n balls he would prolong the struggle.
Though it was torture for him to go slow, he fought his desire to hurry.
But it was impossible to lose himself in the game. The edges of his skill
were blunted. Little Falls began to hit freely again.

Two runs came over the plate before the third player was out. The score
was now 5 to 2.

"Arm tired?" asked Ted.

Don shook his head. Why wouldn't the batters hurry? When the third
Chester boy was thrown out he sprang to his feet and strode to the mound.

Desperately he worked, trying to retire Little Falls' batters in order.
But Little Falls, in that last inning, had tasted blood. Now she would
not be denied. Three runs were scored. The game was a tie.

Ted came to the bench with puckered eyes. Here was something he couldn't
understand. It was a common thing to see pitchers gradually weaken, but
Don had lost his effectiveness all in a moment. He dropped down on the
bench and motioned for Don to sit beside him.

"What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Nothing," said Don. What was the use of worrying Ted, he thought.

He had not deceived the captain in the least. Ted leaned back and sighed.
He knew that here was a ball game that was lost.

The ninth inning was a slaughter. Little Falls scored four times. Each
hit, each run, made the game last that much longer. Don labored grimly to
reach the end.

Ted asked him no questions when he came in from the mound. In fact, the
captain only half-heartedly urged his players to make a rally. The
leaderless, dispirited team fell easy victims to the rival pitcher's
curves.

The moment the last player was out, Don hurried to where Bobbie waited
with the wheel. He threw one leg over the frame. His foot found the
toe-clip.

"Got your scout whistle?" he asked.

Bobbie handed it over. Don thrust it in his pocket and was off.

Shading his eyes, Bobbie watched wheel and rider fly down the road. A
hand touched his shoulder.

"What's Don rushing off for?" Ted asked.

Bobbie told about Tim's journey to Danger Mountain. Ted's eyes snapped.

"Think Don'll catch him?" he asked.

"Sure he will."

"I hope," said the captain, "I hope he gives him a beating to remember."

But Don, as he pedaled down the road, was not thinking of fight. Into the
Turnpike he raced at an angle of forty-five degrees. The dry dust sifted
up from under the spinning tires. It powdered his legs, and burned his
eyes, and parched his throat.

Half an hour later he came to w