hold their tongues? His eyes sought Tim; one look told him
enough. Tim had heard.

Here was another mess, and right on the eve of the big overnight hike.
Don made up his mind that he'd square things with Tim tomorrow when they
reported at the field for the regular Saturday game. A mix-up like this
couldn't be neglected.

But there was a heavy fall of rain that night, and more rain the next
morning. By noon the village field was flooded. Ted Carter sent word that
the game had been called off.

At two o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. From the porch Don had
watched the weather restlessly. The moment the sun appeared he hurried
off toward the field. There was just a possibility that Tim might come
around. He had to speak to him.

Tim came at last, but without his catcher's mitt. He stood around with
his hands in his pockets and had very little to say. His mouth was a
trifle tight, and his eyes rather hard.

"When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?" Don asked.

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

"Monday or Tuesday?"

But Tim was still indifferent. Don came nearer.

"If you're sore about what Ritter said--"

"Me sore? Why should I get sore? I'm used to it."

"Now, Tim--"

Tim walked away. He told himself that he was through. Not through with
the scouts, but through with going down to Don's yard as though he were a
poodle dog being taught new tricks.

He would not stop practicing. Nobody was going to get a chance to say
that _he_ was to blame if anything happened this time. All next morning
he wig-wagged in his yard. After dinner he went at it again. The work
was cruelly monotonous.

"There," he said grimly, when at last he quit; "I bet Don didn't practice
that much today."

All at once a voice whispered to him, "How could Don practice? He
receives. He must have somebody to send to him."

"Aw!" Tim growled, "let him go get somebody to send to him."

Somehow, that didn't seem to answer. Next afternoon, when he began his
self-imposed task of signaling, the flag seemed like lead in his hands.
He sat on the chopping block outside the kitchen door and stared ahead. A
long time later he sighed and walked around to the front gate.

"I'm a boob for doing it," he said, and stopped short. In a minute he
went on again, slowly, doubtfully--but on.

All the way to Don's house the old questions pricked him sharply. Why
_had_ he been shifted? Just to be watched? What would Don say to him now?

Don, wo