spells of moody silence during which he was dissatisfied with
himself and his whole small world in general. The news of what he was
doing had spread through the patrol. The third time he worked with Don,
Andy, Ritter and Bobbie all watched from the fence.
After he was gone there was a hubbub of excited talk. Gee! Tim was
getting to be a peachy scout, wasn't he! Don took the signal flags and
walked thoughtfully toward the cellar. He had begun to notice a change.
Two days later Tim came back by appointment. His work was listless and
dead. The next time he did not come at all. That evening Don met him on
Main Street.
"I guess I can do all right now working nights with Alex," Tim said
uneasily.
"All right," Don agreed. "Any time you want to come around, though--" He
waited, but Tim said nothing.
Don went home feeling rather blue. "I suppose he'll start scrapping with
everybody all over again," he muttered.
But he was wrong. Tim went his way moody and silent, but with no chip on
his shoulder. He came to the next troop meeting clean and tidy, and on
time. Each patrol won a perfect score. The blackboard read:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 90-1/2
Fox 95
Wolf 92-1/2
"Still two and one-half points behind," Don sighed. Wasn't it hard to
catch up? If the Wolves could win the next contest on signaling--But he
wasn't going to think of that, now that Tim had become balky.
The other scouts spoke of it, though. Alex said earnestly that Tim was
really practicing this time. Andy grinned and said that the Eagles and
the Foxes had better watch out because they were heading straight for
trouble. Don walked with them and said not a word.
Five days later the patrol awoke to the fact that Tim no longer practiced
in Don's yard. Andy and Bobbie came around and sat on the front stoop
with the patrol leader.
"Mackerel!" said Andy, "but he's a queer fish. Was there any scrap?"
Don shook his head.
"Didn't he say anything?"
Another shake.
"Just quit, eh?"
Don nodded.
Andy whistled softly, took a scout whistle from his pocket and examined
it. "How is that going to hit our signaling chances?" he asked.
"Alex says Tim works all right with him," Don answered.
"That's all right, but--" Even Bobbie knew what he meant, that the
right kind of stick-together was better than all kinds of practice.
"Something must have bit him," Andy went on. "If he liked practicing
here at first--He did like it, didn't he?"
"You bet," said Bobbie. "Even if he did push me and tell me to run
along."
Andy sat up straight. "When was that?"
"The first day he practiced here. I asked him wasn't it fine to have Don
showing him--"
"Oh!" Andy said softly.
"He liked it all right," said Bobbie.
Neither of the other boys made any comment. By and by Bobbie went off.
Don looked at his assistant patrol leader.
"Think that could be it?" he asked.
"Maybe." Andy puckered his eyes. "How is he on the ball field; all
right?"
"Fine. His hitting won last Saturday's game."
"Maybe it isn't that," Andy said doubtfully. He was so used to Tim being
grouchy when anything displeased him that he could not grasp the thought
that perhaps there had been some little change.
By this time the troop contest had every scout on his toes. Friday
night's meeting saw each patrol win another perfect score. Don decided
gloomily that there wasn't much chance to get ahead by being clean and on
time for roll call--every scout in the troop was clean and on time. It
was the monthly contests that would decide the winner of the
Scoutmaster's Cup.
Before going home he studied the changed figures on the blackboard:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 106-1/2
Fox 111
Wolf 108-1/2
"Tim's doing fine on signaling," said Alex in his ear.
Don drew a deep breath. Well, maybe everything would be all right, after
all.
Next day the Chester nine played St. Lawrence. It was touch and go from
the start. Now Chester led; now the visitors led. The eighth inning found
Chester in front by a 6 to 5 score.
All during the game Don had felt the strength of Tim's support. Not once
had the catcher's playing faltered. Don, waiting on the bench, allowed
his thoughts to wander. If Tim would plunge into scouting like that--
"Come on, Don," called Ted Carter. "Ninth inning."
The first Chester batter doubled. Instantly all stray thoughts were swept
from Don's mind. The next player fouled out. Then came a long fly to the
right-fielder and the runner ran to third after the catch. Any kind of a
dinky hit would score the tying run.
Don pitched to the batter. Without shifting his position, Tim snapped the
ball to third base. The runner, caught asleep, scrambled frantically for
the bag.
"Out!" ruled the umpire.
The game was over. Don ran to the bench.
