“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 corner.

“Strike two!” ruled the umpire.

The batter looked annoyed.  And as for Don, a wave of gladness ran through his veins.  His curves were working, and this batter didn’t seem to be any harder to pitch to than some high school players he had faced.

Tim called for pitch-outs on the next two, hoping that the batter would “bite.”  The Glenrock player, though, seemed to have become cautious.  Then Don pitched a drop, and the batter hit a bit too high and sent a grounder toward third base, and was thrown out.

The next batter caught the first ball pitched and hammered it to center field for a base.

Don’s lips twitched.  He wondered if the runner would try to steal, and if he would be too green to hold him close to the bag.  Ted motioned him to play the plate.

Tim signaled for a pitch-out, or waste ball.  He pitched.

The catcher had shrewdly judged that Glenrock would try to steal the moment she got a runner on.  He saw the runner break for second.  He got the ball, drew back his arm, and shot the sphere down without rising from his squat.

It was a beautiful throw, and the runner was out by a yard.

“Try to get fresh with the kid pitcher, eh?” yelled Tim.

“That’s turning them back,” shouted Ted Carter.  “Get this fellow, Don.”

Don “got” him on an in-curve that was hit for a puny infield pop.

Glenrock was out.  She had had her first inning and had not scored.  Ted came running in to the bench, calling instructions to Chester’s first hitter.  Don drew on a sweater and sat down.

“Well,” said Ted, “they aren’t giant-killers, are they?”

“Tim saved me that time,” Don answered.  His pulse was still throbbing.

“Sure I did,” said Tim.  “That’s what I’m there for.”

Don tried to tell himself that it was only Tim’s way to be so cocksure and chesty; and yet, in a small corner of his brain, was the thought that it might have been just as well had the runner not been thrown out.  In spite of himself, he was beginning to resent the catcher’s air of superiority.