"When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?" Don asked.
Tim shrugged his shoulders.
"Monday or Tuesday?"
But Tim was still indifferent. Don came nearer.
"If you're sore about what Ritter said--"
"Me sore? Why should I get sore? I'm used to it."
"Now, Tim--"
Tim walked away. He told himself that he was through. Not through with
the scouts, but through with going down to Don's yard as though he were a
poodle dog being taught new tricks.
He would not stop practicing. Nobody was going to get a chance to say
that _he_ was to blame if anything happened this time. All next morning
he wig-wagged in his yard. After dinner he went at it again. The work
was cruelly monotonous.
"There," he said grimly, when at last he quit; "I bet Don didn't practice
that much today."
All at once a voice whispered to him, "How could Don practice? He
receives. He must have somebody to send to him."
"Aw!" Tim growled, "let him go get somebody to send to him."
Somehow, that didn't seem to answer. Next afternoon, when he began his
self-imposed task of signaling, the flag seemed like lead in his hands.
He sat on the chopping block outside the kitchen door and stared ahead. A
long time later he sighed and walked around to the front gate.
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