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[Illustration: SAFE AT HOME]




  THOSE SMITH BOYS
  ON THE DIAMOND

  OR

  NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY

  BY

  HOWARD R. GARIS

  _Author of
  Uncle Wiggily and Alice in Wonderland, Uncle Wiggily
  Longears, Uncle Wiggily and Mother Goose,
  Uncle Wiggily’s Arabian Nights_

  [Illustration]

  MADE IN U. S. A.

  M·A·DONOHUE·&·COMPANY
  CHICAGO      NEW YORK




  Made in U. S. A.


  COPYRIGHT, 1912 BY
  R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
  _Those Smith Boys on the Diamond_




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                               PAGE

        I  A CLOSE GAME                    9

       II  A FIRE DEPARTMENT RUN          19

      III  A LEAKY BOAT                   30

       IV  A GREAT HOME RUN               39

        V  OFF FOR WESTFIELD              50

       VI  A LIVELY HAZING                58

      VII  MOVING THE SENIOR STONE        69

     VIII  ORGANIZING THE NINE            77

       IX  BILL IS HIT                    84

        X  THE DOCTOR’S VERDICT           91

       XI  MEETING AN OLD FRIEND          96

      XII  PROFESSOR CLATTER’S PLAN      105

     XIII  BILL IS HIMSELF AGAIN         113

      XIV  THE TRY-OUT                   125

       XV  THE CONSPIRATORS              131

      XVI  CAUGHT                        136

     XVII  BILL’S PITCHING               141

    XVIII  A PLOT AGAINST BILL           154

      XIX  THE PROFESSOR’S WARNING       160

       XX  THE PLOTTERS CAUGHT           171

      XXI  AN INTERRUPTED SUPPER         181

     XXII  HITTING A BULLY               190

    XXIII  THE FIGHT                     197

     XXIV  THE KIDNAPPED PITCHER         203

      XXV  TO THE RESCUE                 211

     XXVI  JUST IN TIME                  219

    XXVII  A SCRIMMAGE                   230

   XXVIII  THE GLASSES ARE GONE          235

     XXIX  MERSFELD IN THE BOX           239

      XXX  BILL’S FALL                   245

     XXXI  “PLAY BALL!”                  250

    XXXII  NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY      257

   XXXIII  WINNING THE PENNANT           263




  THOSE SMITH BOYS ON THE
  DIAMOND

  OR

  NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY




THOSE SMITH BOYS ON THE DIAMOND




CHAPTER I

A CLOSE GAME


“Come on now, Bateye, soak it in!”

“Say, are you going to hold that ball all day?”

“What’s the matter with you; didn’t you ever see a horsehide before?”

“Oh, for the love of Mike! Throw it! Throw it! Do you want to give ’em
a run?”

“That’s the way! Wake up, Bateye!”

These were only a few of the expressions and questions hurled by the
other players at Bateye Jones, the Freeport rightfielder, who, after
running back to recover a ball that had passed high over his head, was
holding the sphere for a moment until he had made sure of the position
of the runner, Jake Jensen, of the Vandalia team.

“Throw it! Throw it! You can take a picture of it after the game!”
howled Captain John Smith of the Freeport nine, as he danced about
behind home plate, and saw Tom Evans come in from third, and noticed
Jensen legging it around from second.

Bateye threw, and, mingling with the cries of the players and the yells
of the crowd, there were groans of anguish as the ball passed high over
the second baseman’s head, who jumped for it in vain.

Bill Smith, the wiry little pitcher, made a successful grab for the
horsehide as it bounced on the ground, captured it, and hurled it to
third, just in time to catch Jensen there.

“Out!” yelled the umpire.

“Aw, say, I beat it a mile!” protested the panting runner. “What’s the
matter with you, Foster?”

“Out,” said the umpire again, waving his hand to indicate that Jensen
was to leave the bag.

“Say, I’ll leave it to anybody if I—”

“Come on in,” invited Rube Mantell, captain of the Vandalias in a weary
tone, and Jake shuffled to the bench.

“Mighty lucky stop, Bill,” called Pete, or “Sawed-off” Smith, to his
brother the pitcher. The small-statured lad again took his position at
short stop which he had left for a moment. “I wonder what’s the matter
with Bateye to-day? That’s the second error he’s made.”

“Oh, I guess he got a bit rattled with so many howling at him,” spoke
Bill good-naturedly. “Come on now, Pete. There are two down, and we
ought to wallop ’em easy when it comes our turn. Watch me strike Flub
Madison out.”

Bill, who was the best pitcher the Freeport team had secured in
several seasons, again took his place in the box, while his brother
John, or “Cap” from the likeness of his name to that of the old Indian
fighter, resumed his mask, after shooting a few indignant looks in the
direction of the unfortunate Bateye Jones.

“He’s got to improve if he wants to stay on the team,” murmured Cap
Smith as he waited for the next ball. “I s’pose he’ll excuse himself by
saying the sun was in his eyes, or something like that. Or else that
he can’t see well in the daytime. He certainly can see good at night.
Old Bateye—well, here goes for the next one,” and Cap plumped his fist
into the big mitt, and signalled to his pitching brother to send in a
slow out curve to Flub Madison who took his place at the plate.

It was the ending of the eighth inning, and the score was seven to
six, in favor of the Freeport lads. The game was far from won, for
their opponents were playing strong, and still had another, and last,
chance at the bat. To win meant much for the team on which the Smith
Boys played, for they wanted to capture the championship of the County
League, this being one of the last games of the season.

“One ball!” hoarsely called the umpire, as Bill unwound, and sent the
horsehide sphere plump into the mitt of his older brother.

Cap looked an indignant protest, and hesitated as he tossed the ball
back. It was as clean a strike as could be desired, but it was not the
first time the official had favored Vandalia that day. The game was on
their grounds, and the rivalry that existed between the two cities,
located on either side of the Waydell river, was carried even into
baseball.

“Make him give you a nice one, Flub,” called some of his friends.

“He’ll walk you, anyhow,” added another sarcastically.

Bill Smith gritted his teeth but said nothing. He shook his head as
his brother signalled for the same kind of a ball, and sent in a swift
drop. Flub bit at it, and swung viciously.

“Strike one!” sounded sweet to the ears of the pitcher and catcher.

There was a vicious “ping” as the next ball was sailing over the
plate, and for a moment the hearts of the Freeport nine and the hopes
of their supporters were like lead, but they turned to rejoicing an
instant later, as they saw the ball shoot high over the extreme left
grandstand, and disappear.

“Foul strike!” called the umpire, as he tossed a new ball to Bill.

Cap signalled for the fast drop, and his brother nodded in assent.

“Three strikes! Batter out!” was yelled a moment later and Flub threw
down his stick in disgust, and walked toward the outfield.

“Now’s our last chance!” exclaimed Bill to John, as he came running
in, while the teams changed places. “We ought to get at least three
runs—in fact we need ’em if we’re going to win, for they’ve got three
of their best hitters up when they come for their last dips. But if we
can get a lead of four runs we’ll be all right.”

“Yes, we’ll be all right if Bateye doesn’t go to sleep again,” grumbled
Cap. “Say, what’s the matter with you?” he demanded as the unlucky
rightfielder filed in.

“Why—er I—that is I—”

“Oh, out with it! You’re holding that talk as long as you held the
ball. Don’t do it again!” and Cap, who never could be ill-natured for
very long, condescended to smile, while Bateye promised to do better in
the future.

“Now Doc, show ’em how to make a home run,” suggested Pete, as Harry or
“Doc” Norton, dubbed with the medical term by virtue of his father’s
profession, came up to the bat. Doc tried hard, but only got a single.
He was advanced to third when Norton Tonkin rapped out a nice two
bagger, but that was as far as luck went for the Freeport nine that
day. The next three players struck out under the masterly pitching of
Nifty Pell, and the three Smith Boys did not get a chance.

“Well, we’re one run to the good. If we can hold ’em down the game’s
ours,” observed Pete, as he walked out with his brothers, followed by
the rest of the team. “It’s up to you, Bill.”

“I know that, Sawed-off,” was the answer. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t
play the whole game. Crimps! But I _would_ like to win this game!
They’ve been making so many cracks about putting it all over us!”

“We’ve _got_ to win!” said Cap Smith fiercely. “We need this to help us
get the pennant. Don’t get nervous Bill, and you can do ’em. Try that
up shoot on Scurry Nelson.”

The last half of the ninth inning began. There were agonized appeals
from the Vandalia supporters for the nine to cinch the tying run, and
then to bring in half a dozen more for good luck.

“They shan’t do it, if I can help it!” murmured Bill Smith
half-savagely, as he took his place.

Noticing the manner in which Bill stung in a few practice balls his
brother behind the plate smiled happily.

“Bill hasn’t lost any speed,” he thought gleefully.

Scurry Nelson swung with all his force at the first ball, and his bat
passed neatly under it.

“Strike one!” came from the umpire, as if it made no difference to him.

“Only two more!” howled the supporters of the Freeport nine. “You can
do it, Bill!”

Bill tried the same kind of a curve again, and got away with it, but on
the third attempt, after giving a ball on purpose, he heard the fatal
“ping” and a swift grounder got past Pete.

There were groans of dismay from part of the crowd, accompanied by
howls of delight from the other half, as Scurry landed on first. Bill
felt his heart wildly beating, and Cap thumped his big glove viciously.

The Vandalia team on the bench was in transports of joy. Already
they saw their enemies vanquished. Bill calmed himself by an effort,
and even smiled as he faced Buck Wheeler the next man up. Buck was a
notoriously heavy hitter and it seemed as if he would knock the cover
off the ball when he swung at the first one Bill sent in. Only he
didn’t hit it.

