im again--_but he
could not light that fire!_

"Drop it!" he cried.

Tim guarded the match. "Want more?" he demanded.

"Drop it, or I'll fight you again."

"And I'll lick you again," said Tim. He touched the flame to the dry
leaves.

Don sprang forward and scattered the fire with a kick. Tim leaped to his
feet. He was furious. This time he'd see that he wasn't bothered again.

The scattered fire was burning fitfully in two or three clumps. There was
just light enough to see things hazily. Tim, his fist drawn back, caught
a glimpse of Don's white face. He stared, relaxed, and continued to
stare, and his hands fell to his sides.

He was not afraid--and yet the fire went out of his blood. He felt
suddenly uncomfortable, and small, and beaten. The fitful blazes dwindled
and went out. The woods were in darkness.

After a time Tim turned away. He dropped down on his poncho and sat with
his face in his hands. Gee! What wouldn't he give to have the last hour
back again.

CHAPTER X

GOOD LUCK AND BAD

There was not much sleep that night. The beds were too uncomfortable.
Tim, lying awake, had lots of time to think, and as he tossed in the
darkness, the voice of his conscience reproached him sternly. He wondered
what would happen in the morning. So great was his concern that he forgot
that his was a forest bed and that all around him were strange noises of
the night.

At the first gray light he was out of bed. Last evening the trail had
crossed running water. He went back, filled his canteen and washed. The
water was like ice. The early morning air had a biting edge. Shivering,
he rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his collar snug and wished that the
sun was up.

Don was about when he got back to camp. One of the patrol leader's lips
was puffed. Tim looked away quickly. A cup of hot coffee would have put
the early morning chill to route, but not for anything would he have
suggested a fire. He pretended to poke through his things, trying to kill
time, trying not to look at his companion, trying to figure out how they
were going to get through breakfast. That Don was sore on him for keeps
he did not doubt.

Don pulled a towel from his haversack. "How's the water?" he asked. His
voice was forced, as though he had strained himself to speak.

Tim's mouth dropped. Gee! was this--was this real? He caught Don's eyes.

"Cold," he gulped.

"Look for dry pine. Pine doesn't make much smoke."

Tim gathered wood,