“Yes, your forehead’s all screwed up. Your eyes, too. Can’t you catch a ball without doing that?” “I don’t know. I guess so.” “Try it.” This time Buster caught, but, as before, he frowned and squinted terrifically over the operation. “That’ll do,” said Joe. “You go and see an oculist, Buster.” “Oculist!” “Surest thing you know. Something’s wrong with your eyes. You can’t see, Buster!” “Great Scott!” murmured the other. “I――I believe you’re dead right, Joe!” “I know I am. I had headaches like yours a couple of years ago and my mother sent me to a doctor. He snipped a couple of muscles and I was all right.” “Snipped! Say, didn’t it hurt?” “Mm, a little; not much. Maybe your trouble’s something else, though. Maybe you need glasses, Buster.” “Glasses! Gee, wouldn’t I be a sight with glasses? Do you really think that’s what’s wrong, Joe?” “Positive! You can’t throw a ball straight because you don’t see what you’re throwing at plainly. Now, can you?” Buster considered a moment. Then: “I don’t believe I do, come to think of it. Things are――are sort of indistinct at a distance. You don’t suppose”――Buster faltered――“you don’t suppose I’m going to be blind, do you?” “Blind your granny! You go and see an oculist and he will fix you up right as rain. Do it tomorrow, Buster. I’ll wager you’ll be playing second again in a fortnight.” “Honest, Joe? Say, why didn’t I think of my eyes? Why, now when I think of it, I know mighty well that I don’t see like I did a year ago. Why, last Spring I could see to the end of the field as plainly as anything!” “Can’t you today?” asked Joe. “No, I can’t. I can see, all right, but things are sort of hazy. What’s a cataract like, Joe?” “I never had one. Neither have you. Don’t be an idiot, Buster. Just do as I tell you.” “You bet I will!” They were back on the bench now. “What gets me, Joe, is why I never thought it might be my eyes!” “I guess a fellow thinks of his eyes the last thing of all,” replied Joe wisely. “I know when I was having those headaches――――” But a further account of his experiences was interrupted by the coach. “Faulkner, you take first. That’ll do for today, Foley. Hale, you go back to third. Peddie, see what you can do at second.” Joe played four innings at the first sack that afternoon, conscious all the time of Frank Foley’s malevolent glare from the bench. But he didn’t allow that to worry him much and covered the base in good shape. The following afternoon it was Joe who started at first and Foley who took his place later on. Perhaps the fear of being superseded began to wear on Foley, for he played poorly during the three innings he was on duty, and Jack exulted on the way home. “You’ve got him on the run, Joey,” he said. “Keep it up, old man! Remember that bat-case is yours every Sunday!” “Hang your old bat-case, Jack! I wish they’d put me on the second. This thing of taking a chap’s job away isn’t funny.”