Before going home he studied the changed figures on the blackboard: 

PATROL POINTS

Eagle 106-1/2
Fox 111
Wolf 108-1/2

“Tim’s doing fine on signaling,” said Alex in his ear.

Don drew a deep breath.  Well, maybe everything would be all right, after all.

Next day the Chester nine played St. Lawrence.  It was touch and go from the start.  Now Chester led; now the visitors led.  The eighth inning found Chester in front by a 6 to 5 score.

All during the game Don had felt the strength of Tim’s support.  Not once had the catcher’s playing faltered.  Don, waiting on the bench, allowed his thoughts to wander.  If Tim would plunge into scouting like that—­

“Come on, Don,” called Ted Carter.  “Ninth inning.”

The first Chester batter doubled.  Instantly all stray thoughts were swept from Don’s mind.  The next player fouled out.  Then came a long fly to the right-fielder and the runner ran to third after the catch.  Any kind of a dinky hit would score the tying run.

Don pitched to the batter.  Without shifting his position, Tim snapped the ball to third base.  The runner, caught asleep, scrambled frantically for the bag.

“Out!” ruled the umpire.

The game was over.  Don ran to the bench.

“Pretty work, Tim,” he cried.

“I guess I don’t need anybody to show me how to play baseball,” said Tim.

Don paused in the act of reaching for his sweater.  Tim’s eyes met his, a bit uncertain, a bit defiant.  Ted Carter, laughing and happy, romped in between them.

“You fellows are one sweet battery,” he cried joyously.  Other members of the team crowded around the bench.  Tim, with his mitt under his arm, walked away.

Slowly Don buttoned his sweater.  Tim’s change of heart was a mystery no longer.

At the edge of the field he found Andy Ford waiting.

“Mackerel!” cried the assistant patrol leader; “wasn’t that a corking game?  When Tim made that throw—­Hello!  What’s the matter?”

“Tim’s sore because of what Bobbie said.”

“How do you know?”

Don related what had happened at the bench.

“Well, the big boob!” Andy gave a snort of anger.  “Doesn’t he know any better than to pay attention to a kid like Bobbie?”

“Tim’s always been that way,” said Don.  “He’s sensitive.”

“Sure; but he isn’t sensitive about his patrol, is he?”

Don sighed.  No; Tim wasn’t very sensitive about that.

After supper he came out of the house and walked down to the fence.  He had an idea that Andy would be around; and when presently the assistant patrol leader came down the dark street, he held open the gate.  They sat on the grass and talked in low tones.

“I’ve doped it out,” said Andy.  “Why don’t you shift—­you and Tim do the Morse instead of Tim and Alex?”