"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."