heart to be like
other scouts. He was tired of being picked on, and blamed for everything,
and spoken of with a doubtful shake of the head. Once he had not minded
these things. Now he hungered wistfully for his share of what scouting
had to offer: fun, and whole-hearted work, and--and respect.

The noise became subdued. The scouts began to leave. One group, talking
excitedly, passed him and he drew back behind the tree.

Then a man stepped out through the doorway and came his way. Tim drew a
quick breath and walked out into the roadway.

"Hello, Mr. Wall."

"Hello, Tim. Coming my way?"

"Yes, sir."

They fell into step.

"It was my fault the Wolves lost tonight," the boy said huskily.

"Anybody can make that mistake--once," Mr. Wall told him.

"It was my fault," Tim said stubbornly. What he wanted to say next didn't
come so easily. "How--" He hesitated. "How does a fellow get to be a
better scout?"

Mr. Wall's hand fell on his shoulder. "Tim, it's all in the way a fellow
handles the laws and the oath. If he lives up to them, he's all right.
He's a real scout."

"But if I had somebody to go to when I got stuck--"

"Go to your patrol leader, Tim. He's the one to help you."

That night, long after going to bed, Tim lay awake. Well, if speaking to
Don was the right way, he'd do it.

But it wasn't easy. When he reached Don's yard next morning, he sat on
the grass and tried to scare up courage to say what was in his mind.

"Signaling contest next month," Don told him, "Were you there when Mr.
Wall made the announcement?"

Tim shook his head.

"Three kinds," Don explained; "telegraph, semaphore, and Morse. Which can
you do best, Tim?"

"I don't know."

"Andy and Wally are down for telegraphy. How about you and Alex Davidson
taking Morse?"

Morse was harder than semaphore. Tim didn't want to fail again. Neither
did he want to dodge something just because it was hard.

"Alex works," he said hesitatingly. "If I had somebody to practice with
in the daytime--"

Don's heart leaped. Could this be rough-and-tumble Tim?

"I'll practice with you now," he cried. "Wait until I get flags."

A minute later he was out of the house. Tim went down near the gate. They
began to wig-wag.

At first the work was rusty. By degrees, though, as they corrected each
other's mistakes, smoothness came and a measure of speed.

Tim's eyes danced. Gee! but wasn't this fun? He wig-wagged, "Don't give
up the ship," and was de