“Won’t I ever be able to throw straight again?” cried poor Bill. “I’m afraid not,” answered the doctor. “Of course if the pressure on the nerve could be removed it would be possible, but that would take an operation, and I don’t recommend it. In fact it might make matters worse. But it’s not so bad. It will cause you no annoyance.” “No annoyance?” “Not a bit. You can see as well as ever. You can read, write, walk about, in fact only in matters requiring a critical judge of distance will you be at all hampered.” “But that’s just it!” cried Bill. “I _need_ to be a judge of distance if I’m going to pitch on the team.” “I’m sorry, but you can’t pitch any more,” was the doctor’s verdict, and to Bill, who like his brothers had his whole soul wrapped up in baseball, the words sounded like a doom. “Not pitch any more?” repeated Bill dully. “Not until that nerve pressure is removed,” was the answer, “and I advise against any operation for that. I can fit you with a pair of glasses that will take off any strain when you are reading, and that’s all you need. But you can’t pitch—that is if you have to be accurate.” “And that’s just what I have to be,” murmured Bill. “Not pitch any more—not pitch any more,” and he covered his eyes with his hand, and swayed uncertainly. “There—there old man!” spoke Cap, a trifle hoarsely, for he was much affected by the way his brother had taken the blow that had fallen. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as it seems. You may get better.” Bill shook his head despondently. “Come on,” he said to his brother. “I—I’ll come back for the reading glasses later, doctor. I—I don’t just feel like it now,” and Cap linked his arm in that of Bill’s and led him away, the footsteps seeming to recite mockingly over and over again, like some death knell. “You can’t—pitch—any—more! You can’t—pitch—any—more!” CHAPTER XI MEETING AN OLD FRIEND For some time after leaving the doctor’s office neither Cap nor Bill spoke. The latter stumbled along, his mind filled with gloomy thoughts, and as for Cap he was wondering what he could say to take the pain from his brother’s heart. Wisely he concluded that he could say nothing. At length Bill spoke. “Well, what do you think of it?” he asked. “It might be worse,” replied Cap, as cheerfully as he could. “Worse!” Bill laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t see it.” “Why you might be blind, or not able to see to read or get about without wearing goggles and using a cane. As it is you only needed specs to read with. And maybe the nerve will get well of itself.” “Yes, after the season is over, and I lose all chance of playing on the Varsity. I tell you I want to pitch, Cap. That’s one reason why we picked out Westfield,—because of the good nines they have here.” “I know it; but what’s to be done? If you can’t control the balls, and place them where they ought to be, you know—”