And he didn’t hit the next two, either, though he made desperate
efforts to do so, and there was not quite so much elation on the faces
of the Vandaliaites as the next man got up. He knocked a little pop
fly, which Bill caught with ease making two out and, as quick as a
flash the pitcher turned and threw to second, toward which bag Scurry
was legging it for all he was worth. Bill was just a second too late,
however and the runner was safe.

“Two down! Only one more, and the game is ours!” came the encouraging
yells from the grandstand where the Freeport supporters were crowded.

Bill smiled happily and got ready for the next man, at the same time
watching Scurry on second. The following player was Will Longton, and
had a high batting average. There was a smile of confidence on his face
as he stepped to the plate.

Bill sent in a puzzling twister, and Will smiled as he refused to bite
at it.

“Ball,” called the umpire.

“Take it easy! He’s afraid, and he’ll walk you,” was the advice Will
got. He was still smiling confidently when the next ball whizzed past
him.

“Strike,” came from the umpire, with obvious reluctance, since he
wanted to see his friends win. Will looked an indignant protest at the
official, and rubbed some dirt on his hands, so that he might better
grip the bat.

“Watch him soak the cover off!” howled an enthusiastic admirer.

Longton did hit it, but only a foul resulted, and Scurry, who had
started for third, had to come back.

“You know how to do it, Bill,” called the catcher to his brother,
giving him a sign. Bill nodded, and the next instant, amid a breathless
silence a swift ball shot from his hand, straight for the plate.

With an intaking of breath Will Longton swung at it with such force
that he turned completely around, and the look of astonishment on his
face was mirth-provoking, as he realized that he had missed.

“Pung!” went the ball as it settled into the pit of Cap Smith’s glove,
and the voice of the umpire, as he called “Three strikes—batter out!”
was lost in the howl of delight that welled up from grand stands and
bleachers as the crowd realized that Freeport had held their opponents
down in the last inning, and had won the game. What if it was only by
one run? One run has often won a league championship.

“Great work, Bill!” cried Pete as he ran in, clapping his brother on
the back.

“That’s the stuff!” agreed Cap, as he hugged the pitcher. “We did
’em! Come on now, we can catch the next boat across the river if we
get a move on,” and the Smith boys, followed by the rest of the team,
hastened to the dressing rooms, stopping only long enough to return the
cheer which their opponents gave them.

The crowd was surging down from the stands, talking about the close
game, discussing the best plays, arguing how if such a man had done
differently the result would have been changed, and speculating as to
Freeport’s and Vandalia’s chances for winning the pennant.

“What are you fellows going to do to-night?” asked Bateye Jones a
little later as he stood talking with his chums, the Smith Boys on the
little ferry boat which ran across the river from Vandalia to Freeport.

“Nothing special, I guess. Why?” inquired Bill.

“What do you say if we give the fire department a run?”

“Give ’em a run?” asked Cap with a puzzled air. “What do you mean?”

“Why they haven’t been out in nearly two weeks, and they’re just
waiting for a chance to show off their new uniforms, and try the new
chemical,” spoke Bateye. “I say let’s give it to ’em.”

“How?” asked Pete, who detected a gleam of fun in the half-closed eyes
of the lad who had such a habit of being out nights, and such a reputed
ability to see in the dark, that it had gained him the name of Bateye.
“How you going to do it?”

“Easy. Come over here, and I’ll tell you. Come on, Doc, and you, too,
Norton.”

The two lads thus addressed, together with the Smith boys, moved
forward on the little boat.

“I saw Spider Langdon and Beantoe Pudder looking at us,” explained
Bateye, when they were safe in a corner of the craft, “and I didn’t
want them to get on to us. Now here’s my scheme. We can have some fun,
and, at the same time give the department a chance to show off,” and
with that Bateye began to whisper the details of his plan.

It did not take long to disclose it, and at the conclusion he asked:

“Will you do it, fellows?”

“Will we? Will a cat eat warm milk?” demanded Pete, as if there was no
question about it.

“But say, there won’t be any come-back, will there? We got into trouble
enough with the railroad people, and by flying our kite with Susie
Mantell on the tail of it last year, so I’m not looking for any more,”
said Cap Smith solemnly.

“Oh, this will be all right,” Bateye assured them. “Now I’ll come over
about eight o’clock, and make a noise like a tree toad. Then you come
out. But lock up Waggles, your dog, or he might give the scheme away.”

“We will,” promised Bill, and then the boat tied up at the wharf, and
the ball players in advance of the crowd rushed off.

“Say, I’ll bet there’s something doing,” said Beantoe Pudder to Spider
Langdon, as they followed the throng.

“Why?” asked the long legged lad, who was nicknamed “Spider.”

“Because I saw those Smith Boys and Bateye talking together, and—” but
at that moment Sam Pudder stumbled and would have fallen, had not his
chum caught him.

“There you go again, Beantoe!” exclaimed Spider, as he helped him
regain his balance. “What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s these new shoes, I guess,” and Beantoe, who owed his title to his
habit of stumbling, limped along. “But as I was saying, I saw the Smith
fellows and Bateye and Doc talking together. There’s something doing.
Let’s watch and see what it is,” he concluded.

“All right, I’m with you. We’ll hang around to-night, and maybe we
can spoil their game,” and the two cronies who, among other things in
common, had a dislike for the Smith Boys and their friends, hurried
along, whispering together.

Meanwhile the members of the Freeport Volunteer Fire Department were
all unaware of the plot brewing against them.




CHAPTER II

A FIRE DEPARTMENT RUN


“Well, boys, how did you make out at the game?” asked Mr. Smith, as his
three sturdy sons tramped into the house a little later.

“Fine,” answered Pete. “It was a close game, but we won.”

“Good!” exclaimed the father. “I wish I’d been there.”

“What’s Mrs. Murdock got for supper?” demanded Bill, as he sniffed
various odors coming from the kitchen. “I hope it’s roast lamb!”

“I want sausage and potatoes!” cried Pete.

“Get out! It’s too early for sausage,” asserted Cap. “Guess again,
Pete.”

“What is it, Mrs. Murdock?” demanded Bill, as the housekeeper just then
entered the room.

“Roast beef and baked potatoes,” she answered, and there was a chorus
of delighted howls.

“Fine!” cried Bill a second afterward making a rush for the buxom lady
who had kept house for Mr. Smith, since his wife’s death some years
before. The other brothers, following Bill’s lead, tried to kiss her at
the same time, but she shut herself up in the pantry for refuge, and
declared that they would not only be the cause of making the potatoes
burn, but would also spoil the roast if they did not raise the siege.
So they capitulated, and a little later were sitting down to a meal,
with such appetites as only bless those who play ball.

And while the meal is in progress I will take the opportunity of
introducing you to the Smith lads a little more formally.

There were three of them, as you have guessed, John the eldest, then
William, or “Bill,” as he was always called, and Pete, the youngest.
They lived with their father and the housekeeper in a large, old
fashioned house in the town of Freeport, on the Waydell river. Across
the stream was the town of Vandalia, and, as told in the first volume
of this series, entitled “Those Smith Boys,” there was much rivalry
between the two places.

In the initial volume it was related how the Smith boys, who were
always getting into mischief, but who did not mean to do wrong, started
off a handcar, which ran away down grade on the new line of the Green
Valley Railroad.

The handcar rushed through the railroad construction camp, knocked down
a water tank, crashed into the tent of the chief surveyor, and made
such a rumpus generally that the Smith boys, fearing the consequences,
ran away.

It was a question whether the railroad would locate a station at
Vandalia or at Freeport, and the decision was almost in favor of
Freeport when the Smith boys, played their unfortunate trick. Then
the chief surveyor determined to place the depot in Vandalia, out of
revenge.

The Smith brothers had many adventures during the time they were away
from home. They were looking for a thumbless man, whom they suspected
of having robbed their father, and in their journeyings fell in with
Theophilus Clatter, a traveling vendor of patent medicines, patent
soap and a patent stain remover. They also met with Duodecimo Donaldby,
who posed as a rain-maker, or a horse doctor, as suited his convenience.

The boys became traveling showmen to aid in the work of selling the
patent medicine and soap, after their friend, Mr. Clatter, had been
arrested for telling fortunes, and all the while the lads kept a
lookout for the thumbless man.

How they found him, and overheard him discussing a plot to rob the
paycar of the railroad, how they frustrated his plans, saved the car
and won the gratitude of the railroad officials is told of in the book.
Also how it was decided, as a sort of a reward for what the Smith boys
had done, to locate the railroad depot in Freeport after all. So the
thoughtless prank of the lads turned out well after all.

Part of the money stolen from Mr. Smith was recovered, and the boys
also received a reward from the railroad company. Their father had
planned to send them to Westfield Academy, immediately after their
return from journeying about the country, but his financial and other
matters prevented, so the boys had spent the winter helping him.

Mr. Smith’s business affairs were now in good shape, and he was quite
well off, so he determined that with the opening of the fall term at
Westfield, his sons should attend there.

All summer the boys had been having a good time at various sports, of
which baseball was chief. They were valued members of the Freeport
nine, and it looked as though they would do more than their share in
helping that team win the pennant. Only a few more games remained to
be played before the season would be over.

“And then for Westfield,” remarked Pete at the supper table that night,
as they talked over their plans.

“I hope we can get on the nine there,” said Cap.

“Oh, sure we can,” declared Bill.

