Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 38

Tim took out a handkerchief and tied it where it could be plainly seen.

"Believe me," he said, "we're some team. What one forgets the other thinks about."

Some team! Don smiled. He had never thought to hear Tim say a thing like that. All at once the troubles that Tim had given him in the past seemed as nothing. That was what a patrol leader was for--to stand up under thoughtless knocks from wayward scouts and to bring them back.

They struck off north. Tim had decided that the Eagles could not be in this neck of the woods, else they would have run into the Foxes and somebody would have been captured. He led the way more boldly, with a swing to his shoulders. Don, watching him, smiled again, this time wistfully. What a dandy patrol leader Tim would make--now.

At the first rest, while the red-haired boy poured water over the ankle bandages, Don said:

"You've heard about the new patrol, haven't you?"

Tim shook his head.

"It came up in the last patrol leader's meeting. We've had six fellows on the waiting list for a long time. Mr. Wall's going to organize a fourth patrol and take them in. There's a big chance for you."

Tim looked up quickly. "For patrol leader?"

"Yes."

Tim knelt motionless. After a while he slung the canteen on his back and slowly shook his head. "Nothing doing. What a fine mess I'd have made if I had become patrol leader of the Wolves! I can see it now."

"Just the same," said Don, "I'm going to recommend you."

Tim stared away through the trees. Patrol leader! He had always wanted that. As for Don recommending him--Gee! wasn't that a hot one?

"If I get it," he said in a low voice, "will you stand by me if I get stuck? I'm an awful bonehead sometimes."

"Every patrol leader in the troop will be glad to help," said Don.

"I know." Tim nodded. "But I'd sooner go to you."

Their course still carried them north. By degrees, as they advanced, Tim's boldness became tinged with caution. They had gone quite some distance from their hiding place; there might be Eagles around.

The old whistling signals were resumed. Tim would slip off through the trees and whistle after a while, and Don would go forward and join him.

There seemed to be no end to the trees. Were they never going to get out?

The third time Don went forward, Tim was frowning and biting his lips.

"I thought I heard something again," he said nervously. "It can't be that the Foxes swung down and around and headed us off. Wait here; I'll sneak closer."

When the whistle sounded, several minutes later, Don limped forward eagerly.

"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 s.h.i.+vering.

"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 b.u.m foot."

A light of satisfaction leaped into Mr. Wall's eyes. There was little that went on in Chester troop of which he was in ignorance. He had known what that trip into the woods meant, and he had wondered many times that morning what would come of it. From the look of Don's lip and from a lumpy look above one of Tim's eyes, he would say there had been a fight.

He proposed, though, to ask no questions. Whatever had happened, the atmosphere was clear. The Tim who had come out was a vastly different boy from the Tim who had gone in, and that was all that mattered.

He slipped off Don's shoe and examined the foot. "Nothing much," he said.

"A couple of days' rest and you'll be as good as new." As he stood up his hand rested in the old familiar way on Tim's shoulder.

"I told you it would happen some day, Tim."

Tim looked up timidly. "What, sir?"