“Are you still traveling about in the same way?” asked Pete.
“Yes, but I don’t do any more palmistry. It’s too risky. But what’s the matter with you, Bill? You don’t seem well.”
“Got hit with a ball,” explained the lad, touching the place where there was still a lump on his head.
“Too bad, but you’ll soon be over it. Pactolus once kicked me, and it was a week before the swelling went down.”
“The swelling is the least part of it,” spoke Bill gloomily, and Pete, who had not yet heard of the result of the visit to the oculist, looked in alarm at his brother’s tone.
“What’s the trouble?” inquired Mr. Clatter. “Perhaps some of my pain killer will help you. It’s good stuff in spite of the way I sell it. I used to know something of medicine. Let me wrap you up a bottle for old times’ sake.”
“No,” answered Bill wearily, “it isn’t the pain. But I can’t pitch any more,” and he told the whole story, sitting inside the wagon, which was equipped for living in Gypsy fashion, his brothers and the professor listening sympathetically.
“Can’t pitch; eh?” murmured Pete. “That’s tough.”
“It sure is,” declared Bill. “And I’ve got to wear glasses when I read. I might as well resign from the team right away.”
Professor Clatter looked critically at the lad who sat near him. Though it had been many years since the vendor had played ball, he had not lost his love for the game, though he never belonged to a regular nine. But he appreciated what it meant to Bill.