The meeting adjourned. A scout of the Eagle patrol caught Don's arm.

"What team do you pitch against tomorrow?" he asked.

"Little Falls," said Don.

Tim's face lost its animation and grew dark. He walked toward the door.
And Don, watching him, wondered why it was that fellows were always asked
questions at the wrong time.

By this time Don knew that Tim, whenever anything peeved him, could be
counted on to display a reckless streak. For a moment this worried him;
then he brushed the thought aside. He was always fretting about Tim,
and nothing serious was ever happening.

He had planned to mow the lawn and spade the flower beds next morning. It
was well that he went early to his task, for at ten o'clock Ted Carter
came for him.

"You had better come to the field," the captain said. "No pitching--just
a little throwing to bases. I've dug up a fellow named Marty Smith to
cover first. I want you to get used to each other."

Don evened off the flower beds, carried the raked-up grass around to the
chickens, and put the gardening tools away.

"Dinner at twelve sharp," Barbara called after him.

At first he felt odd, throwing to the bag and not finding Ted there. He