Don Strong, Patrol Leader Part 9

"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. .h.i.t 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 c.o.c.ksure 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?"

"Oh, Tim." Ted called to the catcher. "What did I tell you about this game?"

"That you'd be satisfied if Don held them to a respectable score," Tim answered. "You told me to hold him up and keep him going--"

"All right," Ted said quickly. He turned to Don. "Does that look as though I'm stringing you? Next week you pitch against Springfield--and next week you're going to win."

Don drew a deep breath. A big part of his courage had come back. Now, if Tim would only stop saying how important _he_ was--

"I know those Springfield batters," said Tim. "I'll signal him what to throw."

Don turned away. Was Tim going to act like that all summer?

Monday the Wolf patrol had its second first-aid practice. This time there was no trouble. Tim appeared, and did his work, and then went shouting and hallooing down the street. Andy Ford laughed and shook his head.

"He's a wild Indian, Don. You can't do much with him."

"I--I can't do anything with him," said Don.

The days that followed were busy ones. There was a rush of orders for window screens, and he dropped his bird-houses and helped his father.

Twice he went to the field. Once he met Tim there, and Tim caught his delivery and called instructions in a breezy, high-handed way. Andy Ford was right, Don thought. A wild, untamed, careless, unthinking Indian!

Friday, in response to Don's orders, the patrol came to headquarters to clean up for that night's meeting. Tim brought with him an impish, reckless desire for fun. While the others tried to sweep, he lined up a string of camp stools and played leap-frog down the length of the meeting-place, and got in everybody's way.

"Come on, Tim," Don called. "Cut it out!"

"Cut what out?" Tim asked innocently.

"That jumping. You're scattering the dust. Put the stools away and get a broom."

Tim shook his head, and sat on the nearest stool, and looked as though he was going to dispute the order. Andy and Ritter nudged him and told him to be a good sport and help. He looked at them doubtfully, and then, apparently convinced, he piled the stools in a corner and got a broom.

Only for a short time, though, did he apply himself to the work in hand.

Soon a voice shouted, "Behold a knight of old!" and when the scouts looked around there was Tim with the broom as a sword and a galvanized water bucket over his head. Even Don laughed.

Next Tim sent the pail clattering across the floor, and Bobbie had to jump to avoid being hit in the s.h.i.+ns. After that this troublesome scout insisted on fighting a broom duel with Wally Woods, and a collection of dirt that had been swept into a pile was scattered right and left.

"Tim!" cried Don.

Tim stopped. "What's the matter?"

"Look at that dirt. We'll never get cleaned up this way."

"Oh, forget it," said Tim. "Can't a fellow have a little fun? I'll sweep it up again," and he attacked the pile.

Ten minutes later he was chasing Ritter around the room for a piece of cake, and a pail of water that Andy had just brought in was upset over the floor.

"Yah!" shouted Tim. "Swim for your life." He swished his broom through the water and swished too hard, and the dirty water flew far and high and spattered the walls.

"Now look what we've got to clean," cried Andy.