ced the din.

"Up in a balloon!" he yelled. "Little Lambie's ready for the stable.
He's done. I knew he couldn't stand up before a regular team once we
got his number."

Irritating as a mosquito's buzz, the strident voice rasped Dale
Tompkins's spirit like a file, and a rush of sympathy for the pitcher
swept over him. He knew how annoying it is to be blamed for another's
fault, and the error was distinctly Blair's for muffing that fly. If
only Phelps wouldn't pay any attention to the nagging! He had only to
put out two more men and win the game. Surely he must realize that
the fellows didn't mean anything they said; that they were only trying--

He caught his breath with a swift, anxious intake as the ball left
Ranny's fingers and an instant later went sailing over the infield. It
was a clean hit and brought forth a roar of delight from Troop One's
adherents, who at once redoubled their efforts to tease the angry
pitcher. It wasn't baseball, in its better sense, nor did it show
the real scout spirit, but it was human nature. Seeing the game slipping
from them, they took the only way they had been able to discover to turn
the tables. Ranny, plainly furious, pitched hastily to the next batter
and hit him in the arm. The bases were filled, with only one out.

"They've rattled him, all right," said the regretful voice of Paul
Trexler at Tompkins's elbow. "Great Scott! He can't be going to stick it
out!"

For a moment it looked that way. Flushed and furious, his snapping eyes
sweeping the circle of grinning faces, Ranny stood motionless for a
moment or two in the middle of the diamond. He even toed the slab and
took a signal from Ted MacIlvaine. Then, of a sudden, his arm dropped to
his side, and he stalked across the infield toward the bench. By the
time he reached it his face was white, save where the grip of teeth had
left little crimson dents in his under lip. His level, almost hostile,
glance fixed Dale Tompkins coldly.

"Go in, Tompkins," he said curtly, and tossed him the ball.

Dale caught it instinctively, and, scrambling to his feet, pulled off
his sweater mechanically. His chance had come, but somehow he did not
want it now. He would infinitely rather have had Ranny keep his head and
his control and finish the game he had started off so well. The hurt and
shame in that white face smote on him with a sense of physical pain,
made him feel in a curious, involved fashion as if he were in some manner
responsibl