he other--liking, admiring him still, almost in spite
of himself, Tompkins rather hoped it was the latter case. In either
event, however, he was obliged to content himself with the cold comfort
that with Ranleigh Phelps pitching his best Troop Five was practically
certain to win.

The inter-troop baseball series had been arranged so that the two
strongest teams were matched together on the concluding day. Both had won
every game they had played so far, and the result this Saturday afternoon
would decide the championship.

Naturally there was a big crowd of spectators. Practically every boy in
town was present, ready to root for his favorite team, and the grand
stand was well filled with older enthusiasts.

When Troop Five won the toss and spread out on the field, Dale Tompkins,
with a faint sigh, dropped down on the bench he had ornamented for most
of the season. Watching Ranny Phelps walking out to the mound, a wave of
envy, pure and simple, swept over him. He wanted to pitch--desperately.
At that moment he would have welcomed almost any contingency--even the
unthinkable "blowing up" that Court had predicted--that would give him
his chance. He had done practically nothing all the season, and it
seemed unfair that the last game should come without giving him a single
opportunity of showing his mettle.

"What's the use of trying at all if you never get a show?" he thought
disconsolately.

But the mood did not last long. Dale was too keen a baseball fan not to
become swiftly absorbed in the game which meant so much to himself and
his brother scouts. There could be no question of Ranny's fine form. For
the first five innings not a hit was scored against him. To be sure,
several players made first on various errors, but none got beyond third,
and in the meantime Troop Five had scored two runs.

"He's certainly some pitcher!" Tompkins remarked rather wistfully to Paul
Trexler, who had taken a seat beside him. "Looks as if we had the game
cinched."

"I hope so. If only he don't--er--blow up--"

"Blow up!" interrupted Tompkins, sharply. "Does he act like it? You've
been listening to Court Parker's rubbish, Paul. I never saw any fellow
pitch a steadier game."

But though he had been swift to deny the possibility, Trexler's remark
lingered in Dale's mind, and almost unconsciously he began to watch for
signs which might confirm it. The fellows that composed the rival team
were rather older than the average scout and of