"Yes, sir."
"You used to pitch to Alex Davidson out there in the yard. One day you came running into the shop and shouted that you had it, and I went out to watch, and you couldn't throw the curve again."
"But I got it again next day," Don said quickly.
"And now you can pitch it any time you want to," said his father.
Don frowned. This was too deep! He saw Barbara smiling and nodding as much as to say, "Think it out, Don." Suddenly he straightened.
"You mean that because Tim played fair that once—"
"Just the way you pitched your curve that once," said his father.
Don sighed. It was funny how his troubles dropped away when he brought them home.
Monday there was another patrol meeting. Tim attended, but an imp of perverseness seemed to rule him. It was the first time he had seen the patrol as a group since Friday night. At first he looked hot and uncomfortable. After a while he began to scrape his feet and drum on the table. He seemed anxious to have it understood that, regardless of what had happened, no one need think that he was going to be bossed.
"Oh, keep your feet still!" Alex Davidson said at last.