“I don’t opine it was that. Never had a square meal take the snap out of me this way before.”
Merriwell now observed that his friend was unusually pale.
“I hope you’re not sick, Brad!” he quickly exclaimed. “If you should fall sick now we’d be in a bad hole this afternoon.”
“Oh, I’m not exactly sick,” declared the Texan. “I’m jest weak and done up. Don’t seem to care a rap whether I play ball or not. It’s a mighty odd thing for me, and I don’t know what to make of it.”
Never before had Merriwell known his friend to be other than eager and enthusiastic in regard to a coming game, and this surprising change in Buckhart was quite enough to alarm the captain of the island team.
“Perhaps you need a little air,” suggested Merriwell. “It’s hot to-day. A good walk might brace you up.”
“That’s just what I don’t want to take,” said Buckhart. “I feel more like stretching out somewhere and keeping still.”
Although he was not a little disturbed, Dick said nothing more until he had finished dressing for the ball field. When he was quite ready he tucked his favorite glove into his belt, looked around to make sure Garrett had sent all the bats to the field, and then called Brad to follow and started for the door.
With his hand on the knob, he paused and looked back.
Brad had not stirred. With a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, he sat in a listless attitude, apparently quite unconscious of his surroundings or wrapped in deep thought.