"Yah!" shouted Tim. "Swim for your life." He swished his broom through
the water and swished too hard, and the dirty water flew far and high and
spattered the walls.

"Now look what we've got to clean," cried Andy.

"Gee!" said Tim. "I didn't know it was going to do that. What did you
want to leave the pail there for?"

"What did you go cat-acting for?" Don demanded.

He was exasperated. He felt like telling Tim to go out and let them
finish the job themselves. But--There was the rub. What would happen
then? Suppose Tim got hot-headed and wouldn't go? Or suppose he went,
glad to be relieved of his share of the job? Or suppose he walked out
sullen and grumbling, and stayed away from the meeting or came late or
came untidy--and the Wolves lost points?

Don was bewildered. He wanted to do what was best--for Tim, for himself,
for the patrol--but what was best? Was it best to let Tim run on in the
hope that he'd be shamed into a better spirit by the other scouts? Phil
Morris would have said, very quietly, "Hey, there, Tim!" and that would
have been the end of it.

Don sighed. "I wish I was as big as Phil," he muttered.

For a time it seemed as though Tim had been sobered by the accident to
the water pail. He worked with Andy trying to clean the walls. It seemed,
though, that there were a thousand spatters.