“Worse!” Bill laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t see it.”
“Why you might be blind, or not able to see to read or get about without wearing goggles and using a cane. As it is you only needed specs to read with. And maybe the nerve will get well of itself.”
“Yes, after the season is over, and I lose all chance of playing on the Varsity. I tell you I want to pitch, Cap. That’s one reason why we picked out Westfield,—because of the good nines they have here.”
“I know it; but what’s to be done? If you can’t control the balls, and place them where they ought to be, you know—”
“Yes, I know how it is,” and he spoke bitterly. “I’d be of no use in the box. Well, I s’pose there’s no help for it,” and Bill picked up a round stone, and threw it at a telegraph pole. He missed it by a foot, though usually he was a good shot. He laughed mirthlessly, and turning to Cap said: “See how it is?”
“Oh, well, don’t take it so hard. That was a nasty blow you got, and the effects may be a long time wearing away. But I’m sure you’ll be all right next season, if you’re not this.”
“But a whole season off the diamond!” gasped Bill in dismay.
“Oh, you don’t need to get off. Maybe Windam will play you in the outfield. You can catch; can’t you?”
“Yes, but I want to be in the box. However if I can’t—I can’t,” and seeing that he was causing Cap pain by his manner, Bill tried to assume a more cheerful air.
“Graydon will be cut up over it,” said the elder lad, referring to the player whose batted ball had been responsible for Bill’s mishap.