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 te