“No,” answered Bill wearily, “it isn’t the pain. But I can’t pitch any more,” and he told the whole story, sitting inside the wagon, which was equipped for living in Gypsy fashion, his brothers and the professor listening sympathetically. “Can’t pitch; eh?” murmured Pete. “That’s tough.” “It sure is,” declared Bill. “And I’ve got to wear glasses when I read. I might as well resign from the team right away.” Professor Clatter looked critically at the lad who sat near him. Though it had been many years since the vendor had played ball, he had not lost his love for the game, though he never belonged to a regular nine. But he appreciated what it meant to Bill. “When do you get your reading glasses?” he asked casually. “Oh, I’m in no hurry to become a ‘four-eyes,’” replied Bill bitterly. “I’ll get them next week. Jove, but it’s tough!” and he shook his head. “Well, we must be getting back,” said Cap, after a pause. “I’ve got some boning to do.” “Same here,” added Pete. But Bill got up in silence to follow his brothers. “Can’t you come and see me again?” asked Professor Clatter anxiously as his young friends descended the steps. “I’m going to stay in this neighborhood for some days and I’d like to talk over old times with you. Yes, Pactolus, I’m going to unharness you, and let you crop of the green herbage,” and he proceeded to release the horse from the shafts. “Pactolus and I understand each other,” he went on. “At least he knows what I say to him, though I have not yet mastered his language. It takes Dean Swift for that.” “Has he stumbled into the river of gold yet?” asked Cap. “Not yet, but I look at every stream eagerly as we pass over or through it, when it is not too deep. Some day perhaps the sands will be golden,” and the medicine man laughed gaily. “But do come out and see me some night when you have a chance. I’m going to camp on the other side of town. Come out to-night, if you will. I’ll probably have an old friend there to greet you.” “Who?” asked Pete. “Not the thumbless man?” “No, he’s safe in jail, I hope. But what would you say to Duodecimo Donaldby?” “The weather prophet?” asked Bill, with a show of interest. “The same,” answered the professor, “though whether he is still engaged in making it rain, or whether he is doctoring horses I know not. He changes his occupation from day to day, and from night to night, like the phases of the moon, but I expect him.” “Then we’ll come,” decided Cap earnestly. “I should like to see him again. Dear old Duodecimo! He was a queer chap.” “And he hasn’t changed any,” was the professor’s opinion. “Well, I shall expect you then. Remember, on the other side of town. Now can’t I give you some soap, or pain killer or—or something?” He seemed so eager about it that they did accept a bottle of the pain killer, which was excellent for sprains. Then they took their leave, promising to come back that night.