“Well, just because you can pitch well in the county league, doesn’t
say that you’ll make good at Westville,” objected Cap. “They play big
college teams there, you know.”

“Well, I’m not afraid of a college team,” said his brother. “We’ll make
the nine—you see.”

“Hark! What’s that?” asked Pete suddenly, listening intently.

The sound of a tree toad came in through the opened window.

“Bateye Jones,” murmured Cap.

“Are you boys going out?” asked Mr. Smith, looking up quickly from the
paper he was reading, as he heard the name of the lads’ chum.

“We—er—that is we thought of it,” replied Bill.

“Well I do hope you won’t get into any more mischief,” went on their
father. “I’m about tired of hearing everything that happens in this
town laid to ‘Those Smith Boys.’”

“So are we, dad!” exclaimed Cap. “And half of the things that are done
aren’t up to us at all.”

“Well, perhaps that’s so. But be careful now.”

“Yes,” they promised in a chorus, as they hurried out to meet Bat-Eye.
And they really meant to do as they had said, but they were full of
life and energy, and—well, you know how it is yourselves. Things
don’t always turn out as you think they will.

A little later six figures might have been seen hurrying away across
lots in the rear of the Smith homestead. There had been some earnest
whispering before their departure, and from the manner in which they
hastened away it might have been argued, by anyone who knew the lads,
that something was going to happen.

Then, a few seconds after the six had melted away in the darkness, two
other figures rose up from the deep grass where they had been hiding.

“There they go, Beantoe,” whispered one lad. “I wonder what’s up?”

“We’ll soon find out, Spider,” was the response. “Come on, we can
easily follow them.”

Cautiously the two sped on in the blackness. Just ahead of them could
be seen the group of six, and, from time to time, the twain could hear
the voices of the Smith Boys, and their chums, Bateye Jones, Doc Lutken
and Norton Tonkin.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” whispered Beantoe.

“Naw, but we don’t need to. We’ll just follow ’em.”

The six led their shadowers quite a chase, and it was not until half an
hour later that the foremost lad turned into a vacant lot that stood on
the outskirts of the town. In the middle of the lot was a tumble-down
barn and shed, long disused, and useful only as an abiding place for an
occasional tramp.

“Gee whizz!” exclaimed Beantoe, as he and his crony sank down out of
sight in the grass, for the six had come to a halt in front of the
ancient structure. “Gee whizz! All this round-about way, when they
could have walked down the road to this place in ten minutes.”

“That’s all right,” argued Spider. “That shows that something is up.
They didn’t want to be seen coming here, and so they went around
through the lots. Say, do you know what I think?”

“No, but I know what I think! I think we’re chumps for coming after
them! What does it amount to, anyhow?”

“I’ll tell you,” whispered Spider. “They have a secret society, and
they hold meetings here. That’s why they go about it so carefully. But
they can’t fool us. We’re right here, and we’ll sneak up, hear all they
say, and then where will their secret society be, I’d like to know?”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m sure of it. Look, they’re going in the barn.”

The two lads who were hiding in the grass, just beyond the fence that
enclosed the old shed, raised their heads and looked. Surely enough the
Smith boys and their friends were entering the deserted barn.

“Let’s go up and listen,” proposed Spider.

“No, wait awhile,” advised Beantoe. “Give ’em a chance to get started,
and we can hear all they say.”

“They’re making a light!” exclaimed Spider.

“Sure! Maybe they’re going to initiate new candidates into their
society. They think they’re great stuff, but wait until they find out
that we know all their secrets and passwords. Then they’ll come down
off their high horses.”

“Sure! Come on up now. They must be started by this time.”

Carefully getting up from their hiding places the two spies cautiously
advanced toward the old barn.

“They’re lighting up all over,” observed Beantoe eagerly. “Must be
going to have a regular celebration.”

“I guess so. Come on over on this side. There’s a little window that we
can look in.”

Spider was leading the way, and, just as he reached the window in
question, his companion, as was his habit, unfortunately stumbled over
a stone.

“Oh, there you go again, Beantoe!” exclaimed Spider wrathfully.

“I—I know it,” admitted his crony. “Gee horse, but it hurts!”

“Well, keep quiet and come on. I guess—”

But what Spider guessed he never told, for at that moment there was a
rush of figures from the barn, and the two spies were surrounded.

“We’ve caught ’em!” cried Cap Smith gleefully.

“Who are they?” asked Bill.

“I’ve got Beantoe Pudder,” announced Doc Lutken, making a grab for the
stumbling lad.

“And here’s Spider Langdon,” added Pete Smith, taking a tighter hold of
the struggling youth.

“What were they doing?” inquired Cap.

“Following us, of course,” said Norton Tonkin.

“We were not!” denied Beantoe, but the evidence was against him.

“I wonder what they want?” asked Bill.

“They must have known what we were going to do, and they want to squeal
on us,” suggested Bateye. “What shall we do?”

“Is it too late to stop it?” asked Bill, with a glance toward the barn.

Inside could be seen several flickering lights.

“Sure, it’s going hard,” answered Pete. “We can’t put it out.”

“Then let’s make ’em stand for it,” suggested Bateye. “They’ll squeal
anyhow, so let’s make ’em take their share of the blame. It won’t
amount to much anyhow, for dad was going to have the place pulled down,
and he won’t care what happens to it. We’ll tie Beantoe and Spider to
the fence here, and run and give the alarm. The firemen will loosen ’em
when they get here.”

“Oh, don’t tie us up!” pleaded Beantoe in alarm.

“No, don’t leave us here!” begged Spider. “We’ll never say a word about
your secret society. Not a word, honest we won’t!”

“Who said anything about a secret society?” demanded Bill.

“Why, ain’t that what you came out to the barn for?” asked Beantoe.

“And did you follow us to hear the secrets?” inquired Pete, beginning
to understand something.

Beantoe and Spider maintained a discreet silence.

“By Jinks! that’s it, fellows!” cried Bill. “Say, this is rich! Tie ’em
to the fence, and leave ’em. Then we’ll give the alarm! Say, this is
great!”

“Oh, don’t tie us! We won’t tell!” wailed Beantoe and Spider in a
chorus.

But their foes were relentless, and in a few minutes the two spies
were secured to the fence across the road from the barn. Meanwhile the
flickering lights in the old structure had increased. Smoke was pouring
from the windows and doors.

“There, you can tell any story you like now,” said Pete, as he fastened
the last knot. “Maybe they’ll believe you and maybe they won’t.”

“Oh, we Smith boys will be blamed anyhow,” was Bill’s grumbling opinion.

“Then we might as well have the game as the name. Come on, it’s going
good now. We’ll give the department something to do.”

With a final look at the barn, and the lads who were tied to the fence,
the Smith boys and their chums began to run down the road in the
direction of the town. As they left, the whole interior of the rickety
structure was lighted up, and the smoke poured out thicker than ever.

“They’ve set the barn on fire!” yelled Beantoe, as he struggled to get
loose.

“And they’re going to put the blame on us,” added Spider, threshing
about with his long legs.

“But we’ll tell who did it!”

“What good will that do, when they find us here. Besides those fellows
will give the alarm, and that will throw suspicion off them.”

“But look how we’re tied.”

“I know it, but they’ll say we did it ourselves. Oh, I wish we hadn’t
followed those Smith boys!”

“So do I!”

Swiftly running down the road, the boys in question, and their chums,
set up a loud cry:

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

They were on the outskirts of the town now, and the yell was soon taken
up by many voices.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

“Where is it?” demanded several.

“The barn on my father’s place,” answered Bateye Jones pantingly.

Some one rang the alarm bell on the tower of the hose house.

The few firemen on duty began to rush about, and hitched up the horses.
Other volunteers from nearby houses hastened to the hose house. A red
glare could be seen reflected on the sky. The fire department at last
had a chance for a run, and the members rejoiced in it, for there had
been many days of inactivity. It mattered not that the barn was a
worthless structure, better burned than left standing. It was a chance
to get out the new apparatus, and must not be missed.

The hose wagon and chemical engine combined rattled out of the house.
Men shouted various unimportant directions. The horses were scarcely
awake.

“There they go!” exulted Bateye as he and the others prepared to race
back to the scene they had so recently left.

“S’pose they find out we did it?” asked Pete.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bateye. “I got leave from dad to burn the
barn, only he didn’t know I was going to do it to-night. He wants to
put up a silo for cattle fodder on the place, so the barn had to come
down, anyhow, and burning was the easiest way. But I thought we might
as well have some fun out of it while we’re at it.”

“Sure!” agreed Cap Smith.

And then the boys, and scores of others, ran on, while voices
multiplied the cry of:

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”




CHAPTER III

A LEAKY BOAT


The old barn made a good blaze. Beantoe and Spider, tied with their
hands behind them to the fence, could not help but admit that.

“Say, it’s a peach of a fire all right!” exclaimed the long-legged lad,
as he vainly struggled to free himself.

“It sure is! I wonder if they’ll arrest us?”

“Of course not. If they did I guess Bateye and the others would be
square enough to own up to it.”

“I guess so, but maybe the firemen will be mad when they find out about
it.”

“Get out! They’ll only be too glad of a chance to use the new hose.
Besides Cooney Humpville hasn’t used his new trumpet yet. Say, it’s
getting warm all right!”

“Yes, but it won’t be any hotter. It’s at the worst of the blaze now.
Why don’t the firemen come?”

“Here they are!” cried Spider.

From down the highway came a confused sound—shouts and yells mingled
with the galloping of horses and the rumble of the hose wagon.

