Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 8

"Going to get needles and thread and things?" Andy whispered.

Don nodded. Oh, yes; he'd get them. What was the use of letting the other patrols prepare for the unexpected and doing nothing yourself?

The Scoutmaster's whistle called the patrols to attention. Don gave a quick glance as his patrol took its station. His heart sank. Bobbie Brown was not in place.

Mr. Wall walked down the line of scouts. He was halfway through inspection when Bobbie burst into the room. He checked himself when he saw what was going on, came to salute, and quietly tiptoed to his place. But his face was flushed from running, and his hair was awry.

Don hoped Bobbie might be able to make himself presentable before Mr.

Wall got that far. Then common sense told him that that was impossible.

The troop was at attention. Bobbie could not lift a hand even to touch his hair. He had to stand there stiffly as he was.

The inspection came to an end, Mr. Wall faced the waiting lines. Don held his breath. _Would_ the Wolf patrol--

"Fox patrol," Mr. Wall announced, "a perfect score. Eagle patrol, all present, all clean, but one scout talking in ranks, one-half point off.

Wolf patrol, one scout untidy, one scout late, one and one-half points off."

A moment later the lines were broken. Tim turned to the unhappy Bobbie.

"See what a fine fix you got us in!" he demanded angrily.

"I couldn't help it," Bobbie explained. "My mother didn't know she was out of sugar, and the man in the store had to open a new barrel, and he couldn't find his hatchet, and I had to wait."

"You should have gone for the sugar this afternoon," Tim insisted. "The rest of us take the trouble to come here right and then you spoil things."

"I couldn't help it," Bobbie said miserably. "I--"

"It's all right, Bobbie," said Don. "Don't let it happen again." He was disappointed, but what was the use of jumping on a scout who was trying to do right?

"What's the use of me slicking up," Tim scowled, "if other fellows are going to do as they please?"

The scout scribe walked toward the slate. Instantly Bobbie and his lapse were forgotten. Every eye in the room watched while the scribe rubbed out and wrote. Soon he stepped away from the slate. There was the new standing:

PATROL POINTS Eagle 28-1/2 Fox 30 Wolf 30-1/2

The Wolves were still in the lead, but Don did not feel the least like cheering. For the next hour, while the troop worked at signaling, and map-reading, and advanced knot-tying, he did his part and forgot to be despondent. He even brightened when the logs were brought in and the theory of bridge building was applied. But when the bridge was done--this time it held--he lost interest.

"The Wolf patrol--" he heard Mr. Wall say.

He roused himself and listened.

"The Wolf patrol has the a.s.signment of having headquarters clean for the next meeting," the Scoutmaster announced.

The session was over. Don told his patrol not to forget Monday's practice and walked out alone. He had gone but a short distance when running footsteps sounded in his rear.

"Don!" It was Bobbie. "I'm sorry--"

The patrol leader forced a smile. "You only lost us a point and a half, Bobbie. Maybe you'll get that back in the first aid contest."

Bobbie's mouth tightened. "It won't be because I'm not trying," he said; and Don went home telling himself that he knew one scout the Wolf patrol could count on through thick and thin.

Next morning he tried to build bird-houses, but for once he could find no pleasure in the work. His thoughts were turned on the afternoon. The Glenrock team had a reputation as. .h.i.tters, and he wondered, in spite of what Ted had said, whether he would be able to hold his own.

When Ted had asked him to pitch for the Chester town team, he had protested that he was only a high school player. Ted, however, had told him earnestly that many town team pitchers were no better. Besides, wouldn't it be fine experience to pitch against stronger batters? Weeks ago that argument had won, but now Don made a wry face.

"Fine lot of experience it will be if they knock me out of the box," he said.

The game had been well advertised. The Chester _Chronicle_ had carried a story, and notices had been chalked on the bulletin board at the railroad station. Don was sure that there would be quite a crowd.

Nor was he mistaken. Early as it was when he came to the field, spectators were already gathering. Ted, a seasoned veteran, was calm and undisturbed, but there was a noticeable tension among most of the other players. Don sat on the rough bench and waited for the signal to warm up.

Presently the Glenrock players arrived. He looked at them closely and his nerves jumped. Gosh! didn't they look big! And what big black bats!

"All right, Don," said Ted. "Warm up. Take it easy. These fellows can strike out and pop up flies just as easily as anybody else."

Don tried to smile as he took his place. By this time a solid wall of spectators ran along the base-lines and down toward the foul flags. There was another gathering under the maple tree; and out in deep center a third group lounged on the gra.s.s and waited for the call of "Play ball!"

Don began to throw. His first few pitches went wide, and Tim glanced at him sharply. The catcher was almost as cool as Ted, and to show his calmness, he began to toss the ball into the air as he caught it and then catch it again in his bare hand as it came down.

As soon as his arm felt right, Don tried out his curves. His drop, his best ball, worked nicely, but his in-curve and his out-curve were only fair. He kept trying them, and became worried, and went back to his drop and found that he had lost his control of this curve, too. What was the matter? Was he getting stage fright?

"That's enough," called Ted.

He walked toward the bench. Tim hurried to his side.

"Scared?" the catcher asked.

Don nodded.

"Gee!" said Tim. "I thought you had more nerve than that. Just go out there and stick it over. You don't see me getting rattled."

"You don't have to serve the ball," said Don.

"No," said Tim; "but I'm the fellow who has to decide what b.a.l.l.s they get. I guess that's some responsibility. You pitch the way I tell you to and we'll be all right."

Glenrock was still practicing in the field. Don sat on the bench and watched. They handled the ball well, but not any better than Chester. If their hitting had been overrated--

"They're through," said Ted. "Come on, Don. Don't get excited now. Watch Tim's signals and give him what he signals for. We're in back of you."

"That's what I've been telling him," said Tim.

A minute later Don faced the first batter. Tim squatted, rose up on his toes, stuck his mitt between his legs, laid a finger on the mitt, and then spread his hands wide.

"Come on, Don," he called. "Easy-picking here; easy picking. Put it right over."

Tim had signaled for the drop. Don swallowed a lump in his throat. Would the ball break true? Would this broad-shouldered young man who stood so confidently at the plate hammer it a mile?

"Come on, now," cried Tim.

Don pitched. The batter swung and missed.