For the time being, at least, his hot blood was chastened. He had gone off that afternoon and had left several chores undone. When he reached home his mother scolded and his father threatened. It was no new experience. Nevertheless, he finished the neglected work in silence, and in silence he ate his supper.
It had begun to dawn on him that he was spoiling things for himself. He wasn't getting any fun out of scouting. He had been banished from baseball. If Ted Carter stayed behind the bat, and if he didn't get another chance to play—
"It's coming to me," he said, and his eyes blinked.
The time he had ruined Andy's fire Mr. Wall had said, "What do you think a scout should do—the square thing?" He was confronted with the same question now. What should he do—the square thing?
All of Sunday he wrestled with the problem. Monday afternoon he went to the field early. He was the first boy there. He sat under the tree; and when he saw Ted coming, he stood up slowly and went forward to meet the captain.
"Say, Ted, any chance for me to get back?"
Ted glanced at him sharply. "Get back for what?"
"To play ball."
The captain tossed him the mitt. "Sure. Here comes Don. Catch him. No curves—he worked nine innings Saturday. Just a little warm-up."
It was an awkward moment for Tim. He was not used to knuckling under. He swallowed a lump in his throat; but Don acted as though there had never been a change in the team. Slowly his restraint wore away. The other players took him back without question; nobody mentioned Saturday's disastrous game.