Up dashed the Freeport fire department, glorious in red shirts and red
helmets, with the red hose wagon in their midst.

“Unreel the hose!” yelled the chief.

“Better take the chemical line in first, Cooney,” suggested one of the
red shirted men.

“Aw, don’t call me Cooney; call me Chief!” begged the head of the
fire-fighters. “I say put the hose on the hydrant and squirt.”

Several men started to do this, but it was found that the nearest fire
plug was farther away than the hose would reach, so it was unavailable
for the fire.

“We’ve got to take the chemical, Cooney!” called another man. “Run the
wagon nearer.”

“Aw, don’t call me Cooney, call me—” but his men did not stay to
listen to his renewed pleading. The horses had been unhitched, and led
away. Willing hands now dragged the wagon closer to the burning barn,
and soon two lines of small hose to carry the chemical stream were
unwound.

“Let her go!” yelled the men in a chorus, and the engineer who operated
the tanks, screwed down the wheel valve that broke the bottle of
sulphuric acid into the solution of soda and water.

Two foamy streams spurted from the hose nozzles, but it was easy to
see that they would have little effect on the blaze. A lot of water
was needed, and that was not available. Still, even though the old
barn burned to the ground no harm could result. There were no other
buildings within an eighth of a mile.

“Look here!” suddenly cried some of the firemen as they neared the
fence, and then they discovered Beantoe and Spider tied to the rails.

“Who did it?”

“How did it happen?”

“Did you see anyone start the fire?”

“How did you get tied up?”

Questions were fired at the two lads, who were soon released. They
looked through the gathering throng for a sight of the Smith boys and
their chums. Beantoe saw Bateye laughing at him.

“There are the fellows who set the barn on fire!” cried the stumbling
lad. “We saw ’em; didn’t we Spider?”

“Sure; and they tied us up,” and, forthwith the tale was related to
such of the firemen and the crowd as would listen. And this was a
goodly number, for it was seen that it was useless to try to save the
barn, and all that could be done was to watch it burn, harmlessly.

“And those Smith boys tied you up?” demanded Chief Humpville, “and
burned the barn?”

“Sure they did,” asserted Bateye. “Them an’ Doc an’ Bateye.”

“Just as likely as not these fellows set the barn, and tied themselves
up,” ventured a fireman, nodding at the captives.

“That’s right; for the Smith brothers, and Bateye ran in and gave the
alarm,” added another.

“Didn’t I tell you how it would be,” wailed Spider. “I knew they’d
blame us.”

The twain protested, even unto tears, that they had no hand in the
prank, and when they related, with much detail, how they had been
surprised and caught the tide turned in their favor.

“You might know those Smith boys would be up to some such game as
this,” remarked Mr. Wright, who kept the feed store. “They ought to be
arrested for arson.”

“That’s right; or else sent away to the reform school,” added Mr.
Henderson, who sold shoes.

“I hear they are going away to school this fall,” declared Mr. Flint, a
retired merchant.

“Well, they can’t go any too soon to suit me,” went on Mr. Wright.
“They’re always doing something—those Smith boys are!”

“But you must admit that they helped get the railroad to come here,”
suggested Mr. Blanchard, the grocer.

“Yes, but they’re like a cow that gives a good pail of milk and then
kicks it over,” asserted Mr. Flint. “But I ain’t going to stay here any
more. The fire’s most out, and I guess it’s a good thing the old barn
went. It was only good for tramps.”

In spite of the usual feeling against the Smith boys this was the
general sentiment, and when Chief Humpville wanted to make a charge of
arson against the lads, he was persuaded not to.

“And so you fellows really did it; eh Bateye?” asked the chief, when
the lad who could see in the dark had admitted his part in the affair,
together with the Smith boys. They did it to clear Beantoe and Spider,
who were deemed guilty by some.

“Sure I did it,” admitted Bateye shamelessly. “Aren’t you glad you had
the run?”

The chief and his men were, but did not want to say so, for their new
helmets and red shirts had been audibly admired, and the new apparatus,
though its chemical streams were not effective against the fire,
because of the start the blaze had acquired, were a source of pride to
the townspeople.

“Ain’t it against the law to set a fire?” demanded the chief, bound to
maintain his dignity.

“Not when you have permission,” asserted Bateye, “and my dad said I
could get rid of the barn any way I liked.”

“Did he say you could burn it?” asked the chief.

“Well, not exactly, but I liked that way better than any other, and so
we did it. I knew nothing could happen, as there wasn’t any wind.”

The chief felt the uselessness of making any comments, especially as
Mr. Jones was in the crowd, and confirmed what his son said.

“But I certainly didn’t know he intended to burn it at night,” said
Bateye’s father, “or I would have prevented him. However it’s done, and
I’m glad the barn is gone. And if the firemen think—”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Jones,” said one of the red-shirts with a
laugh. “We were getting too fat lying around. The run did us good.”

It was not long ere the barn was but a heap of glowing embers and
then the chief, calling hoarsely through his new trumpet, ordered
the apparatus to “take up” though there was little to take up, and
the department slowly went back to headquarters. The crowd followed,
talking excitedly of what had happened.

“I guess you fellows won’t take after us next time; will you?” asked
Cap of Beantoe and Spider, as the two lads passed by.

“Humph! You just wait; that’s all!” threatened Beantoe, vaguely. “We’ll
get square with you yet!”

“That’s what,” added Spider, striding along on his thin legs.

“They’ve got to think up something mighty soon,” said Bill, as he and
his brothers and their chums turned down a street that led to their
homes. “We’re going off to school in about three weeks.”

“Not before the close of the ball season, though; are you?” asked
Bateye anxiously. “We can’t win the championship if you go.”

“Oh, we’ll finish out the season on the nine,” promised Cap. “And I
guess our team will win, if you don’t make any more wild throws.”

“Nary a one,” promised Bateye fervidly.

It was several days before the town got over talking about the fire.
Mr. Smith heard of the part his sons had taken in it, and talked
severely to them.

“Why are you always up to such risky tricks?” he asked.

“This wasn’t risky,” declared Bill in justification.

“We didn’t think it was any harm,” added Pete.

“That’s the trouble. You don’t think enough. You didn’t think the time
you started the runaway handcar, and you remember what happened. Now be
more careful.”

They promised, and Mr. Smith, who was a very busy man, sighed and
wished the boys would settle down and be less playful.

“Maybe when they get to the Academy, life there will help to settle
them,” he said with a shake of his head. Whether it did or not we shall
soon see.

Meanwhile Beantoe and Spider were racking their brains for some plan to
get even with the Smith boys and their friends.

“I don’t care so much for Bateye and Doc. and Norton,” said Beantoe,
“but I would like to play a trick on Pete and his brothers.”

“I’ll see if I can’t think of one,” promised Spider. A few days later
he came to his crony with joy written on his face. “I think we have
them,” he said exultingly. “There’s a chance to put one over the Smith
boys.”

“How?”

“Come along, and I’ll show you. They’re going out fishing. I just saw
Bill down to the hardware store buying some hooks, and I heard him tell
Bateye they were going down past the swimming hole.”

“Well, what’s the answer.”

“We’ll stop at my house, get an auger and a loaf of bread, and I’ll
tell you on the way.”

“What’s the auger and bread for?”

“I’ll show you. Come on. I want to get to their boat before they
arrive. Then we’ll hide and see some fun.”

A little later Beantoe and Spider stole cautiously to the Smith boys’
boat house on the banks of the Waydell river.

“You keep watch, and I’ll bore the holes in the boat,” suggested
Spider. “It won’t take long.”

He was soon busy with the auger, and then his crony understood.

“I see!” he exclaimed. “You’re going to make holes in the boat, and
then when they’re out fishing, it will sink!”

“Sure! You’re a regular detective,” said Spider, boring away while
Beantoe watched.

“But won’t the water come in as soon as they start out, and won’t they
get on to the trick,” asked the stumbling lad after thinking it over.

“That’s where the bread comes in,” explained his friend. “I’ll make a
lot of holes, and stuff them up with bread. Then I’ll smear dirt over
the bread and it won’t show. It will stay in the holes until Bill and
the others get out in the middle of the river and then it will soak up,
and come out. The boat will leak like a sieve, and they’ll have to swim
ashore.”

Spider worked industrially, and soon had a number of holes in the
bottom of the fishing skiff. The holes were well plugged with bread,
and smeared over so that they did not show.

“Here they come!” suddenly warned Beantoe.

“Well, I’m done!”

Spider threw away what remained of the bread, put the auger under his
coat, scattered to one side the pieces of wood that had resulted from
the boring, and then he and his companion made a dash for the bushes,
just as the three Smith brothers came in sight, with their fishing rods
over their shoulders.

“Looks like a good day for bites,” remarked Pete, as he got in the
stern of the boat.

“Sure,” agreed Bill, pausing on the bank to see if he had all his
tackle.

“Get in, Bill, and I’ll shove off,” proposed John, for the boat was
drawn partly up on shore.

“Now watch the fun,” whispered Spider to Beantoe, as they peered from
the bushes, and saw the boat being rowed toward the middle of the deep
river.

“Maybe they’ll be drowned,” suggested Beantoe rather frightened.

“Those fellows? Naw! They can swim like fishes, but their clothes will
get wet, and it’ll serve ’em right for the way they treated us at the
fire.”

“How soon before the boat will begin to leak?”

“It ought to in a few minutes now. Gee whillikins! But I’m glad I
thought of that trick! Won’t they be surprised when the water comes
rushing in?”

