Don sent him, "Give me liberty or give me
death." He stumbled and slipped through the words, threw his cap on the
grass and yelled to Don to send it again.
Factory whistles sounded, and Barbara called that dinner was ready. Tim
put down the flag regretfully and mopped the sweat from his face. It was
Saturday, and this afternoon the nine had a game. But as he turned toward
the gate, baseball was very, very far from his thoughts.
Bobbie joined him on the sidewalk. Tim strode off briskly, and Bobbie,
shorter of leg, almost had to run.
"Getting ready for the signal contest, Tim?"
Tim nodded.
"I bet you won't make any mistakes next time."
Poor Bobbie meant no harm, but it was about the worst thing he could have
said. From Andy, or Alex, or any of the bigger scouts, Tim would not have
minded so much. But to have little Bobbie hold up his shortcomings was
like drawing a match across sandpaper.
"Gee!" Bobbie rattled on; "aren't you glad Don is going to show you how
to do things?"
"Say," Tim said ominously, "you shut up and run along or I'll twist your
ears around your head. Go on, now." He gave the astonished boy a push.
Then, scowling blackly, he passed him and went down the street with steps
that had lost their lightness and their spring.
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