"Pretty work, Tim," he cried.
"I guess I don't need anybody to show me how to play baseball," said Tim.
Don paused in the act of reaching for his sweater. Tim's eyes met his, a
bit uncertain, a bit defiant. Ted Carter, laughing and happy, romped in
between them.
"You fellows are one sweet battery," he cried joyously. Other members of
the team crowded around the bench. Tim, with his mitt under his arm,
walked away.
Slowly Don buttoned his sweater. Tim's change of heart was a mystery no
longer.
At the edge of the field he found Andy Ford waiting.
"Mackerel!" cried the assistant patrol leader; "wasn't that a corking
game? When Tim made that throw--Hello! What's the matter?"
"Tim's sore because of what Bobbie said."
"How do you know?"
Don related what had happened at the bench.
"Well, the big boob!" Andy gave a snort of anger. "Doesn't he know any
better than to pay attention to a kid like Bobbie?"
"Tim's always been that way," said Don. "He's sensitive."
"Sure; but he isn't sensitive about his patrol, is he?"
Don sighed. No; Tim wasn't very sensitive about that.
After supper he came out of the house and walked down to the fence. He
had an idea that Andy would be around; and when presently the assistant
patrol leader came down the dark street, he held open the gate. They sat
on the grass and talked in low tones.
"I've doped it out," said Andy. "Why don't you shift--you and Tim do the
Morse instead of Tim and Alex?"
Don shook his head--slowly.
"Why not?" Andy demanded. "If you worked with him and let him do things
his own way wouldn't he get over his grouch?"
"I don't know. Would he?"
"Sure he would. Suppose some day when we were all hanging around you
asked him to show you how to do something."
"Gee!" cried Don. "That would get him, wouldn't it?"
Andy grinned. "I guess we'll tame that roughneck, what?"
Don always rested his arm after a game. He had not planned to go to the
baseball field until Tuesday. But his business with Tim was too important
to wait. Monday afternoon he put away his tools and his bird-houses, and
went off to the village green.
"Hello!" called Ted Carter. "What are you doing around here on a Monday?"
"I want to see Tim," Don answered. He took the catcher off to one side.
"We're making some changes," he said. "Alex will work with Ritter on
semaphore signaling."
Tim's eyes grew suspicious. "Who'll work with me on Morse?"
"I will," said Don.
Tim's eyes snapped. "So that's the game, is it?" he asked darkly. "What's
the first order I get; practice tomorrow?"
"That's up to you," said Don. "When do you want to practice?"
Tim was taken aback. He had expected to be told, not asked; ordered, not
consulted. He mumbled that tomorrow would do, and went back to practice.
He could not get his thoughts back on the work. Once, when the ball was
traveling around the bases, his attention wandered, and when somebody
threw the sphere home, it almost struck him in the head.
"Let's call it a day," cried Ted Carter, "before Tim gets killed."
Tim smiled absently. He looked around for Don. The patrol leader was
gone. He walked away slowly, turning one question over and over in his
puzzled mind. What new trick was this, anyway?
Next morning he went around to Don's house. He was still sure that
something had been hidden, and that at the proper moment the surprise
would be sprung. He was watchful and cautious.
The practice ran its course serenely. Barbara came out, and after
watching awhile, wrote a four-word message and asked Tim to send it. Don
received it without a mistake.
"Isn't that splendid?" she cried. "The Wolf patrol will surely win points
in the signaling, won't it?"
"We'll give them a fight," said Don.
Tim said nothing. But the fire to be something more than the Wolf patrol
failure began to burn again. When the last message had flashed back and
forth, he handed Don his flag.
"We'll get down to real work after this," said the patrol leader.
Ah! So here was the trick. Tim waited.
"Sending messages back and forth," Don went on, "is all right while we're
brushing up the code. We know the code now. It's time to begin to
specialize for the contest. One of us will have to do nothing but send,
and the other nothing but receive."
Still Tim waited.
"Which do you want to do, send or receive?"
"I--I'll send," said Tim. He felt like a boy who had squeezed his fingers
in his ears and had waited for a gun to go off, and had then found that
the gun was not loaded. He was bewildered, lost, confused.
Wednesday he came again. And still there was no bossing, no giving
orders, no high hand of authority. Perhaps there was no trick.
