Monday, it appeared, would be all right. Tim put on his coat and walked
toward the door.

"You're forgetting your mitt," Don called.

"I'm not going to the field," said Tim.

There was something peculiar in the way he said it. Don looked
inquiringly at Andy. The assistant patrol leader nodded toward
the window.

"Anything wrong, Bobbie?" Don asked.

Bobbie gave a start, and smiled and shook his head. "Guess I'll go
along," he said; but he made no move to leave the place.

Something was wrong. Andy sauntered down to the door, peered at the
woodwork as though examining it, scratched with his finger-nail, and then
began to tap with his knuckle.

Don wrinkled his forehead. Why did Andy tap like that--two taps, pause,
another tap--over and over again? Suddenly he understood. Andy was
sending him a message in Morse, and the first letter was C. He looked
up, caught Andy's eye, and nodded. The tapping went on.

".."

"O," whispered Don.

"- -"