“I hope it doesn’t spur him up to any mischief,” murmured the captain dubiously.
“Mischief; how?”
“Well, he has a very ugly temper, and once he gets aroused—well, the worst he can do is to withdraw from the team, I suppose.”
“I’d be sorry for that,” went on the coach. “But we really have a find in Smith. He’s better than before his injury, or else those glasses help him.”
“I guess it’s the glasses. No one’s vision is perfect the doctors say, and perhaps we’d all be better for spectacles. I was just thinking what would happen if they became broken in a critical game. Bill couldn’t pitch.”
“That’s so. He ought to have a pair in reserve. I’ll speak to him about it.”
Then the coach and captain fell to talking about other baseball matters, including the coming game on Saturday, and the chances for winning.
Bill and his brothers rejoiced among themselves, and with their friends, and a letter telling about the honor that had come to the Smith boys was sent to their father, all three joining in making it a sort of composite epistle.
“Two days more and we’ll see what we can do on the diamond in a league game,” said Cap, as he got ready to do some neglected studying. “Now don’t mention ball again for an hour. I nearly slumped in Latin to-day, and if any of us fall behind we’ll be hauled up and put out even if we knock a home run. So buckle down, fellows.”
It was hard work to apply oneself to lessons after the events of the day, but they did it—somehow.