time he had seen the
patrol as a group since Friday night. At first he looked hot and
uncomfortable. After a while he began to scrape his feet and drum on the
table. He seemed anxious to have it understood that, regardless of what
had happened, no one need think that he was going to be bossed.

"Oh, keep your feet still!" Alex Davidson said at last.

Tim rolled a page of his pad into a ball and shot it across the table.
The missile struck Ritter on the nose. Tim giggled, and made another
ball, and shot this one at Andy Ford.

"Cut it out!" Andy said good-naturedly. "You'll get papers all over the
floor."

Tim grinned, and rolled another cartridge. Don caught his bold, sidelong
glance--a glance that seemed to say, "Well, what are you going to do
about it?"

Others around the table caught that look, too. Don's face grew hot. In an
effort to keep the scouts from paying attention to Tim, he talked rapidly
about the first aid contest, now two weeks off. The Eagles and the Foxes,
he said, were working hard, and the Wolves would have to give more time
to practice.

"We're behind," Don finished, "and we must catch up."

Somehow, what he said sounded strained, and forced, and lame. Every scout
felt it--even Tim. Andy Ford's eyes snapped. He didn't look good-humored
now.

"We're not getting any better on our stretcher work," he said bluntly.
"We need practice there."

Tim stopped rolling his pad page. "That's a crack at me, isn't it?" he
demanded.

"I'm in the stretcher work, too," said Andy.

"Aw, you're too clever," Tim flared. "I know what you mean." He shot the
ball, and it whizzed past the assistant patrol leader's ear.

The meeting was spoiled. Tim glanced defiantly around the table. Alex
Davidson tried to get the talk going again, but discussion seemed to lag.
And then, just when Don, in his disgust, was ready to adjourn, the door
opened and Barbara came into the room.

She had glasses and cake, and a pitcher of lemonade. Soon a filled glass
was in front of each scout.

"How is that for a good turn?" she smiled. "Why so many sober faces?
What's the matter with you, Tim?"

Tim flushed, and looked down at the floor.

"He won't tell me," Barbara cried gayly. "That's what I get for being a
girl--can't learn any boy scout secrets. Have a piece of cake, Tim."

"Thank you," said Tim bashfully.

The plate was passed around the table. Tim's eyes were still downcast. At
the door Barbara paused.

"Don't leav