"Alex works," he said hesitatingly. "If I had somebody to practice with in the daytime—"
Don's heart leaped. Could this be rough-and-tumble Tim?
"I'll practice with you now," he cried. "Wait until I get flags."
A minute later he was out of the house. Tim went down near the gate. They began to wig-wag.
At first the work was rusty. By degrees, though, as they corrected each other's mistakes, smoothness came and a measure of speed.
Tim's eyes danced. Gee! but wasn't this fun? He wig-wagged, "Don't give up the ship," and was delighted when he found that his sending had been so sure that Don had caught every letter.
By and by Bobbie appeared and leaned over the gate.
"Hello, Tim," he called.
Tim nodded shortly. He was too much engrossed in what he was doing to have thought for anything else. Don sent him, "Give me liberty or give me death." He stumbled and slipped through the words, threw his cap on the grass and yelled to Don to send it again.
Factory whistles sounded, and Barbara called that dinner was ready. Tim put down the flag regretfully and mopped the sweat from his face. It was Saturday, and this afternoon the nine had a game. But as he turned toward the gate, baseball was very, very far from his thoughts.