“Snipped! Say, didn’t it hurt?”
“Mm, a little; not much. Maybe your trouble’s something else, though. Maybe you need glasses, Buster.”
“Glasses! Gee, wouldn’t I be a sight with glasses? Do you really think that’s what’s wrong, Joe?”
“Positive! You can’t throw a ball straight because you don’t see what you’re throwing at plainly. Now, can you?”
Buster considered a moment. Then: “I don’t believe I do, come to think of it. Things are—are sort of indistinct at a distance. You don’t suppose”—Buster faltered—“you don’t suppose I’m going to be blind, do you?”
“Blind your granny! You go and see an oculist and he will fix you up right as rain. Do it tomorrow, Buster. I’ll wager you’ll be playing second again in a fortnight.”
“Honest, Joe? Say, why didn’t I think of my eyes? Why, now when I think of it, I know mighty well that I don’t see like I did a year ago. Why, last Spring I could see to the end of the field as plainly as anything!”
“Can’t you today?” asked Joe.
“No, I can’t. I can see, all right, but things are sort of hazy. What’s a cataract like, Joe?”