“They sure will,” and then the two cronies eagerly watched the Smith
boys, who, all unconscious of the fate in store for them, were rowing
down toward the fishing grounds.




CHAPTER IV

A GREAT HOME RUN


“Wow!” suddenly exclaimed Bill Smith, as he gave a start that nearly
upset the boat.

“What’s the matter, did you jab yourself?” asked Pete.

“Yep. Ran a hook into my thumb,” answered Bill, as he carefully
extracted the barb, while Pete, who was rowing, rested on the oars and
looked critically at the few drops of blood which oozed forth.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, rather needlessly.

“Does it hurt? No, I do this every day just for exercise!” retorted.
Bill sarcastically as he put the injured thumb into his mouth.

“Shouldn’t do that,” observed Pete.

“Do what; jab myself? Don’t you s’pose I know that, you amiable loon?”

“No, I mean put your bleeding thumb into your mouth. You are likely to
get germs in it.”

“In which, my thumb or my mouth?”

“Say, when you two fellows get through chinning, I wish you’d pass me
down the box of hooks. I want to put on a smaller one,” observed Cap,
who was getting his line ready. As he spoke he looked down into the
bottom of the boat, and asked:

“Who’s been eating crackers here?”

“Crackers? Nobody,” answered Bill. “Why?”

“Because there are a lot of cracker crumbs or bread crumbs under the
seat here, and—”

Cap gave a sudden start, and looked toward shore. There was a slight
movement in the bushes, and Beantoe and Spider who had been peering
eagerly out, withdrew their heads into the shrubbery.

“The water must be coming in now!” exulted Spider.

“Sure!” agreed his crony.

Cap was anxiously staring at the bottom of the boat. He put his finger
on a certain spot. The finger nearly went through a soft place, and a
second later some water began trickling in.

“By crimps! I’m on to their game!” cried Cap. “Quick, fellows! Those
cork floats from the box! Stuff ’em in the holes!”

“What holes?” demanded Bill, removing his thumb from his mouth that he
might speak the more plainly.

“The holes Spider and Beantoe bored, and then stuffed up with bread,”
answered Cap. “It’s an old trick. I suspected something when I saw
the crumbs. They didn’t clean ’em all up. Lively now! Cracky! Here’s
another hole. Hand over those corks, Pete, if you don’t want to swim
ashore. Quick now, and don’t let those fellows suspect. We’ll plug the
holes, and go on as if nothing had happened. Lucky we’ve got plenty of
corks.”

“Hey! There’s a lot of water coming in here!” called Bill.

“Keep quiet!” ordered his elder brother. “Plug it up. Don’t let on
that there’s anything wrong. Beantoe and Spider are on shore watching
us. I just saw the bushes moving, and there’s no wind, so they must be
there. Say, are you going to be all day with those corks, Pete?”

Thus livened up Pete passed back the box of bottle-stoppers. By this
time the bread in several holes in the boat had become soaked through,
and the water was coming in at a lively rate. But Cap and his brothers
worked fast. They could see by the little bulges, caused by the
swelling plugs of bread, where the holes were, and, soon they had them
all stopped up before enough of the river had entered to do any harm.

“Now row on, Pete,” ordered Cap. “I guess we went them one better this
time.”

“Say, my feet are getting damp,” objected Pete, for there was a little
puddle of water under his seat.

“Pity about you!” sneered Cap. “If it hadn’t been for me thinking of
these corks you’d be wet all over. Row on, now, and when we get around
the bend where those fellows can’t see us, we’ll sponge out. They’ll be
wondering why their trick didn’t work. Row on!”

And, as Pete rowed, sending the boat along the river, it was watched
by two very much puzzled lads on the bank. They wondered why the boat
didn’t sink.

“Say, I thought you said they’d have to swim ashore,” observed Beantoe
rather contemptuously to his crony.

“They will, in a minute. Maybe I pressed the bread in too hard, and it
takes a while to soak up. But the boat will sink in a few seconds.”

They resumed their watching, and, though they saw the three brothers
doing something in the boat, the hidden ones never dreamed that the
Smith boys were plugging up the holes with corks.

“It’s got to sink pretty soon now, if we want to see the fun,” observed
Beantoe, after an anxious pause.

“I think it’s going down some,” said Spider doubtfully, wondering
whether he had not worked the scheme right.

“Yes, it’s going down stream, to the fishing hole,” spoke Beantoe. “I
guess it’s all up with the joke.”

They realized that it was all over as far as they were concerned a few
minutes later, when the boat containing the Smith boys passed around
the bend and out of sight, apparently in as good a condition as it had
ever been, and not leaking a drop.

“Well, what do you know about that?” demanded Spider, as he got up and
stretched his cramped legs, for they had been crouching in the bushes.

“What do I know about it?” demanded Beantoe in accents of disgust. “I
know that you don’t know how to play a joke; that’s what I know. I
thought we’d see some fun, and watch those fellows have to swim ashore.”

“So did I, but—but something went wrong, or else they got on to the
game, and stuffed up the holes,” answered Spider, helplessly scratching
his head. “Come on, I’ll treat you to a chocolate soda.”

This somewhat consoled Beantoe, but there was anguish in the hearts of
the cronies when, that evening, as they were down at the post office
with the usual crowd of boys, the Smith brothers, who had returned from
a successful fishing trip, stepped up to the plotters.

“Here’s something for you and Spider, Beantoe,” remarked Cap, holding
out his hand.

“What is it?” demanded the stumbling lad, backing away, for he feared a
trick.

“Something to stop up holes in boats,” answered Cap, as he showed a lot
of corks.

There was a chorus of laughs for the Smith boys had told the story, and
the joke was distinctively on Beantoe and his crony. They slunk away,
and Spider had to stand treat for several more sodas before his chum
would forgive him for being led into a plot that was so easily turned
against themselves. It was some time before they again ventured to play
a joke on our heroes.

Meanwhile the baseball season was drawing to a close, and the
championship of the county league lay between Vandalia and Freeport. It
came to the final game, the play-off of a tie.

“Now fellows,” remarked Cap, one afternoon, as they journeyed toward
the diamond in Freeport, where the closing contest was to take place,
“we’ve just got to win to-day. It means the pennant for us.”

“And for Vandalia—if we lose,” added Pete, in a low voice.

“But we’re not going to lose, Sawed-off!” exclaimed Bill, as he swung
his pitching arm around to limber it up. “Are we, Cap?”

“Not much,” and the tall lad thumped his big mitt. “Don’t let anything
get past you to-day, Pete.”

“I won’t. Is Bateye going to play?”

“Yes, but he’s improved a whole lot. My! There’s a big crowd out!”
added Cap, as he neared the grounds and saw the great throng on the
stands, and scattered about the field.

“Hear ’em yell,” remarked Bill.

“Yes, Vandalia is out for blood to-day. Lucky we won the toss, and have
the game on our grounds. It’s a good part of the battle.”

The Smith boys were soon out on the diamond with their teammates,
doing some hard practice. The crowds increased for not only was there
an intense baseball fever in both towns, but, because of the natural
rivalry between the places, a game between Freeport and Vandalia,
always brought out a record-breaking attendance.

“Play ball!” called the umpire, and the game was on.

It was a hot contest from the very beginning, when Rube Mantell of the
Vandalias knocked out a two-bagger with the first ball Bill delivered.

“Oh wow! Pretty one! Pretty one!” yelled the crowd. “That’s a beaut!
Take third! Take third!” shouted some enthusiastic one, but the ball
was fielded in too quickly.

There was a grim look on Cap’s face as he gave the signal to his
brother in the box, and Bill nodded. He struck out the next man, who
was a heavy hitter, gave the following player his base on balls, and
struck out the third. The succeeding man knocked a hot liner which
Pete, at short, stopped, almost at the risk of his life, and a goose
egg went up in the first frame for Vandalia.

“Oh, not so bad; eh?” asked Cap, as Bill came in to the bench.

“No, but I nearly had heart disease when Rube whacked it that first
time.”

“Aw, that was an accident. He can’t do it again.”

Then Freeport went to bat and succeeded in getting one run over the
plate, much to the joy of her supporters. Vandalia duplicated this
in her second chance, and the game ran along to the seventh inning
without another run being chalked up.

“Here’s where we do something,” announced Jake Jensen, of the opposing
team, as he took his place, and swung his mushroom bat menacingly. But
he only fanned the wind, as did his successor.

Then Flub Madison knocked as pretty a three-bagger as was seen in
many a game, and before Bateye could get the ball in, the runner was
speeding away from the last bag. But, as he turned, Doc. Lutkin who was
covering third, limped to one side with an expression of pain on his
face.

“Flub has spiked Doc!” yelled Pete, running over to his friend. The
ball bounced in front of Doc, and Pete caught it, but Flub had seen it
coming, and was back on the bag. “You spiked him on purpose!” cried
Pete, drawing back his fist.

“I did not!” asserted Flub angrily. “He got in my way! I couldn’t help
it!”

“I saw you do it on purpose—you want to kill off our men!” went on
Pete menacingly, and there might have been a row, had not Cap run down
from home, and quieted his brother.

“I’m sorry,” said Flub contritely. “Are you much hurt, Doc?”

“Oh, I—I guess I can play,” answered the plucky lad, “but I can’t run.”

“We’ll let you have a runner,” proposed the captain of the Vandalia
nine. It was the least he could do. Doc’s foot was punctured in the
fleshy part, and, after it had been treated, the game went on. Flub
came in on a little fly by Nifty Pell, and that put the Vandalias one
run ahead whereat there was great rejoicing.

