He admitted that he was lucky to have escaped during that first inning.  But he was not so lucky in the innings that followed.  Two runs were scored by Glenrock in the third, one in the fifth, two in the seventh, and one in the eighth.  Five runs was all that Chester could gather.  The end of the game found her one run behind.

Don was disheartened.  He put on his sweater and started to leave the field.  Ted called him, and he waited.

“Down in the mouth?” the captain asked.  “Forget it.  I knew you’d have trouble today.  You were worried, weren’t you?”

Don nodded.

“And yet they beat you only six to five.  That’s all right.  Next time you won’t be so nervous and you’ll do better.”

“Will I?” Don asked.  “You’re not fooling me, Ted?”

“Oh, Tim.”  Ted called to the catcher.  “What did I tell you about this game?”

“That you’d be satisfied if Don held them to a respectable score,” Tim answered.  “You told me to hold him up and keep him going—­”

“All right,” Ted said quickly.  He turned to Don.  “Does that look as though I’m stringing you?  Next week you pitch against Springfield—­and next week you’re going to win.”

Don drew a deep breath.  A big part of his courage had come back.  Now, if Tim would only stop saying how important he was—­

“I know those Springfield batters,” said Tim.  “I’ll signal him what to throw.”

Don turned away.  Was Tim going to act like that all summer?

Monday the Wolf patrol had its second first-aid practice.  This time there was no trouble.  Tim appeared, and did his work, and then went shouting and hallooing down the street.  Andy Ford laughed and shook his head.

“He’s a wild Indian, Don.  You can’t do much with him.”

“I—­I can’t do anything with him,” said Don.

The days that followed were busy ones.  There was a rush of orders for window screens, and he dropped his bird-houses and helped his father.  Twice he went to the field.  Once he met Tim there, and Tim caught his delivery and called instructions in a breezy, high-handed way.  Andy Ford was right, Don thought.  A wild, untamed, careless, unthinking Indian!

Friday, in response to Don’s orders, the patrol came to headquarters to clean up for that night’s meeting.  Tim brought with him an impish, reckless desire for fun.  While the others tried to sweep, he lined up a string of camp stools and played leap-frog down the length of the meeting-place, and got in everybody’s way.

“Come on, Tim,” Don called.  “Cut it out!”

“Cut what out?” Tim asked innocently.

“That jumping.  You’re scattering the dust.  Put the stools away and get a broom.”

Tim shook his head, and sat on the nearest stool, and looked as though he was going to dispute the order.  Andy and Ritter nudged him and told him to be a good sport and help.  He looked at them doubtfully, and then, apparently convinced, he piled the stools in a corner and got a broom.