One afternoon when he and Joe were together on the bench during the first inning of a game with the Scrubs he confided his perplexities. “I don’t know what the dickens is the matter with me, Joe,” he said. “I didn’t use to have any trouble. Last year I played through with only fourteen errors all season, and that’s not so bad, is it? But this spring”――he shook his head puzzledly――“I can’t even seem to bat any more. It’s funny, too. I hit where the ball looks to be and never touch it. Same way in fielding. I see the old thing shooting along to me and make a grab for it and as often as not it gets clean past. The other day, when I plugged to Frank that time, I aimed as straight as you please and got the ball away all right. I _know_ that! But when it got to first it was two yards to the left!” He examined his hands as if seeking a solution to his trouble there. Joe, interested in the new batting arrangement that Mr. Talbot had introduced that afternoon, heard Buster’s lamentations with but half an ear. He nodded sympathetically, though, when young Peddie had been retired at first, making the third out. “It’s too bad,” he said. “What do you suppose the reason is?” “I’m telling you I don’t know,” replied Buster a trifle impatiently. “Maybe I’m not well. I――I have headaches sometimes.” He made the acknowledgment rather shamefacedly. Buster didn’t have much sympathy for fellows with ailments. For the first time Joe’s interest was really aroused. “Whereabouts?” he asked quickly. “Whereabouts what?” “Whereabouts are the headaches?” “In my head, of course! Oh, you mean――Well, sort of up here.” He placed his hands over his temples. “Maybe,” he added with a grin, “maybe I’m studying too hard.” “You get a ball,” said Joe, “and come over here with me.” “What for?” “Never mind what for, Buster. Come on.” Buster borrowed a baseball from the bag and followed Joe across to the stretch used by pitchers when they warmed up. “What’s the big idea?” he asked. “Shoot it to me,” said Joe. He held his hands in front of his chest. “Don’t curve it, Buster. Just put it to me straight.” “It’s got to curve some,” objected Buster. “Here you are.” Joe made a stab well to the left of him and saved himself a trip down the field. “Try again,” he said, throwing the ball back. “Try to hit my hands, Buster. See if you can’t throw right into them.” “Come a little nearer. I can’t see your hands so well. That’s better.” Buster sped the ball off again, and again it went wide, although not so wide as before. When the ball came back to him he made rather an awkward task of catching it. Joe followed the ball. “Let’s have it,” he said quietly. Buster yielded it, troubledly. “Catch,” said Joe and tossed the ball to the other from some four feet away. Buster put up his hands quickly, his forehead a mass of wrinkles and his eyes half-closed, and the ball tipped his fingers and struck his chest. “What are you scowling for?” asked Joe. “Scowling?”