“And won’t he have a good time?” Barbara asked.

“No boy really enjoys himself, when he knows he’s doing wrong,” Mr. Strong answered.

Don roused himself from his dull, discouraged mood.  “Is there anything I could try, dad, to stop him?  Just one more trial?”

“You might take him by the back of the neck and tell him you’re boss.”

“I would,” Don said slowly, “if I were able.”

He went upstairs and got into uniform—­all except his spiked shoes.  He would put those on on the porch where there was no carpet to rip and tear.  He went over to the window and looked down at the yard.  Nothing was there but grass, and hedge, and a small bed of flowers.  And yet he saw a steep side of Danger Mountain, and khaki-clad boys climbing that steep side and missing their steps.

“Twenty minutes of two, Don,” Barbara called.

He carried the spiked shoes down to the porch.  He was angry now.  Why should he worry when he had done the best he could?  He wouldn’t worry.  He’d pitch his game and have a good time.  If Tim wanted to get hurt, that was his funeral.

In this mood he walked to the field.  The practice had already started.  He gave the Little Falls players a casual glance.  Visiting teams no longer worried him—­not before the umpire’s cry of “Play ball!” anyway.  He had had his baptism of fire.  He was a veteran.

“I was just going to send somebody to look you up,” said Ted.  “Everything all right?  Good!  Shoot away.”

Thoughts of Tim came, but Don thrust them aside and shook his head stubbornly.  What had happened was no fault of his.  He had done his best.  Now he was going to enjoy himself.

“Great stuff,” said Ted when the warm-up was over.  “Sting them in like that during the game and there’ll be nothing to it.”

Don laughed and walked toward the bench.  His eyes scanned the spectators.  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.