“I will,” said Ted.  “You’re through.  Get off the field.”

Tim was jarred.  He hadn’t expected anything like this.  He looked at Ted.  There could be no escaping what he saw—­the captain meant it.

“Where—­where are you going to get another catcher?” he asked weakly.

“Is it worrying you?” Ted asked.  “I’ll go behind the bat myself.  I guess I can get somebody to play first base.  Now get off the field; you’re in the way.”

Tim walked over to the maple tree and stood there in its shade.  He was raging.  Chased from the field!  Routed out as though he didn’t amount to a rap, and he the best catcher in the village!

“I’ll play with some of the other teams,” he vowed.  “I’ll offer to catch for them.  I’ll come here and make these fellows feel sick.  I’ll—­”

But he knew that he’d do nothing of the sort.  Breaking into teams out of your own town was almost impossible.  He was out of it, on the shelf, discarded.

“I ought to go out there,” he muttered fiercely, “and whack Don one in the eye.”  He saw the pitcher begin to throw to Ted.  The sight was too much for him.  He swung around and plunged down the road, the big mitt under his arm, and did not once look back.

Had he stayed, he would have seen that Ted Carter called the pitching to a halt in a very few minutes.  The captain was no fool.  The first six balls Don threw him proved to him that the pitcher was upset.

“Don’t let this bother you,” he said.  “Tim had it coming to him.  It wasn’t your fault.  Go home and forget it, and tomorrow you and I’ll work out and get acquainted.”

Don went home, but he did not forget.  He was sure that this latest twist would only pile up trouble for him as patrol leader.

Next morning the news was all over the village.  Don heard it when he went on an errand for his father.  Afterward he worked on his bird-houses and tried to brush aside the worried thoughts that plagued him.  Andy Ford came to the yard, and was followed by Bobbie Brown and Wally Woods.  The three boys looked at Don, and looked at each other, and looked away.

“Was Tim chased?” Andy asked at last.

Don laid down his plane.  “Fellows,” he said seriously, “if you hear any talk about Tim just—­just keep your mouths shut.  Talk always makes things worse and—­and we’re after the Scoutmaster’s Cup.”

The three boys nodded that they understood.  There wasn’t much to say after that.  One by one they went their way and left Don alone.

Late in the afternoon he went to the field.  He did not see Tim, and at once a weight seemed taken from his heart.  He pitched to Ted.  His control was better now, and presently he found himself enjoying the work.  His curves broke well, and Ted kept calling, “That’ a boy, Don; that’ a boy!” and he felt a thrilling desire to give Ted the best he had.  Tim never made him feel like that.

Next night came the troop meeting.  He wondered if Tim would carry his bad temper so far as to come carelessly dressed.  Evidently others shared his anxiety, for as soon as he reached headquarters Andy asked him anxiously if Tim would be “all right.”