But there was a heavy fall of rain that night, and more rain the next morning. By noon the village field was flooded. Ted Carter sent word that the game had been called off.
At two o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. From the porch Don had watched the weather restlessly. The moment the sun appeared he hurried off toward the field. There was just a possibility that Tim might come around. He had to speak to him.
Tim came at last, but without his catcher's mitt. He stood around with his hands in his pockets and had very little to say. His mouth was a trifle tight, and his eyes rather hard.
"When shall we go into the woods for that signaling?" Don asked.
Tim shrugged his shoulders.
"Monday or Tuesday?"
But Tim was still indifferent. Don came nearer.
"If you're sore about what Ritter said—"
"Me sore? Why should I get sore? I'm used to it."
"Now, Tim—"