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.
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