Part 17 (1/2)

It was just possible that Tim had changed his mind--

”I don't care whether he did or not,” the pitcher muttered hotly. He drew on a sweater and took a seat on the bench, and stared out toward center field.

By and by it was time to start the game. Ted cried, ”Come on, now; everybody get into this.” Don dropped his sweater on the bench and walked out toward the mound.

The Little Falls coachers began a sharp rattle of talk. Don glared at them coldly. Up went his arm--and down.

”Strike one!”

Don pitched again. The batter hit a twisting, difficult fly, but Marty Smith ran back and caught it deftly.

”Yah!” cried Ted. ”That's getting them.”

It was clever fielding. Don seemed to catch the contagion of its worth.

Why, with support like that a pitcher ought to do wonders. He pitched again.

”Strike!” ruled the umpire.

”Wow!” Ted said softly. ”He surely has stuff on the ball today.”

Two more pitches, and the batter was out on strikes. The next player fouled to Ted. Little Falls' first turn at bat had been a sorry failure.

Cheers came from the spectators as Don walked to the bench. Somebody yelled, ”Take off your hat, kid.” He flushed, and doffed his cap, and sat down with crimson face.

”Come on,” cried Ted. ”Give Don a run and this game will be sewed up.”

But it wasn't until the third inning that Chester tallied. Then she scored three runs in a rush. Ted led off with a three-bagger. After that came a single, an out, a base on b.a.l.l.s, another out, and a long two-bagger. Marty Smith, with the crowd imploring him to keep up the good work, struck out on three pitched b.a.l.l.s, and not one of them was worth offering at.

”Too bad,” said Ted. ”If that fellow could only hit he'd be a star.”

Meanwhile, Little Falls had not yet scored. Nor did she tally in the fourth. Don, today, was master of the situation.

He came to the bench. Up to this point, the touch and go of battle had held him at a tension. Now, with the game comparatively safe, he relaxed.

He paid attention to things he had been too busy to notice before--the afternoon shadows, for instance.

The shadows told his practiced scout eyes that it was about four o'clock.

Unconsciously he began to figure. If Tim had started at one o'clock, he should have reached Danger Mountain an hour ago--

”Here!” Don told himself abruptly. ”I must stop thinking of this.”

Chester scored two more runs. He went out, jauntily, to pitch the fifth inning. Before he had hurled three b.a.l.l.s he knew that something was wrong. He had lost the razor edge of pitching perfection.

He staggered through the fifth inning without being scored on, but it was ticklish work. Little Falls. .h.i.t him hard. With the bases full and two out, Marty Smith sprang sideways, made a blind stab, scooped the ball and touched the bag for the third out.

Cries of chagrin came from the Little Falls bench. ”Oh, you lucky dubs,”

called one of the coachers. ”That was horseshoes.”

Don smiled mechanically. It was his turn to go to bat; and after he was thrown out he came to the bench and fought stubbornly to keep his thoughts on the game and away from Tim.