"I would," Don said slowly, "if I were able."

He went upstairs and got into uniform--all except his spiked shoes. He
would put those on on the porch where there was no carpet to rip and
tear. He went over to the window and looked down at the yard. Nothing was
there but grass, and hedge, and a small bed of flowers. And yet he saw a
steep side of Danger Mountain, and khaki-clad boys climbing that steep
side and missing their steps.

"Twenty minutes of two, Don," Barbara called.

He carried the spiked shoes down to the porch. He was angry now. Why
should he worry when he had done the best he could? He _wouldn't_ worry.
He'd pitch his game and have a good time. If Tim wanted to get hurt, that
was his funeral.

In this mood he walked to the field. The practice had already started. He
gave the Little Falls players a casual glance. Visiting teams no longer
worried him--not before the umpire's cry of "Play ball!" anyway. He had
had his baptism of fire. He was a veteran.

"I was just going to send somebody to look you up," said Ted. "Everything
all right? Good! Shoot away."

Thoughts of Tim came, but Don thrust them aside and shook his head
stubbornly. What had happened was no fault of his. He had done his best.
Now he was going to enjoy himself.

"Great stuff," said Ted when the warm-up was over. "Sting them in like
that during the game and there'll be nothing to it."