“We’ve got to do ’em now or never,” declared Cap grimly, when he and
his mates came up for their turn.

They tried hard, but fate was against them, though Bill was called out
at first on a close decision which even the crowd characterized as
“rotten.”

But it stood, and when that inning was over the score was two to one,
in favor of Vandalia.

“Well, we have one more look in, and then—” Cap paused suggestively.

“I can see that pennant going across the river,” announced Bateye
gloomily.

“Say, you never were any good at seeing things in the daytime,”
declared Bill. “You want to take another look, Bateye. We’re going to
win!”

There was a positiveness in Bill’s tones that seemed to infuse itself
into the spirits of his teammates. There was a brief consultation among
the Freeport players, and exhortation from the captain and manager, and
then the final inning began.

Vandalia played desperately—played for blood, and got it—in the shape
of one run, putting them two ahead. It was due to an error of the
centre fielder, who slipped when he had a nice fly in his hands, and
there was a groan of anguish. Then the Freeport players settled grimly
down, and Bill struck out three in succession.

“Three runs to win!” said Cap in tense tones as he took off his mask
and chest protector. “We’ve just got to get them.”

Pete brought in one, and after a desperate race when he was nearly
caught on third, Norton Tonkin landed another, sliding home in a cloud
of dust when the third baseman threw the ball to the catcher, just
above the latter’s head, which error tied the score.

“Now for the winning run!” said Pete, as his elder brother went to the
bat. But the chances were against the Freeport team getting it, as
there were two out, and the Vandalia pitcher was lasting well. Still
the score was tied and there would be another inning if Cap did not
make good.

“But I’m going to bring in a run,” he told himself grimly, as he rubbed
some dirt on his hands, and took a firm grip of the stick.

The ball came whizzing toward him. He was half minded to swing at it,
but a signal he had caught passing between the pitcher and catcher
warned him, and he let it pass.

“Strike!” called the umpire. Cap opened his mouth to say something, and
then thought better of it.

“You won’t fool me again,” he called to the man in the box, with a grim
smile.

“Whack!” That was Cap’s stick meeting the horsehide. Out sailed the
sphere, a long, low straight drive into right field—away out among the
daisies.

“Oh, wow!”

“Oh, pretty!”

“Oh, a sweet one!”

“Run, you old war-horse! Run, you scob! Run!”

“A homer! A homer!”

“All the way round! Come on in!”

These were some of the yells that greeted Cap’s performance. But he
did not stay to listen to them. On he sped for first and rounded the
initial bag with a swing that carried him well on to second.

On and on he went, running as he had never run before since he felt
that on him now depended the championship.

“Run! Run you lobster!”

“Run, you dear old goat!”

“Run, Cap, run!”

“Come on, boy! Oh, a pretty one!”

The grandstand was rocking and swaying with the stamping of feet. The
cheers were deafening. The Vandalia players were almost stupefied. The
Freeporters were dancing up and down in a wild delirium of joy.

The rightfielder was running after the ball like mad. He had picked it
up. He was throwing it in. Cap was speeding toward third. He had passed
it when the fielded ball was in the air. Could he beat it home?

That was what everybody wanted to know. On and on ran the player.
Nearer and nearer came the ball. The second baseman had it now. He
threw it toward the Vandalia catcher, who, with feet well braced apart
was waiting for it with outstretched hands.

Cap was almost exhausted. His legs felt like wooden ones, but they kept
going like the pistons of an engine.

“Come on, boy! Come on! Come on!”

“Oh you Cap!”

“Beat it! Beat it!”

Cap dropped like a shot and slid, feet foremost. The catcher reached
forward. There was a vicious “ping!” as the ball landed in his big mit.

There was a moment of intense anxiety. A cloud of dust hid catcher,
runner and umpire from sight.

And then, from this mist of dirt, in which three figures could dimly be
seen moving about, came this one word:

“Safe!”

Oh, what a howling there was! What cheers, what yells, what thumpings
on the back, what improvised war-dances, what shakings of hands!

For Freeport had won, almost on the last chance and had the pennant. No
wonder Cap Smith was overwhelmed with praise as he walked panting to
the bench.

“Say, I guess there’s something in those Smith boys after all,”
remarked Mr. Flint, who had torn his score card to bits as he wildly
whooped himself hoarse while watching the home run.

“Well, they might be worse,” conceded Mr. Henderson.




CHAPTER V

OFF FOR WESTFIELD


Whether it was because their trick of putting holes in the Smith boys’
boat did not work, or because they wanted to get even with the brothers
on general principles was not made clear, but certain it was, that a
few days after the closing ball game, Beantoe and Spider made another
attempt to perpetrate something on our heroes.

“This time it will come off all right,” Spider had assured his crony.

“It ought to; we spent time enough on it,” said the stumbling lad. “I
certainly hope it does.”

With much labor and secrecy the two conspirators had made a lot of
sharpened stakes, and tied stout cords to them. They had also prepared
a quantity of molasses and lampblack.

“We’ll wait until they’re in their ‘coop,’ holding a meeting,”
explained Spider. “Then we’ll drive these stakes in the ground at the
foot of the stairs, so they’ll trip over the strings when they rush
down. And if they fall into the lampblack and molasses, we can’t help
it; can we?” he chuckled.

“Of course not,” answered Beantoe, with a malicious grin. “But how are
you going to get them to rush out of the coop?”

“Oh, I’ll show you.”

“And s’pose they catch us at it?”

“I don’t believe they will. It won’t take but a couple of minutes to
stick in the stakes. The ground’s soft and the stakes are sharp. We’ll
work it to-night, for it will be good and dark, and I heard Cap tell
Bateye and Doc. to come over after supper, so they’ll all be there.”

“Good. We’ll get square this time.”

A little later two figures, carrying some stakes and a can, might have
been seen proceeding cautiously toward the Smith homestead. The two
figures did not go boldly up and ring the front door bell. Instead they
sneaked around in the rear where there was an old workshop, which had
been converted by Cap and his brothers into a sort of “coop” or den,
where they held meetings and talked over pet schemes.

Entrance to the coop was obtained by means of an outside stairway,
which led to the second floor, where the meetings were always held, in
a room, the walls of which were hung with bats, masks, fencing foils,
boxing gloves, fishing poles and other trophies dear to boyish hearts.

It was at the foot of this outside stairway, after carefully looking
about to see that they were not observed, that Beantoe and Spider began
thrusting the sharpened stakes into the ground. Then they wound the
stout cord in and out among them, making a maze of string, which, if
anyone ran into unexpectedly in the dark, would be very likely to trip
him up.

“There, now to spread the molasses and lampblack around and give the
alarm,” said Spider, when they had nearly finished their preparations.

“Are you sure they’re up there?” asked Beantoe.

“Pretty sure. You can see the light, and I heard a lot of voices.”

They listened a moment and caught the unmistakable tones of Cap Smith.

“It’s all right,” whispered Spider. “Pour the stuff out, Beantoe.”

“Aw, I don’t wanter. You’d better,” objected the tripping youth.

“I will not! Didn’t I get all the stuff, and stick in most of the
stakes?”

“Well, I sharpened some. Besides, I’m afraid if I pour it I might slip
and fall into it.”

“That’s so, I didn’t think of that,” and as Spider recalled the
unfortunate habit of his crony he took the can of molasses and
lampblack from him, and began making a trail of it all about the foot
of the stairs, walking backwards so as to keep out of it himself.

“I guess that will do,” announced the long-legged lad at length. “Now
we’ll hide back here and watch the fun. I’ll bring ’em out.”

“How?”

“Listen, and you’ll hear.”

Spider drew from his pocket a blank cartridge pistol. Looking as well
as he could in the dark, to observe that his companion was hidden,
Spider fired two shots in the air, and immediately gave a very good
imitation of a dog’s agonized howling.

“They’ll think it’s their dog, Waggles,” whispered Spider, “and they’ll
come out quickly enough.”

His surmise was correct. The door of the coop, at the head of the
outside stairway was suddenly thrown open, and in the glare of light
could be seen Cap Smith standing.

“What is it?” the hidden ones could hear those in the coop asking. “Is
Waggles shot?”

“Can’t be Waggles—he’s here,” answered Cap. “Come back!” he ordered as
the dog, with a whine, started down the stairs.

“But it was some dog,” insisted Pete, coming to the door, and joining
his brother as he peered out into the darkness.

“Sure it was—and two shots. I’m going down to see.”

“I’ll come too,” volunteered Pete.

“I told you I’d get ’em out,” whispered Spider, and Beantoe grunted.

Cap started down the stairs, followed by Pete. Bill together with Doc.
and Bateye came after them.

“Now watch carefully!” whispered Spider, trying not to laugh.

Suddenly Cap uttered an exclamation. He had run into the first string.
He swung about, got tangled in another and went down, for his feet
slipped in the molasses.

“Great Scott!” he cried. “Look out, fellows, there’s something wrong
here! Keep back!”

But his warning came too late. Pete made a jump to help his brother,
and he too went down, sprawling in the sticky stuff.

“It’s glue!” he yelled. “Show a light!”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Bill.

“Get a light,” repeated Sawed-off, as he floundered about.

“Keep back!” yelled Cap.

There was so much confusion that Bill, Doc, and Bateye came down to
see what the trouble was. Then, they too, got tangled in the cords, and
went ingloriously down, the sticky and black stuff getting all over
their clothes, hands and faces.

“Oh wow! This is awful!” panted Cap, as he crawled out, and being now
able to dimly make out the cords and stakes he could avoid them. “It’s
a trick!” he cried.

