honor of getting a prize—he didn't mean that. But the honor of being the best scouts in the troop, the honor of achievement, the honor of something well done.

He heard a noise at the door. It was Andy Ford.

"Any trouble with Tim?" Andy asked at once.

Don shook his head.

"Did you tell him? What did he say?"

"Nothing."

Andy puckered his eyes. "What's the matter with Tim, anyway? Is he going to grouch just because he wasn't elected patrol leader? He has the makings of a good scout."

There was the sound of a step outside.

"Sssh!" Don said softly.

Tim put his head in through the doorway. "Are we the only fellows here?" he demanded. "I want to get to the field and do some ball playing."

Don said that Ritter and Bobbie would be along any minute. Tim came in and sauntered around the room. He banged his mitt against the scout staves in the racks and seemed to find pleasure in the noise. Finally he brought up in front of the slate.

"Think we can stick in the lead?" Andy asked.

"Cinch!" said Tim. "What other patrol has anything on us?"

"It means work," said Don. "If we practice once or twice every week—"

"Once or twice?" Tim cried. "Gee! Have a heart. Isn't that rubbing it in?"

"We've got to be perfect," Andy said quickly, "and we're depending on you for the big stuff."

"What big stuff?" Tim asked.

"Stretcher work, fireman's lift, artificial respiration. The hard stuff,
Tim."

"Oh well—" The praise seemed to have soothed Tim's feelings. "Maybe I could find time."

Andy winked. Don walked to the door. Was that the way to handle this hot-tempered scout—humor him a bit, praise him a little, give him the important assignments?

"Here come Bobbie and Ritter," said Andy.

The two scouts arrived, somewhat breathless from running, and the work started. Don took splints and bandages from the troop's medicine chest. Tim and Andy fashioned a stretcher from staves and coats.

"Try it again," said Tim. "Too slow."

"Let Bobbie button as soon as the first coat goes on," said Andy.

"Let Bobbie keep out of the way," said Tim.

Don looked up quickly. However, the work seemed to be going on satisfactorily. He brought his attention back to the splint he was adjusting.

After that, from time to time, he walked over to see how Tim and Andy and Bobbie were making out. Twice he thought that Andy frowned at him and gave a cautious movement with his head.

"Ouch!" Bobbie cried toward the finish. "You're hurting, Tim."

"You can't help hurting a fellow a little on artificial respiration," Tim answered gruffly.

Don frowned. Had Andy been signaling to him? Had something been going on over there?

When the work ended the staves and the splints and the bandages were put away. Tim mopped his face and breathed heavily. Bobbie Brown edged over toward the farthest window.

"How about another session Friday?" Don asked.

"Can't," said Tim. "Saturday we play our first game. Ted Carter wants everybody out for practice Friday afternoon. He told me to tell you."

"Well—" For the moment Don wasn't interested in baseball. "How about
Monday?"

Monday, it appeared, would be all right. Tim put on his coat and walked toward the door.

"You're forgetting your mitt," Don called.

"I'm not going to the field," said Tim.

There was something peculiar in the way he said it. Don looked inquiringly at Andy. The assistant patrol leader nodded toward the window.

"Anything wrong, Bobbie?" Don asked.

Bobbie gave a start, and smiled and shook his head. "Guess I'll go along," he said; but he made no move to leave the place.

Something was wrong. Andy sauntered down to the door, peered at the woodwork as though examining it, scratched with his finger-nail, and then began to tap with his knuckle.

Don wrinkled his forehead. Why did Andy tap like that—two taps, pause, another tap—over and over again? Suddenly he understood. Andy was sending him a message in Morse, and the first letter was C. He looked up, caught Andy's eye, and nodded. The tapping went on.

".."

"O," whispered Don.

"- -"

"M."

"."

"E. Come."

A pause, longer than the other. The tapping began again.

".. ..— … .. -.. ."

"Come outside," Don muttered. He strolled toward the door.

The moment he passed out of troop headquarters, Andy caught his arm.

"Did you see Tim roughing Bobbie all afternoon?"

"Hurting him?" Don asked quickly.

"Not really hurting him, but pulling his hair, and twisting his ears, and things like that. Bobbie's frightened. It's going to spoil all our first aid."

Don's mouth twitched. He had congratulated himself that the work had gone so well. And all the while trouble had been lurking at his elbow. He walked back into troop headquarters with his head bent. If one scout was going to nag another there would be no harmony, no pulling together, no striving toward a common goal. It would be good-by to the Wolf patrol so far as the Scoutmaster's Cup was concerned.

He paused in front of the slate. What should he do? If he went to Tim and told him plump and plain to cut it out, there might be a ruction. If he allowed the nagging to go on, there would be tension and unrest within the patrol. No matter which way he turned, disorder and adversity loomed.

He walked to the window where Bobbie stood. Suddenly he stiffened.

"Isn't that Tim down the road—that fellow leaning against the fence?"

Bobbie nodded nervously.

Don drew a deep breath. He knew what was happening. Tim was waiting to continue his plaguing.

"I—I guess I'll go," said Bobbie again.

"Wait," said Don. "I'm going down that way."

There was no help for it. He had no choice. He couldn't let Bobbie go out and get his hair pulled and his ears twisted. He'd have to see him past the danger.

There was vast relief on Bobbie's face as they came out of troop headquarters. But Don's face was grave.

It took but a minute to walk down the road to the fence. Bobbie's steps unconsciously became slower. He edged out toward the curb. Tim saw him and instantly became alert.

"Here, now," he called; "don't try to dodge past. Come over here and—"

"Hello, Tim," said Don.

Tim stopped short. His eyes darkened suspiciously, as though he suspected that Don was acting as guardian. For a moment he seemed to be debating what he should do; and while he paused, Bobbie edged past.

"Don't forget Monday," said Don. He wanted to shift the other boy's thoughts.

"I may be busy Monday," Tim answered scowlingly. He took a step after
Bobbie, but found the patrol leader in his way and stopped short.

Don continued on down the road. He knew that Tim was aware why he had walked with Bobbie, and he knew that Tim resented it. After all, what had he gained? He couldn't be with Bobbie always. If Tim wanted to plague, he could