ul flags. There
was another gathering under the maple tree; and out in deep center a
third group lounged on the grass 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 balls 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.

"Easy picking," chanted Tim. "He couldn't hit it with a fence post. Come
on, now."

The second signal was for an in. Don pitched. The batter tightened his
muscles to swing, changed his mind, and allowed his arms to grow limp.
And the ball that looked as though it would be outside the plate,
suddenly broke inward and crossed the co