“Time for us to skip,” murmured Spider who was doubled up with
laughter. “I guess this one works all right; didn’t it Beantoe?”

“It sure did. But come on, or they’ll catch us.”

They started to crawl away. Cap staggered up the stairs and got a
lantern. He came down, and by the light he saw what sorry looking
objects were his brothers and chums.

“Oh, this is fierce!” he wailed.

“You’re a peach!” cried Pete. “Look at him, Bill!”

“We’re _all_ covered with the stuff!” exclaimed Bateye, who looked like
an amateur minstrel.

“Hark!” whispered Cap.

The sound of some one stumbling in the bushes came to the ears of the
brothers. It was the unfortunate companion of Spider, falling down.

“Beantoe Pudder!” cried Cap. “He and Spider did this!”

He made a dash in the direction of the sound. Beantoe got up and tried
to run, but went down again, dragging Spider with him, for the latter’s
long legs got tangled up in a garden rake.

“Come on!” cried Cap to his brothers after a rush as he stood over the
conspirators. “I’ve got ’em both!”

They tried to arise, but Cap pushed Beantoe back, and grabbed Spider.
He knew it would take the stumbling lad some time to get up, and before
he could do so, Pete was on hand, and had made a prisoner of him.

“Both of ’em!” exulted Bill, who came up on the run. “What shall we do
with ’em?”

“Give ’em a dose of their same medicine,” decided Cap grimly. And it
was done.

When the unfortunate Beantoe and Spider were released from the hands
of their enemies they were even sorrier looking objects than were the
Smith boys and their chums. For the work of rolling the conspirators
in the lampblack and molasses had been thoroughly done, whereas our
friends only had some scattered spots on themselves.

“Oh, let us go!” begged Beantoe, “we’ll never do anything to you again!”

“Yes, please let us go, and we’ll always be your friends forever,”
promised Spider eagerly.

“Not much you won’t be our friends!” declared Cap. “We wouldn’t let you
be friends even with our dog, Waggles. Now, fellows, into the ditch
with them, and I guess that will end it.”

“Oh, don’t!” wailed Spider.

“Please don’t!” begged Beantoe. But no heed was paid to their protests,
and into the ditch at the end of the garden they were thrown, from
whence they clambered, dripping with slime, and very much chastened in
spirit.

“But they certainly did put one over us,” admitted Bill, a little
later, as he and his brothers and chums were cleaning themselves off as
best they could.

“Yes, and even though we got back at them, it won’t take the molasses
out of our clothes,” said Pete ruefully.

“Maybe Mrs. Murdock won’t make a fuss!” observed Bill uneasily, and the
housekeeper did, even to the extent of complaining to Mr. Smith.

“Now, boys, this practical joke business has got to stop,” said their
father, when he heard the story next morning. “Spoiling your clothes is
too much.”

“But, dad,” objected Cap, “it was Beantoe and Spider who worked it on
us. We didn’t do it!”

“Well, they wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t done something to them
first.”

“No,” protested Bill, “they were mad because the boat trick didn’t
work.”

“And they tried that scheme on you because of what you did to them at
the fire,” remarked Mr. Smith. “No, boys, it must stop; and to make
sure of it, I’m going to send you away.”

“Send us away?” faltered Cap.

“Yes. It’s the only means by which I can have any peace. I know you
don’t mean any harm, but I never know what is going to happen next.
I have arranged for you to go away to boarding school—the Westfield
Academy, as you know. The term does not open in two weeks, but I can’t
stand this any longer. Mrs. Murdock, help the boys to pack up. I’m
going to send them to school at once, and have them out of the way. I
have been thinking of this, and I wrote to Dr. Burton, president of
Westfield, asking if they could come. He said they might, so get ready
to go, boys.”

Mr. Smith tried to speak severely, but there was a half smile on his
lips. The boys said nothing for a few seconds. Then Cap softly cried:

“Hurrah for Westfield!”

“I’m afraid I haven’t quite made the punishment fit the crime,” said
Mr. Smith softly, as he turned away. “But off you go, boys. You’ll
start to-morrow, and I hope you will like it. You may be a bit lonesome
at first, but it will give you a chance to get acquainted with the
school and grounds before the other students arrive. Now I’ll have a
little quietness,” and Mr. Smith went to his library, while the boys
executed a noiseless war dance.

“Oh, those boys! Those boys!” exclaimed the housekeeper throwing up her
hands hopelessly.

How they managed to get ready on such short notice the brothers hardly
knew, but they accomplished it, and the next afternoon, having bidden
their friends good-bye, they took the train for Westfield Academy, an
institution of learning about one hundred miles away.

“Now remember,” called Mr. Smith after them, “no more practical jokes.”

“That’s right,” promised Cap. “We’re going to play baseball as soon as
the spring season opens.”




CHAPTER VI

A LIVELY HAZING


“Wow! But this is a lonesome place!” exclaimed Cap Smith, as he and
his brothers were set down by the depot stage in front of the gates of
Westfield Academy.

“And we’ve got it all to ourselves for two weeks,” added Pete. “I
wonder how we can stand it?”

“Got to,” declared Bill grimly. “Say, they’ve got a beaut diamond,” and
he motioned toward the baseball field.

“Nothing doing in that line until spring,” commented Cap. “Football has
the call now, but I don’t s’pose we’ll get a look in at that. Well,
come on,” and he went through the massive bronze gates.

“Where you going?” demanded Bill.

“Up to see Prexy. Dad gave me a letter for Dr. Burton, the president,
and we want to pay our respects, and find out where we’re going to
sleep to-night. I don’t exactly feel like camping out on the grass.”

“Me either,” came from Pete. “Say, as soon as we can get into some old
togs can’t we get up a game. Maybe there are some fellows sent on here
early, like us, and we can pick up a nine.”

“I’m afraid not, son,” spoke John, “but that looks like a place where a
college president would hang out. Come on, we’ll give it a trial.”

A little later they were shaking hands with the venerable Dr. Burton,
who made them genially welcome, but looked all the while as if he
didn’t quite know what to do with them, and wished they would take
themselves off, or go away so that he could get back to a volume of
Chinese proverbs on which he was working, making a translation of it
into modern Hebrew.

“I’m very glad to see you young gentlemen,” he said, “and I hope
you will like it here at Westfield. The students will—ahem—arrive
shortly.” That was all the reference he made to the fact that our
heroes were sent on ahead of the time as a sort of punishment, and the
boys were duly grateful.

“I have arranged for you to have rooms, temporarily, in the senior
dormitory,” went on Dr. Burton. “Professor Landmore, the science
instructor is there, and he—er—he will, ahem—look after you,” and
the good doctor seemed a trifle embarrassed.

“I guess he thinks we sure do need looking after,” murmured Pete, when
he and his brothers had settled down in a big room containing three
beds, which apartment was to be their home until the term opened.

“Shall we decorate?” asked Bill.

“What, put up all our trophies? Not much!” exclaimed Pete. “Wait until
we get into our own flat, and see what sort of neighbors we have. This
will do for now. I’m going to get unharnessed,” and he proceeded to don
some more comfortable clothes than those in which he had traveled.

A little later the brothers were out on the deserted diamond, tossing
balls back and forth, and batting them. In vain they looked for some
one with whom to organize even half a nine, and finally they gave it
up, and strolled about, looking at the college buildings, walking over
the football gridiron, and speculating as to what sort of fellows they
would get chummy with when the students arrived.

For two weeks our heroes lived rather a dull life, though Professor
Landmore made friends with them, and took them on long walks collecting
science specimens. Once he went fishing with them, but he paid little
attention to the sport after he had captured a new species of frog,
notes concerning which he proceeded to enter at great length in a book,
while the Smith boys pulled out some fine specimens of the finny tribe.

That night, the final one before the opening of the term, our friends
were given their regular rooms in the Freshman dormitory—three
connecting apartments, not very large, but just suitable for the boys.
And straightway the brothers began to decorate the walls, each in his
own peculiar way.

With their choice possessions and trophies hung up, the brothers
gathered in Pete’s room that night for a talk before turning in.

“Well, the crowd will be here to-morrow,” observed Bill.

“Yes, and then for some lively times,” added Pete.

“How do you mean?” asked Bill.

“Initiations, and hazing and all that. But we’ll have to stand it.”

“Surest thing you know,” declared Cap. “We all want to make the ball
team this spring, and if we balk out of the hazing I know what that
means.”

“Are you going to take all that comes?” asked Bill.

“Well, up to a certain point, but if it gets too strenuous, I’ll take a
hand myself. But we can’t tell until the time comes. Now let’s get to
bed.”

Lively were the scenes that took place the next day. With the arrival
of many new students, the return of old ones, the assigning of the boys
to their rooms, the making up of classes, it is a wonder that poor old
“Prexy’” did not desert. But he took everything calmly, and soon a sort
of order came out of chaos.

The Smith boys found themselves in the midst of a lively colony of
students in their dormitory. There were five rooms on a short corridor,
and of these our heroes had three. Pete’s apartment was between those
of Bill and John’s, while the letter’s adjoined the room of Donald
Anderson, a new lad who was at once dubbed “Whistle-Breeches” by some
senior from the fact that Donald wore corduroy trousers, which squeaked
or “whistled” as he walked. As soon as he learned why he was so
christened, he got rid of the offending garments, but the name stuck,
and “Whistle-Breeches” he remained to the end of his course.

Next to Bill there roomed a well-dressed, supercilious lad, who was
reputed to be quite wealthy, and his overbearing manners added to this
surmise. He was James Guilder, but he was at once christened “Bondy”
for he had boasted of his father’s stocks and bonds.