"Ah!" Tim told himself, "there must be. Why did he shift me here? Why
didn't he let me stay with Alex? There's a reason, all right."
And so, whenever he and Don were together, on the baseball field or in
Don's yard, he found himself weighing every word and act.
Friday night's meeting brought no change in the score. Each troop, eager
and keen, reported faultlessly. The blackboard read:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 122-1/2
Fox 127
Wolf 124-1/2
Tonight there was silence when the scores were posted. The contest had
grown too tight for mere noise and bluster. A false step now by any
patrol might drop it hopelessly to the rear. When Mr. Wall's commands
still held the scouts in ranks, the faces they turned to him were
boyishly sober.
"I am going to keep a promise," the Scoutmaster said, "that I made some
time ago. Next week's meeting will be held in Lonesome Woods."
The sober faces were suddenly aglow.
"Attention!" came the low voices of the patrol leaders. The ranks stood
firm.
"It will be part of an overnight hike. We will leave here Thursday
afternoon at one o'clock."
A quick murmur--then silence.
"The signaling contests will be held in the woods. Break ranks."
The pent-up enthusiasm swelled up in a wild cheer. The Scoutmaster found
himself pushed and jostled. A dozen boys tried to shout questions at
once. He laughed and covered his ears with his hands. When he brought
them away Don spoke quickly:
"How about telegraphy, sir?"
"Each patrol will bring its own wire and rig its own instruments," was
the answer.
Why, this was just like war--signaling from hidden places, and running
telegraph wires over tree limbs and across the ground.
Tim's adventurous blood quickened. The troop meeting seemed tame and
prosaic. He went through his setting-up exercises mechanically. He could
almost smell the tang of a wood fire burning.
There was work tonight in identifying leaves and barks of trees, and
stems of plants. Tim twisted restlessly. The moment the meeting was over
he followed Don down the room.
"How far apart will they put us in the woods?" he demanded.
Don didn't know.
"We'd better get out among some trees and practice," Tim said.
The suggestion was good. Don said so. Tim's face flushed.
Patrols were clamoring around their patrol leaders. How much wire would
be needed? Tim went back to where he had left his hat. And there, on his
way out, Mr. Wall paused a moment.
"How's everything, Tim?"
"All right, sir."
"Good!" The Scoutmaster's hand ran gently over his head. Their eyes met.
There were no questions of, "Did you go to your patrol leader, Tim?" Mr.
Wall seemed to be the kind who understood without asking questions.
"Tim," he said, "I think we're going to be proud of you some day."
"I hope so," Tim said huskily. His heart beat faster as he turned back to
his patrol. And then he heard Ritter's voice.
"Say, how is Tim going? Has Don got him working?"
"Stop that, Ritter," Don cried angrily. Gosh! couldn't some fellows ever
learn to hold their tongues? His eyes sought Tim; one look told him
enough. Tim had heard.
Here was another mess, and right on the eve of the big overnight hike.
Don made up his mind that he'd square things with Tim tomorrow when they
reported at the field for the regular Saturday game. A mix-up like this
couldn't be neglected.
But there was a heavy fall of rain that night, and more rain the next
morning. By noon the village field was flooded. Ted Carter sent word that
the game had been called off.
At two o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. From the porch Don had
watched the weather restlessly. The moment the sun appeared he hurried
off toward the field. There was just a possibility that Tim might come
around. He had to speak to him.
Tim came at last, but without his catcher's mitt. He stood around with
his hands in his pockets and had very little to say. His mouth was a
trifle tight, and his eyes rather hard.
"When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?" Don asked.
Tim shrugged his shoulders.
"Monday or Tuesday?"
But Tim was still indifferent. Don came nearer.
"If you're sore about what Ritter said--"
"Me sore? Why should I get sore? I'm used to it."
"Now, Tim--"
Tim walked away. He told himself that he was through. Not through with
the scouts, but through with going down to Don's yard as though he were a
poodle dog being taught new tricks.
He would not stop practicing. Nobody was going to get a chance to say
that _he_ was to blame if anything happened this time. All next morning
he wig-wagged in his yard. After dinner he went at it again. The work
was cruelly monotonous.
"There," he said grimly, when at last he quit; "I bet Don didn't practice
that much today."
All at once a voice whispered to him, "How could Don practice? He
receives. He must have somebody to send to him."
"Aw!" Tim growled, "let him go get somebody to send to him."
