Tim walked over to the maple tree and stood there in its shade. He was
raging. Chased from the field! Routed out as though he didn't amount to a
rap, and he the best catcher in the village!

"I'll play with some of the other teams," he vowed. "I'll offer to catch
for them. I'll come here and make these fellows feel sick. I'll--"

But he knew that he'd do nothing of the sort. Breaking into teams out of
your own town was almost impossible. He was out of it, on the shelf,
discarded.

"I ought to go out there," he muttered fiercely, "and whack Don one in
the eye." He saw the pitcher begin to throw to Ted. The sight was too
much for him. He swung around and plunged down the road, the big mitt
under his arm, and did not once look back.

Had he stayed, he would have seen that Ted Carter called the pitching to
a halt in a very few minutes. The captain was no fool. The first six
balls Don threw him proved to him that the pitcher was upset.

"Don't let this bother you," he said. "Tim had it coming to him. It
wasn't your fault. Go home and forget it, and tomorrow you and I'll work
out and get acquainted."

Don went home, but he did not forget. He was sure that this latest twist
would only pile up trouble for him as patrol leader.

Next morning the news was all over the village. Don heard it when he went
on an errand for his father. Afterward he worked on his bird-houses and
tried to brush aside the worried thoughts that plagued him. Andy Ford