He threw very carefully but he seemed to lose control of the ball, which ability was one of his best features. It again went wide, and Cap had to reach out for the sphere.
“How are your eyes, Bill?” he asked kindly, walking toward his brother. “Maybe the jar they got when you were hit, sort of put them on the blink for a few days. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t see how it could be. Just try a few more.”
They did, but Cap only shook his head. Other players were noticing something wrong, and as soon as Cap saw this he called the practice off.
“We’ve had enough for to-day,” he declared, as though it was of no consequence, but Bill knew that his brother’s light tone covered a deeper meaning. There was a vague alarm in the heart of the lad who aspired to be the Varsity pitcher.
Was his eyesight going back on him? Was he losing his control? What ailed him?
He hardly dared answer, yet he resolved to put it to the test soon.
“My head does feel a little queer,” he admitted to himself, and much against his will. “And my eyes—my eyes—I wonder if there can be anything wrong?” and he walked moodily off the diamond, while Cap and Pete gazed apprehensively after him.