Then Tom told about Uncle Israel’s illness and how anxious they had all been; how he had decided to accompany the team at almost the last minute and had rushed to the train and, finally, had had to foot it for a mile when he got to Petersburg. “Well, Great Scott!” exclaimed Mr. Cummings. “I should think you might have an off-day after that! Why, walking a mile in the hot sun is enough to put any pitcher off his game! What the dickens did you do it for?” “There wasn’t any other way to get there.” “Then you should have told Mr. Talbot about it and he would have let you off or had you rest up for three or four innings, anyway. It was a piece of foolishness, Tom, and you deserved to get knocked out of the box.” “Yes, sir. And I was.” The supper arrived then and for a moment or two Mr. Cummings was too busy to continue his remarks. Tom, to his surprise, found himself in possession of a very healthy appetite and fell to with vigour. Mr. Cummings added two glasses of iced coffee to his order and when he had sampled one of them he sighed contentedly and looked across the table again. “After you get that chop out of the way, Tom, you’ll feel better, I guess. What did you have to eat at noon?” “A couple of sandwiches and a piece of pie, sir.” “Sandwiches and pie! What do you know about that!” Mr. Cummings raised a horrified gaze to the ceiling. “What kind of fodder is that, Tom, to go to work on? What you need is a nurse!” Tom smiled. Life was beginning to brighten. The chop was excellent, the potatoes hot and crisp, and the iced coffee reached the right spot. After all, he reflected, perhaps he had been premature in resolving to sever his connection with baseball! And he was quite convinced of it when Mr. Cummings had got through lecturing him and it was time to hustle to the station for his train to Derry. They parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Mr. Cummings sending Tom away with a heartening slap on the back and the admonition to cheer up and get his nerve back. Tom found Uncle Israel’s condition still further improved when he reached home. “He et a good supper,” announced Aunt Patty in triumph. “Milk toast and the white of two eggs he had. And he’s been asleep ever since half-past seven.” She listened and nodded satisfiedly. “And don’t you make no noise as you go up, Tom,” she added. The next day Uncle Israel was well enough to be seen, and Tom tiptoed into the room in the afternoon. Uncle Israel, propped up against the pillows, his big gnarled hands spread out on the checked comforter, looked pale and grim. But a slight smile fluttered over his face as Tom came forward anxiously. “Well, you didn’t get rid o’ me this time,” said Uncle Israel rather weakly. “Guess I’m tougher than you thought, eh?” Tom flushed. “I guess nobody wanted to get rid of you, sir,” he replied awkwardly. Uncle Israel grunted. “Ain’t in no hurry to get the farm then?” “No, sir, I’m not. Besides, I didn’t know--I mean----”