Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 12

"Gee!" he said in disgust. "They'll think I'm a little Janie."

Letting a girl make him do things! It stung his pride. Friday night he had said no, and had changed his mind and had scrubbed with the others.

Tonight he had grinned when told about papers on the floor--and had ended by picking them up.

Everything had gone wrong, Tim told himself, since Don had become patrol leader. He began to blame Don for all his troubles. Don had upbraided him when the patrol had lost points. It was at Don's house that Barbara had made him pick up papers. His cheeks burned.

"I'll show them!" he vowed wrathfully. He would redeem himself in the only way he knew. He would "start something."

He started it by picking at Don all during next day's practice.

"What's the matter with you?" Ted Carter demanded sharply. "Are you sick?"

"Don's pitching like a freak," Tim answered.

"It's Sat.u.r.day's pitching that counts," said Ted. "You fellows have had enough warm-up. Go out in the field, Don, and catch fungoes."

Don was glad to get away. When the work was over Ted ran to the outfield and took him by the arm and led him toward the road.

"Have you and Tim been sc.r.a.pping?" the captain asked.

Don shook his head.

"You fellows are in the same scout troop. Do you pull?"

"N--no."

"What's the matter; did Tim want to be patrol leader?"

Don nodded.

Ted slapped his glove against his thigh and whistled thoughtfully. At the corner he paused. Don halted, too.

"Look here," Ted said suddenly. "You know that Tim is a harum-scarum, don't you?"

"Everybody knows that," said Don.

Ted broke into a relieved laugh. "Well, if you know it, what's the use of paying any attention to him? Just let him beef along until he gets tired.

He can't hurt you."

Don tried to wrest some comfort from the captain's words--and failed.

True, Tim couldn't hurt him, but he could make things mighty unpleasant, and that was almost as bad.

At home he found a post-card from Mr. Wall:

The troop will a.s.semble tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock. Light marching order.

Don forgot all about Tim. Light marching order meant that this would not be an overnight hike, and a blanket was unnecessary. Haversack, cooking kit and rations for one meal would const.i.tute the load.

Ordinarily, hikes were arranged in advance and discussed at troop meetings. But sometimes Mr. Wall did the unexpected. He had said once that it added spice to scouting, and the scouts had agreed. It gave them practice, too, in a.s.sembling at a few hours' notice. But the scouts did not think of that.

Don hustled upstairs and overhauled his haversack. His eating things were in their places. Frying-pan and two sauce-pans intact, can-opener, matches, salt--

"Got to get some salt," he said, and ran downstairs to the kitchen.

Barbara called that supper was ready. He scooted upstairs, washed, and came down to the dining-room.

"Hiking tomorrow?" Mr. Strong asked.

"Don will be too excited to eat," Barbara said with a laugh as Don nodded in reply to the question.

But she was mistaken. Don ate a supper of healthy size. Afterward he went out to the porch and squinted up at the sky. Stars dotted the black heavens like so many small windows. Now, if it didn't rain--

It didn't; not during the night, anyway. Don awoke with the morning sun in his face. In a moment he was out of bed and into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he was downstairs.

His breakfast was merely a bite and a promise. There were too many things to do and too much to think about! What should he take along to cook at noon?

"There's some lamb chops in the ice-box," said Barbara.

Two of the chops went into the haversack. Then potatoes, and six slices of bread, and some coffee wrapped in a paper, and a small can of evaporated milk. He strapped the haversack, and suddenly remembered that he had forgotten salt, after all, and unstrapped it again. Barbara stuck in two apples, and by the time the load was slung from his shoulder, whistles and calls sounded from the gate.

Andy Ford, Ritter and Bobbie Brown were waiting impatiently. Bobbie was sure that they would be late, and kept saying that everybody knew that Mr. Wall started promptly on the minute. Don winked at the others and led the way toward troop headquarters.

They were not late. Mr. Wall's watch, hanging from a screw hook in the door, told them that they still had ten minutes. Don opened the patrol locker.

"Who'll carry the ax?" he asked.

"I will," said a voice.

He turned. Tim Lally was waiting with outstretched hand.

"Oh!" said Don uncertainly. Tim took the tool and strapped its leather sheath to his belt. He seemed to have forgotten all about his grouch.

Everything was noise and bustle and confusion. The Eagles and the Foxes were grouped in front of their patrol lockers. There were cries of, "Hey, Jimmy! what did you bring to cook? What did you bring, Charlie?"

Suddenly the silver notes of a bugle arose above the clamor. a.s.sembly!

Lockers were banged shut. Scouts scurried outdoors and fell into their places.

"Column twos," came Mr. Wall's voice. "Forward! March!"

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded eager feet. Down to Main Street and then to the left. Alex Davidson waved to them from the door of the grocery store.

"I wish Alex were with us," Don said wistfully.

"I guess Alex wishes he was, too," Andy answered. "But n.o.body'll ever catch him wearing a long face just because he must work. He isn't that kind."

The troop approached the turnpike.

"Column left!" came the order.