This time he walked in hurriedly.  Ritter met him.

“You had three mistakes, Tim,” he said sadly.

“I had three mistakes?” Tim cried angrily.

“Well, we had three mistakes.  The Foxes were perfect again.  They’re sharks on signaling.  The Eagles were last.”

Tim went over to Don.  “Let’s see that message.”  He read it under his breath.  “Every batriot blaces his all at the sereice of his country.”

The Foxes were still skylarking when he handed back what Bobbie had written.  He looked around at the members of his own patrol.  Bobbie shifted his eyes.  Wally tried to smile that it wasn’t a bad showing at all.  Tim turned away slowly, went over to his equipment, and began to roll his blanket for the homeward march.  All the sunshine, and the frolic, and the outdoor freshness was gone from the day.

He was sure that he had sent the message right.  He couldn’t send an e for a v, because e was the simplest letter in the Morse alphabet—­just a single dot.  And as for sending two b’s where he should have sent two p’s—­

“I didn’t,” he muttered wrathfully.  “They think I did because—­”

His face clouded with swift suspicion, and the blanket dropped from his hands.  He had been telling himself for two days that there had been no hidden reason for Don taking him as a partner, but now that was all swept aside.  Don had wanted him as the goat.  If any mistakes were made he would be the one to be blamed—­just as he was being blamed.  Wasn’t he Tim Lally, the fellow who always spoiled things?  Oh, what a woodenhead he had been not to see it all before!

CHAPTER VIII

DON’S CHOICE

The jubilant Foxes found enough flour to make a paste, and enough paper to stick on a blanket and make a sign.  The sign read: 

Eagles 122-1/2
Foxes 132
Wolves 127-1/2

They carried it, spread out like a banner, all the way home.

The hike back to Chester was a bit one-sided.  The Foxes enjoyed themselves hugely, but every other scout was sober with his own thoughts.  The Eagles were convinced that they were out of the race.  Don and Andy Ford were trying to take some comfort from the fact that they had four weeks yet in which to overtake the Foxes.  Nobody noticed that Tim, a bubbling source of energy yesterday, was now sour and glum.

It was not until next day that Don noticed any change.  In the regular weekly game on the village field Tim backed him up faultlessly; but on the bench the catcher edged away and sat at the end with the score-keeper.

“Good night!” Don murmured.  “What is it this time?” He was becoming used to Tim’s blowing hot one minute and cold the next.  He didn’t worry so much over Tim’s moods.  By tomorrow, he reflected, this rather uncertain scout would probably be running around again like a loose cyclone.