"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.