“You mean about an operation?”
“Yes. If we have to perform one it will be a very delicate one, and it will cost a lot of money; there are only a few men in this country capable of doing it, and their fees, naturally, are high. But we won’t think of that now. I think I will go in and see how he is. If he is well enough I want you to see him. It will do him good.”
“And me, too,” added Joe, who was under a great strain, though he did not show it.
Mr. Matson was feeling better after his rest, and Joe was allowed to come into the darkened room. He braced himself for the ordeal.
“How are you, Son,” said the inventor weakly.
“Fine, Dad. But I’m sorry to see you laid up this way.”
“Well, Joe, it couldn’t be helped. I should have been more careful. But I guess I’ll pull through. How is baseball?”
“Couldn’t be better, Dad! We’re at the top of the heap! I just helped to win the deciding game before I came on.”
“Yes, I heard your mother talking about the telephone message. I’m glad you didn’t come away without playing. Have you the pennant yet?”
“Oh, no. That won’t be decided for a couple of months. But we’re going to win it!”