Somehow, that didn't seem to answer. Next afternoon, when he began his
self-imposed task of signaling, the flag seemed like lead in his hands.
He sat on the chopping block outside the kitchen door and stared ahead. A
long time later he sighed and walked around to the front gate.
"I'm a boob for doing it," he said, and stopped short. In a minute he
went on again, slowly, doubtfully--but on.
All the way to Don's house the old questions pricked him sharply. Why
_had_ he been shifted? Just to be watched? What would Don say to him now?
Don, working on the lawn, said: "Hello, Tim. Wait until I tack on this
screening, will you?"
But the patrol leader's heart was beating fast. If Tim was ready to smile
and dig in, the Wolves' chances were improved 50 per cent.
But though Tim was ready to work, he was far from being in a friendly
state of mind. His flag wig-wagged short three-and four-word messages
that Don could carry in his head without resorting to pad and pencil. At
four o'clock the work was over.
"Want to go to the woods tomorrow?" Tim asked gruffly.
Don nodded eagerly.
"All right; I'll be around at one o'clock." He turned on his heel and was
gone.
Don went indoors dejectedly. Barbara was mixing biscuit batter in the
kitchen. He stood in the doorway and blurted out the doings of the past
few days.
"Nothing there to worry about," Barbara said brightly. "Be honest, now.
How did Tim act a couple of months ago whenever anything displeased him?"
"He kicked things around."
"And now he comes here and works."
"Gosh!" said Don in a relieved voice, "that's so. I didn't think of it
like that." He went back to his screens for another hour of work before
supper, and as he measured and cut molding, his whistle was cheery and
good to hear.
Even Tim's crabbiness on the next day's trip did not dampen his spirits.
There was a thicket a mile from town. They selected this spot for their
work.
The light was different from the open. Somehow everything seemed changed.
Messages were harder to read. It was fine practice.
"I'm glad you thought of that," Don said on the way home.
Tim's stiffness melted a little. It was hard to be stand-offish with a
boy who kept praising your judgment.
As though by instinct, that night saw a gathering of the patrols at troop
head-quarters. Telegraph instruments, and dry batteries, and coils of
wire, were laid together for the morrow's hike. The trek wagon was hauled
from the old barn in back of Mr. Wall's house. The tents were carried
from the same place and laid in the wagon. The lanterns, swinging
underneath, were cleaned and filled and put back on their hooks.
At first Tim had hung on the outskirts of the crowd. But it was
impossible to resist for long the glamour of these preparations. The trek
wagon, the tents, the night lanterns, all helped to stir his quick blood.
They whispered of evening, and night fires springing to light, and white
tent walls showing ghostly through the dusk.
"Say!" called a voice, "how are you Wolves going to manage about Alex
Davidson? He works in the store. Is he going on the hike?"
"No," said Don.
"Well, how about the signaling?"
"He has half a day off Friday. He'll come out Friday afternoon."
The nine o'clock fire bell sent the scouts scurrying for home. The trek
wagon was left against the wall of troop headquarters.
Next morning the patrols assembled early. Mr. Wall dispatched a scout to
the baker's for two dozen loaves of bread. Another boy hurried off to the
grocer's shop for molasses, cocoa, and evaporated milk. When these had
been put safely in place, the last strap was adjusted. The trek wagon was
ready for the journey.
"You fellows get home," Mr. Wall ordered, "and get back here on time.
Remember, the same rule as always--individual cooking. Two or three
scouts or a whole patrol can team up, but each scout must bring enough
food to feed himself for three meals--supper tonight, and breakfast and
dinner tomorrow. The troop treasury furnishes the bread, molasses and
cocoa. Everybody understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right. We leave here at one o'clock sharp."
The Scoutmaster could have saved himself the warning. At 12:30 o'clock
the last scout was there, haversack and blanket on his back, ax and
canteen on his hip.
At 12:55 the bugle blew. The scouts fell into line.
"Each patrol," said Mr. Wall, "will take its turn hauling the trek wagon.
The Wolves first."
Don's patrol dropped back.
At one o'clock the bugle sounded again.
"Forward!" cried Mr. Wall. "March!"
"Forward!" echoed the patrol leaders. "March!"
Chester troop was off. Small boys followed along the sidewalk and on past
the village limits. After that, one by one, they dropped back, and at
last the troop swung on through the early afternoon alone.
