noticeable tension among most of the other players. Don sat on the rough bench and waited for the signal to warm up.

Presently the Glenrock players arrived. He looked at them closely and his nerves jumped. Gosh! didn't they look big! And what big black bats!

"All right, Don," said Ted. "Warm up. Take it easy. These fellows can strike out and pop up flies just as easily as anybody else."

Don tried to smile as he took his place. By this time a solid wall of spectators ran along the base-lines and down toward the foul flags. There was another gathering under the maple tree; and out in deep center a third group lounged on the grass and waited for the call of "Play ball!"

Don began to throw. His first few pitches went wide, and Tim glanced at him sharply. The catcher was almost as cool as Ted, and to show his calmness, he began to toss the ball into the air as he caught it and then catch it again in his bare hand as it came down.

As soon as his arm felt right, Don tried out his curves. His drop, his best ball, worked nicely, but his in-curve and his out-curve were only fair. He kept trying them, and became worried, and went back to his drop and found that he had lost his control of this curve, too. What was the matter? Was he getting stage fright?

"That's enough," called Ted.

He walked toward the bench. Tim hurried to his side.

"Scared?" the catcher asked.

Don nodded.

"Gee!" said Tim. "I thought you had more nerve than that. Just go out there and stick it over. You don't see me getting rattled."

"You don't have to serve the ball," said Don.

"No," said Tim; "but I'm the fellow who has to decide what balls they get. I guess that's some responsibility. You pitch the way I tell you to and we'll be all right."

Glenrock was still practicing in the field. Don sat on the bench and watched. They handled the ball well, but not any better than Chester. If their hitting had been overrated—

"They're through," said Ted. "Come on, Don. Don't get excited now. Watch
Tim's signals and give him what he signals for. We're in back of you."

"That's what I've been telling him," said Tim.

A minute later Don faced the first batter. Tim squatted, rose up on his toes, stuck his mitt between his legs, laid a finger on the mitt, and then spread his hands wide.

"Come on, Don," he called. "Easy-picking here; easy picking. Put it right over."

Tim had signaled for the drop. Don swallowed a lump in his throat. Would the ball break true? Would this broad-shouldered young man who stood so confidently at the plate hammer it a mile?

"Come on, now," cried Tim.

Don pitched. The batter swung and missed.

"Easy picking," chanted Tim. "He couldn't hit it with a fence post. Come on, now."

The second signal was for an in. Don pitched. The batter tightened his muscles to swing, changed his mind, and allowed his arms to grow limp. And the ball that looked as though it would be outside the plate, suddenly broke inward and crossed the corner.

"Strike two!" ruled the umpire.

The batter looked annoyed. And as for Don, a wave of gladness ran through his veins. His curves were working, and this batter didn't seem to be any harder to pitch to than some high school players he had faced.

Tim called for pitch-outs on the next two, hoping that the batter would "bite." The Glenrock player, though, seemed to have become cautious. Then Don pitched a drop, and the batter hit a bit too high and sent a grounder toward third base, and was thrown out.

The next batter caught the first ball pitched and hammered it to center field for a base.

Don's lips twitched. He wondered if the runner would try to steal, and if he would be too green to hold him close to the bag. Ted motioned him to play the plate.

Tim signaled for a pitch-out, or waste ball. He pitched.

The catcher had shrewdly judged that Glenrock would try to steal the moment she got a runner on. He saw the runner break for second. He got the ball, drew back his arm, and shot the sphere down without rising from his squat.

It was a beautiful throw, and the runner was out by a yard.

"Try to get fresh with the kid pitcher, eh?" yelled Tim.

"That's turning them back," shouted Ted Carter. "Get this fellow, Don."

Don "got" him on an in-curve that was hit for a puny infield pop.

Glenrock was out. She had had her first inning and had not scored. Ted came running in to the bench, calling instructions to Chester's first hitter. Don drew on a sweater and sat down.

"Well," said Ted, "they aren't giant-killers, are they?"

"Tim saved me that time," Don answered. His pulse was still throbbing.

"Sure I did," said Tim. "That's what I'm there for."

Don tried to tell himself that it was only Tim's way to be so cocksure and chesty; and yet, in a small corner of his brain, was the thought that it might have been just as well had the runner not been thrown out. In spite of himself, he was beginning to resent the catcher's air of superiority.

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?"