“Coming where?”
“Over to see Professor Clatter. Cap’s ready.”
“Oh—I don’t know.” Bill spoke listlessly. He had been trying to study but a curious watery mist came into his eyes, and, try as he did to brush it away, the film seemed to return. The eye near the injured spot smarted and burned.
“Come ahead,” urged Cap, entering his brother’s room at that moment. “Whistle-Breeches wants to go and see the performance.”
“All right, you fellows go, and I’ll stay here. I don’t care much about it.”
Cap winked at Pete. They understood Bill’s despondency, and were determined to get him out of the slough of it.
“Oh, it’ll be sport—like old times,” urged Cap. “The professor will do his singing and banjo act, and I’ve a good notion to get up on the platform and show Whistle-Breeches how we used to earn our board and lodging.”
“Better not, Bondy might spot us and there’d be a faculty row. He’d be just mean enough to squeal. But come on, Bill. The professor expects us. Say, remember the time after he got nabbed, and we tried to take the spot out of the man’s vest, and it turned green, red, yellow and a few other colors? Remember that, Cap?”
“I should say I did!” exclaimed John Smith. “I thought sure it was all up with us,” and he laughed heartily. A smile came over Bill’s gloomy face. Pete saw it and nudged his brother.
“We’ll see the rain-maker again,” went on Pete. “Better come, Bill. Don’t worry about your eyes, and pitching and all that. Maybe it will come out right.”