Tim threw himself joyously into the work of hauling the wagon. When Mr.
Wall ordered route step, and the discipline of the hike gave way to
laughter and song, Tim's voice rose above all the rest.
He felt like dancing in the road. The first hill found him impatient to
run the wagon to the top. His zeal caused a quickened pace. Oh! there was
no loafing or shirking today.
At the end of a half-mile the Foxes took the load. Tim strode on with a
swinging step. His doubts were vanishing. Not once had Don tried to force
him to do what he did not want to do. If there was some hidden reason for
switching him from Alex, it should show itself now, shouldn't it? Maybe
he had been wrong all along.
Don fell into step with him. "How about some practice in the woods this
afternoon, Tim?"
"Sure." Tim's eyes danced. "We'll be first if we win this time."
Now it was Don who felt like dancing in the road. Tim, for some reason,
had had another change of heart, and was once more eager.
Soon the whole patrol was walking with Don and Tim. And Tim,
light-hearted, irrepressible, kept the talk flying merrily. When the call
came for the Wolves to take the wagon again, he was the first to reach
the shafts.
"Come on, slaves," he called.
Andy winked at Don. Don clutched the assistant patrol leader's arm and
squeezed hard.
Tim made lively work of the next half-mile. The relief found Bobbie Brown
gasping and wilted.
"Gee!" said Tim; "you're packing too heavy a load for a runt. Here, I'll
take your blanket."
Bobbie straightened his shoulders. "I'm all right. I--"
"Aw! forget it." Tim turned him around, unstrapped the blanket, and stuck
it under his arm. "Feels better, doesn't it?"
"Y-yes," said Bobbie.
Mr. Wall, coming down the line to watch for stragglers, saw what
happened, smiled quietly, and went back to the head of the column.
After a time the jokes and the laughter stopped. They were approaching
Lonesome Woods. Of course, this was going to be all kinds of fun,
but--but--Well, Lonesome Woods was Lonesome Woods, wasn't it? A mile from
camp Mr. Wall halted the column.
"Volunteers to go forward and cut firewood," he called.
But though the scouts might draw together a bit, here was too good an
adventure to be missed. There was a rush for the Scoutmaster. Tim got
there first.
"The Wolves have it," Mr. Wall decided.
"Little more load for the Eagles and the Foxes," sang Tim, and pitched
his blanket and haversack into the trek wagon. Don and the others unslung
theirs. Two minutes later the Wolf patrol was running in advance of the
column with only their axes and canteens.
They plunged into the woods with a whoop. Presently they all drew
together and listened. The place was still--ghostly still. The air was
cooler, and heavier, and--and different.
"Gee!" said Bobbie. "It _is_ lonesome in here, isn't it?"
Tim shrugged his shoulders. "Come on. Let's get firewood."
The sound of the axes chased away the quiet. The firewood became a small
pile, a great pile, and then a fat, clumsy pyramid.
"Hello there, Wolves," came a faint hail.
The troop had arrived. Soon the woods rang with high-pitched shouts and
cries.
The problem now was to find a camp site. Scouts swung out in all
directions. One group tried to advance the wagon. Now the wheels would
get tangled in clumps of underbrush, and now there would be seemingly
no way to squeeze through the trees. At last it could be advanced no
further.
The Foxes had found a clearing on sloping ground. A brook ran at one end.
The ground slope insured good drainage in case of rain.
The Wolves went back to bring in their firewood, and the Eagles and the
Foxes carted tents and equipment from the trek wagon.
Tim's blood ran riot in his veins. As he carried in the last of the
kindling, the second tent arose against the background of trees.
"Say," he called eagerly, "let's help there."
The tent squad made a place for him.
He seemed tireless. By and by, with the last tent up and the last rope
guyed, he wiped the sweat from his face and grinned.
"Doesn't look like Lonesome Woods now, does it?"
Mr. Wall's watch showed four o'clock. Supper cooking would start at five.
There was an hour in which to string telegraph wires.
"The messages," Mr. Wall said, "will be received here. Do not get too
close to each other with your instruments."
Scouts hustled out to the trek wagon for batteries, wire and instruments.
Tim staked a claim for the Wolves' receiving station.
"How much wire must each patrol have out?" Andy Ford asked.
"Two hundred feet," was the answer.
