Don Strong, Patrol Leader | Page 7

him point blank what he intended to do. Twice he paused and turned
away. Perhaps it might be bad to let Tim see that he was worried.
Wednesday he was the first scout to reach troop headquarters. Inside,
on the wall, was the slate:
PATROL POINTS
Eagle 13 Fox 14 Wolf 16
Don stared at the sign a long time. What an honor it would be to win!
Not the mere 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