“No, I guess not,” agreed his brother. “It’s either a new pair of specs for me, or—some one else in the box.”
“We’ll try to get a new pair of glasses first,” suggested Cap, as cheerfully as he could.
An oculist whom they consulted, but not the one to whom they had first gone after the accident, looked grave when he had tested Bill’s eyes, and heard the story of the blow.
“Of course I can fit you with glasses,” he said, “but it may take some time to get them just right.”
“How long?” asked the pitcher anxiously.
“A week—perhaps two.”
“It won’t do!” declared Bill. “Why the last Sandrim game comes off in three days, and a week later the final with the Tuckerton nine. I’ve got to pitch in both.”
The oculist shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “The lenses will have to be specially ground. If I knew where the others were made I could get them from there.”
But the astronomer had failed to say where he had had Bill’s glasses made, and there was nothing for it but to try some other lens-making place. Meanwhile the oculist said he would temporarily fit Bill with a pair of glasses.