Eagles and Foxes gathered and broke into clamorous discussion. How should
the wire be measured? Don gathered his patrol and took it to one side.
"Andy has a fifty-foot tape. We'll measure as we unwind. Bobbie, you stay
here and hold this end. Come on, fellows."
Into the dense growth of trees they wormed their way. It was slow work
passing the wire through the branches of trees. Tim climbed and shinned
his way from limb to limb like a monkey. Wherever the wire was laid, it
was fastened in place with rubber tape.
About one hundred and twenty-five feet were out when the Scoutmaster's
whistle sounded the recall. The scouts came back to camp. There was a
comparison of results. The Eagles had strung about seventy feet of wire,
and the Foxes less than sixty.
"We'll have ours finished before the others know what's happening,"
chuckled Andy. "And then we'll get in some practice."
"Tim and I are going to get some practice after supper," said Don.
"Sure thing," said Tim.
Fires were lighted and pots and pans appeared. Somebody yelled that cocoa
was ready. The Foxes dished it out, and Mr. Wall distributed bread
thickly covered with molasses.
"Some feast," said Tim. He took his place in the circle of Wolves. He was
one of them--at home.
There was still some daylight left after dishes had been washed and put
away, and the supper refuse burned. Tim and Don walked off a way with
their flags. Teams from the other patrols scrambled for their flags,
too, and practiced until the last light began to go.
The night-fire grew brighter in the darkness. A hush fell over the camp.
The boys formed a circle about the blaze. Where they sat there was light
and warmth, but ten feet back were the trees, and darkness, and the
melancholy whispering of the breeze through stirring branches.
There was sober discussion of the morrow's contest. No voice lifted
itself loudly. Mr. Wall told an Indian story. The scouts drew closer to
the fire, and Bobbie glanced back over his shoulder. After a time heads
began to nod.
"Time to turn in," said the Scoutmaster. "Better fill your canteens. You
may want a drink during the night."
The brook was a hundred yards away, out in the darkness--and this was
Lonesome Woods. Bobbie said he never took a drink during the night.
"Aw!" cried Tim. "Let's go down there and fill them up."
He led the way. Bobbie decided that he might need a drink after all.
Twenty minutes later they were all in the tents. Out at the dying
camp-fire the bugler sounded "taps." As the mournful notes echoed, more
than one scout, under his blanket, felt goose-flesh.
Ordinarily, in camp, the first night is one of restlessness. But Chester
troop was tired. For a while voices sounded faintly. They grew fitful and
yawny. Finally they ceased. The camp was asleep under the stars.
And then the bugle blew again. Reveille! The scouts tumbled out to a new
world. The darkness was gone. Lonesome Woods was no longer spooky. The
whole world smelled clean, and green, and damp, and sweet.
Breakfast was rushed. The Foxes were the first to get away from camp. The
Wolves were next. They finished stringing their wire, adjusted a sender,
and came back to install the receiver. As soon as everything was ready,
Wally went off to the end of the line to send to Andy Ford.
The Foxes were the next to get rigged. The Eagles rushed in almost on
their heels. Morse and semaphore teams practiced frantically. Over
everything lay a fever of preparation.
At ten o'clock Mr. Wall sent a squad to take down the tents and pack them
away in the trek wagon. Another squad brought wood and water. The camp
prepared for dinner.
It was a happy, noisy, high-strung meal.
"Clean camp for the contests," Mr. Wall ordered next.
Empty cans and refuse went flying into the fire, to be raked out later
and buried. Presently the last sign of litter was gone. The scouts waited
expectantly.
"Telegraphy first," said the Scoutmaster. He handed a sealed envelope to
each sender. "There's your message. Read it when you get to your
instrument. Off you go. A bugle blast will be the signal to start. Speed
and accuracy will count."
Wally Woods ran off with Andy yelling after him to take his time and not
get rattled. Then came a wait. Mr. Wall nodded to the bugler. The woods
echoed to a sharp blast.
Almost at once telegraph instruments began to click. Andy, with puckered
eyes, bent down and wrote slowly. The scout at the Fox receiver was
supremely confident, but the Eagle scout seemed worried and harassed.
To the watching boys it was impossible to tell who was ahead. The minutes
passed, the excitement grew. All at once the Fox scout sprang to his feet
and came running to Mr. Wall with his paper.
