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 balls, 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 balls, 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 balls 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 hit 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.

Grimly he stuck to his task.  When it came time to start the seventh inning, he was almost master of himself.  He found his drop ball working again.

“Yah!” cried Ted.  “Here’s where we get in the game again.”

Little Falls, following that turbulent sixth inning, expected to go right on with her hitting.  Instead, her batters found themselves once more helpless.  Three players stepped to the plate and were thrown out in order.

Don’s spirits had risen.  He walked toward the bench with a springy stride.  The spectators in back of third base began to cheer.  He glanced at them with a smile—­and then his face sobered.

Bobbie Brown was pushing his bicycle hurriedly along in the rear of the watchers.  His attitude said plainly that he had come with a message.