Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 14

The scouts spoke in subdued voices. Danger Mountain! They all knew how it had come by its name. A man had tried to climb one of its high, rocky walls and had fallen to his death.

And Lonesome Woods. There was another name to make scouts edge closer to one another. Three miles wide it was, and about seven miles long, and dark and dense with thick growth. The gipsy caravans kept away from it.

Pa.s.sing tramps gave it a wide berth. From time to time boys dipped into its edges, but soon came out. Lonesome Woods, indeed!

"We'll have to explore that some day," said Mr. Wall.

"The mountain?" Tim asked eagerly.

"The woods," the Scoutmaster answered.

A shout broke from the troop. With Mr. Wall along there would be nothing to fear. When would they go? Next week?

"We'll take it up at Friday night's meeting," the Scoutmaster promised.

"Why can't we do the mountain?" Tim demanded.

"Because Danger Mountain is a bad spot. Broken bones are a heavy price to pay for foolish daring."

Tim stared off at the mountain. "It doesn't seem so hard," he said, and his eyes lighted with eagerness. Mr. Wall's face became grave.

The hike home was all downhill. The scouts swung along gayly. The prospect of penetrating Lonesome Woods shortened the miles. What would they find? What strange adventures would befall them?

"Adventure? Piffle!" said Tim. "Give me Danger Mountain."

"Sss.h.!.+" warned Ritter. "Mr. Wall will hear you."

"Gee! Can't I even say what I'd like?" Off in the distance a dog barked.

Tim barked in reply. The dog answered. It became a duel of sound.

Tim was in his glory. Weird, nerve-racking screeches came from his throat. Presently the uproar became unbearable.

Mr. Wall's whistle shrilled. The noise stopped.

"What's the matter back there?" Mr. Wall demanded. "Can't the patrol leader keep order?"

"Cut it out, Tim," said Don.

"Go on!" Tim answered sullenly. "Say it louder so Mr. Wall will hear you." He slouched through what was left of the hike and did not speak a word to anyone.

"He surely can make things pleasant," said Andy. "Some day he'll go too far and Mr. Wall will bundle him out of the troop, and it will be good riddance."

Don said nothing. He wanted to be relieved of the burden of Tim's trouble-making, but not by expulsion. That, he thought, was no way for a fellow to end as a scout. If Tim would only be a little bit more like the other fellows in the patrol!

But the chances of Tim doing that seemed remote. He had his good moments--times when it seemed that he had struck the right road and was on his way to better things. Always, though, something happened to turn him aside.

Next day there was baseball practice. Don came to the field eager for a warm-up. He nodded hopefully to Tim, and took his place, and noticed that Ted Carter was loitering near by.

"Come on," cried Tim. "Let's see if you can do a little better pitching today."

Don bit his lips. Evidently, Tim was in one of his sour, irritating moods. He served the ball and resolved to pay no attention to the catcher. By and by he threw his first curve.

"They'd kill that," said Tim.

Don pitched again.

"Oh, come on! _Come on!_"

Ted Carter walked out between the boys, "That will be all from you, Tim.

When you come out on this field, you come out to play ball. If you can't play ball, you quit."

Slowly Tim pulled off his mitt. He was the only regular catcher. Ted was trying to bluff him. And his temper was flaring because he had been rebuked in front of Don.

"Think you can get anybody to play any better for you than I play?" he asked flippantly.

"You bet I can," said Ted. "I can use a fellow who'll be in the game every minute."

"Get him," Tim said indifferently.

"I will," said Ted. "You're through. Get off the field."

Tim was jarred. He hadn't expected anything like this. He looked at Ted.

There could be no escaping what he saw--the captain meant it.

"Where--where are you going to get another catcher?" he asked weakly.

"Is it worrying you?" Ted asked. "I'll go behind the bat myself. I guess I can get somebody to play first base. Now get off the field; you're in the way."

Tim walked over to the maple tree and stood there in its shade. He was raging. Chased from the field! Routed out as though he didn't amount to a rap, and he the best catcher in the village!

"I'll play with some of the other teams," he vowed. "I'll offer to catch for them. I'll come here and make these fellows feel sick. I'll--"

But he knew that he'd do nothing of the sort. Breaking into teams out of your own town was almost impossible. He was out of it, on the shelf, discarded.

"I ought to go out there," he muttered fiercely, "and whack Don one in the eye." He saw the pitcher begin to throw to Ted. The sight was too much for him. He swung around and plunged down the road, the big mitt under his arm, and did not once look back.

Had he stayed, he would have seen that Ted Carter called the pitching to a halt in a very few minutes. The captain was no fool. The first six b.a.l.l.s Don threw him proved to him that the pitcher was upset.

"Don't let this bother you," he said. "Tim had it coming to him. It wasn't your fault. Go home and forget it, and tomorrow you and I'll work out and get acquainted."

Don went home, but he did not forget. He was sure that this latest twist would only pile up trouble for him as patrol leader.

Next morning the news was all over the village. Don heard it when he went on an errand for his father. Afterward he worked on his bird-houses and tried to brush aside the worried thoughts that plagued him. Andy Ford came to the yard, and was followed by Bobbie Brown and Wally Woods. The three boys looked at Don, and looked at each other, and looked away.

"Was Tim chased?" Andy asked at last.

Don laid down his plane. "Fellows," he said seriously, "if you hear any talk about Tim just--just keep your mouths shut. Talk always makes things worse and--and we're after the Scoutmaster's Cup."

The three boys nodded that they understood. There wasn't much to say after that. One by one they went their way and left Don alone.