"Shucks!" said Tim. "He may have it all mixed up. Look at Andy."
The assistant patrol leader of the Wolves was now running toward the
Scoutmaster. Two minutes later the Eagle scout came forward reluctantly.
"It's fierce," he said in disgust. "It doesn't make sense nohow."
The message had been, "A hundred men searched the hills for the Indian."
The Fox scout had made but one error. Andy had made four, and the Eagle
scout had twisted the message into a knot.
"Well," said Tim, "that gives us three points for second place. Now, if
Alex gets here--"
The calling cry of the Wolves sounded faintly.
"That's him," said Tim, and shrieked an answer. Andy and Bobbie went out
to meet the newcomer and show him the way. Presently they led him into
camp. He had ridden to Lonesome Woods on his bicycle, and had ridden
hard. He was hot, dusty and thirsty.
After half an hour's rest on the grass he was ready. The semaphore
signaling started.
All three patrols scored perfect messages, but the Foxes finished first,
the Wolves second, and the distracted Eagles last.
"That gives the Foxes 10 points and us 6," said Bobbie. "The Eagles have
2."
Don shook his head uneasily. The Foxes had been in the lead ever since
the last contest. If they won again, they would be out so far in front
that it would be almost impossible to catch them.
It was time for the Morse. Tim put his flag under his arm and went out to
his station. Ritter went along to read the message to him, word for word,
so that there would be no loss of time. Bobbie, at the receiving end, was
to write the message as Don called him the letters.
Ritter tore open the envelope and took out the paper.
"How long?" Tim demanded.
"Eleven words." Tim reached out his hand and Ritter drew back. "Never
mind reading it. Just send what I give you. You won't get twisted
thinking about the next word, because you won't know what it is."
Tim did not argue. He could see Bobbie lying on the ground with pad and
pencil, and Don crouched on one knee above him. Gee! when would the bugle
blow?
"Don't go too fast," Ritter said huskily.
Tim scarcely heard. He and Don had made no mistakes the last time they
practiced. How would it be now on the day of the real thing?
"T-a-a-a-a, ta, ta," sounded the bugle.
"Every--" cried Ritter.
Tim sent the word. His hands gripped the flag staff with a nervous,
straining strength.
"--patriot--"
This word followed the first.
"--places--his--all--"
Tim was breathing hard.
"--at--the--service--"
His throat was dry.
"--of--his--"
Tim's arms trembled. Was there much more?
"--country," said Ritter, as though he couldn't get the word out fast
enough. "End of message."
Tim fronted his flag three times. He saw Bobbie hand the message to Don,
and Don race over to Mr. Wall.
"We're first in," cried Ritter. "Come on, Tim."
But Tim was suddenly afraid. He dropped the flag and pretended that his
shoe-laces were loose. Ritter ran ahead. Tim fussed with the laces a long
time--was still fussing, in fact, when cries of "O you Foxes! What's the
matter with the Foxes?" brought him to his feet.
This time he walked in hurriedly. Ritter met him.
"You had three mistakes, Tim," he said sadly.
"_I_ had three mistakes?" Tim cried angrily.
"Well, we had three mistakes. The Foxes were perfect again. They're
sharks on signaling. The Eagles were last."
Tim went over to Don. "Let's see that message." He read it under his
breath. "Every batriot blaces his all at the sereice of his country."
The Foxes were still skylarking when he handed back what Bobbie had
written. He looked around at the members of his own patrol. Bobbie
shifted his eyes. Wally tried to smile that it wasn't a bad showing at
all. Tim turned away slowly, went over to his equipment, and began to
roll his blanket for the homeward march. All the sunshine, and the
frolic, and the outdoor freshness was gone from the day.
He was sure that he had sent the message right. He couldn't send an e for
a v, because e was the simplest letter in the Morse alphabet--just a
single dot. And as for sending two b's where he should have sent two
p's--
"I didn't," he muttered wrathfully. "They think I did because--"
His face clouded with swift suspicion, and the blanket dropped from his
hands. He had been telling himself for two days that there had been no
hidden reason for Don taking him as a partner, but now that was all swept
aside. Don had wanted him as the goat. If any mistakes were made he would
be the one to be blamed--just as he was being blamed. Wasn't he Tim
Lally, the fellow who always spoiled things? Oh, what a woodenhead he had
been not to see it all before!