“The boy is as nervous as a witch,” put in Grandma Sharpless. “I’ve noticed it since early summer.”
“Then I wish you had taught me my trade,” said Dr. Strong. “Manny is so husky and active that I’ve hardly given him a thought.”
“Well, what’s wrong with him?” asked the father anxiously.
“Too much drug-store,” was the prompt reply. “Not drugs!” cried Mrs. Clyde, horrified. “That child!”
“Well, no; not in the sense you mean it. Wait; there he is now. Manny!” he called, raising his voice. “Come over here a minute, will you?” The boy ambled over, and dropped down on the grass. He was brown, thin, and hard-trained; but there was a nervous pucker between his eyes, which his father noted for the first time. “What’s this? A meeting of the Board? Anything for the Committee on Milk Supply to do?” he asked.
“Not at present,” answered Dr. Strong, “except to answer a question or two. You don’t drink coffee, do you?”
“Of course not. I’m trying for shortstop on the junior nine, you know.”
“How are you making out?”
“Rotten!” said the boy despondently. “I don’t seem to have any grip on myself this year. Sort o’ get the rattles.”
“Hm-m-m. Feel pretty thirsty after the practice, and usually stop in at the soda-fountain for some of those patent soft drinks advertised to be harmless but stimulating, don’t you?”