Behold then, these five lads domiciled together in the Freshman
corridor. Across the hall from Pete’s room, was a larger apartment,
which, as befitted his station, held a lordly senior, one Dick Lawson,
who rejoiced in the name of “Roundy” because he was fat. He was also
good natured, and though the school authorities had placed him there
to have a sort of leavening effect on the Freshmen, he was too good
natured to be any sort of a monitor.

After the first supper, partaken of with the entire school assembled in
the refectory, the three Smith boys went to their rooms, not knowing
what else to do.

“I say, we’re not going to stay in like chickens; are we?” demanded
Bill.

“No, but take it easy,” advised Cap. “We want to get the lay of things
before we start anything.”

“That’s all right,” agreed Pete. “Do you know what the Freshmen do the
first night?”

“Get hazed?” ventured Cap.

“No, they go out and collect signs from around town—pull ’em off, you
know; bootblack signs, restaurant signs—any kind—and decorate their
rooms with ’em. Let’s do it. Whistle-Breeches said he’d go.”

“Let’s don’t,” came from Cap calmly. “To-morrow will do as well, and I
want to look over some lessons. We’ve got to buckle down to work here.
It isn’t like the school at home.”

“Wow! I say you’re not going to become a greasy grind so soon; are
you?” demanded Bill in contempt.

“Not exactly,” answered Cap, “but we didn’t come here just to have fun.
Dad expects something of us.”

“Of course,” agreed Pete, “and we won’t disappoint him, either. I guess
I’ll—”

But a knock on the door interrupted him, and a voice called out:

“Open up, Freshies!”

“The hazers!” whispered Bill. “Shall we stand ’em off?”

“Might as well get it over with,” suggested Cap. “Just stick together,
that’s all, and when I give the word, which I’ll do if they get too
strenuous, just sail into ’em as we did into Beantoe and Spider that
time.”

“Sure,” agreed his brothers.

“Come on, Freshies! Open up or we’ll break in!” and the summons was a
thundering one.

“Coming!” cried Pete gaily, and he swung back the portal to confront a
crowd of Sophs and Juniors, who had taken it unto themselves to do some
hazing.

“Oh, this is fruit! This is easy!” was the cry, as they saw the Smith
brothers.

“Please—please you—you won’t be too—too rough, will you fellows?”
pleaded Pete, in simulated terror.

“Rough? Oh no, we’ll be as gentle as lambs; eh boys?” retorted one of
the hazers.

“Oh, no, we won’t do a thing to them!” cried another.

“Who’s in the next room?” demanded the leader of the band.

“Bondy Guilder,” replied Bill, indicating the room adjoining his, where
the wealthy lad was domiciled.

“And on the other side?”

“Whistle-Breeches Anderson.”

“Good! Yank ’em both out, boys,” was the order, and some of the cohorts
left to execute it, while our three heroes were pulled and hauled from
their apartments, going not unwillingly, as they thought of Cap’s plan.

“Out on the diamond with them,” ordered the leader, who was addressed
as “Senator” but with whom the Smith boys were not acquainted. “Bring
along the other two.”

Pete and his brothers soon found themselves in the midst of a motley
crowd of Freshmen, more or less alarmed over the ordeal in prospect.
Some were cravenly begging to be let off. Others were threatening and
some, like our friends, were silent, taking it as a matter of course.

“Now then, the gauntlet for some one,” ordered the Senator. “Line up,
fellows. Here’s a good one to start with,” and he hauled Bondy Guilder
out from the press.

“Hands off!” exclaimed the wealthy lad angrily.

“Oh, ho! High and Mighty; eh? Well, that doesn’t go at Westfield. Send
him down the line, fellows,” and the Senator gave Bondy a shove. The
hazers had lined up in two files, armed with bladders, rolls of papers,
books and stockings filled with flour. It was a reproduction of the old
Indian gauntlet along which hapless prisoners had to pass, being beaten
and clubbed as they ran.

“You chaps are doing this at your own risk!” cried Bondy trying to
break away.

“That’s all right, sport! We’ll chance it,” came the answer. “Run, you
lobster, or you’ll get the worst of it!”

“I—I protest!” cried the victim, as he turned to see who had hit him
with an inflated bladder, in which corn rattled.

“He doth protest too much!” cried a laughing hazer, fetching Bondy a
resounding thump with a slap-stick.

“Run!” shouted the Senator, giving him another shove, and the wealthy
lad ran perforce, since he was half-pushed, half-pulled the length of
the double line.

And what a trouncing he got! He was at once recognized as a
supercilious and overbearing lad and the punishment to fit the crime
was duly meted out to him. He reached the end of the gauntlet rather
much the worse for wear, and his spruce new suit was in need of a
tailor’s services.

“Now for the next!” cried the Senator. “Where’s that Whistle-Breeches
fellow?”

“Here,” answered Anderson.

“Well, we’ll let you off easy, for you look like a good sort.”
Whistle-Breeches was grinning in an agony of apprehension. “Can you
sing?” he was asked.

“A—a little.”

“Dance?”

“Even less.”

“Good, then you’ll do the Highland fling. Here, who’s got the mouth
organ?”

“I have,” was the answer from the ranks of the hazers.

“Pipe up a Scotch hornpipe. Where’s that whitewash brush, and skirt.
Off with his trousers.”

Before Donald could protest he was minus his lower garments and a short
skirt of Scotch plaid had been slipped over his head, and fastened
behind. Then a dangling whitewash brush was hung about his hips, in
imitation of a Scottish costume, and while the mouth organ made doleful
music Whistle-Breeches as well as he was able, which was not very good,
did a dance.

“Livelier!” was the command, amid a gale of laughter, and livelier it
was, until even the hazers were satisfied.

“Next,” called the Senator, like a barber.

“Here are three we can work off together,” volunteered some one, and
Pete, Bill and John Smith were thrust forward.

“What’ll it be?” demanded the Senator.

“Blanket tossing,” called several.

“No, the pond test.”

“Too cold for the water. We’ll give ’em the blanket degree. Bring out
the woolens.”

Some heavy horse blankets were produced and with the hazers holding to
the corners, our heroes were tossed up into the air, and caught as they
came down with sickenish feelings. But they had been through the ordeal
before, and knew what to do. They kept quiet and were not hurt.

But when Bill and Pete were tossed together, it was not so much fun,
and they very nearly had an accident. Altogether it was rather a tame
hazing, and the Sophs and Juniors felt it so.

“The pond! The pond!” was the cry.

“That means a ducking,” said Cap in a whisper to his brothers. “We
won’t stand for that. Let ’em take you along easy, until they get you
right to the edge, and then take a brace, and pitch in the first man
you can grab. I’ll whistle when it’s time. They won’t suspect anything.”

“The pond! The pond!” was the cry again raised, and though the Senator
and some of the older students were a bit averse to it they had to give
in to the majority.

“Come on!” cried the crowd, hustling Pete and the two other lads along.
“It’ll be over in a minute and you’ll feel better for it,” consoled one
hazer to Cap.

“Do you really think so?” he asked gently.

“Sure,” was the reply, and the youth wondered why the three did not
make more of a fuss. He found out a little later.

“Much against our will, we are compelled to initiate you into the
mysteries of the Knights of the Frogs,” said the Senator, as the crowd
lined up on the bank of a pond not far from the football gridiron.

“Go ahead,” said Cap easily, glancing on either side where his brothers
stood. “Is it deep?”

“Only to your waist,” answered the Senator. “Can you swim?” and he was
in earnest for he would have stopped the hazing had he found either of
the candidates deficient in the watery pastime.

“A little,” admitted Bill. “Oh, please—please don’t throw us in!” he
pleaded suddenly.

“No, don’t—I—I have a cold,” added Pete, taking his cue.

“I—I’d a good deal rather have something else, if it’s all the same to
you,” put in Cap, pretending to shiver.

“I thought we’d get their goat!” shouted a lad who had been
disappointed that the candidates did not show more fear. “All ready
now, in with ’em!”

The three Smith brothers allowed themselves to be led close to the edge
of the pond. On either side of each lad stood a hazer, with one hand on
a collar and the other grasping the seat of the trousers.

“All ready!” again called the leader. “I’ll count three and in they go!”

“One!” came the tally, and the throwers swayed their victims slowly to
and fro.

“Two!” came the count.

But before the third signal could be given there came a whistle from
Cap. At that instant the hazers had eased back ready for the forward
motion at the word three!

But it did not come. Instead Pete, Cap and Bill seemed to slip down.
In an instant they were loose. But they did not run.

Instead they put out their feet, one after the other gave vigorous
shoves, and six forms, dextrously tripped, lay prostrate on the sod.
They were the forms of the lads who had expected to toss into the pond
the three Freshmen.

“In with ’em!” cried Cap, and before the astonished hazers knew what
was up, one after the other had been rolled down the sloping bank of
the pond, into the water.

The tables had been turned most effectively, and, as our heroes fled
off through the night they heard some one call:

“For the love of tripe, what are we up against? Who were those fellows?”

“Th—those—those Smith boys!” was the spluttering answer of one who
crawled out of the frog pond.




CHAPTER VII

MOVING THE SENIOR STONE


“It occurs to me,” remarked Cap Smith one evening about a week after
the hazing, when his two brothers and Whistle-Breeches had foregathered
in the elder Smith lad’s room for a talk, “it occurs to me, fellows,
that we’re not doing much to uphold the honor and dignity of the
Freshman class. What about it?”

“Not doing much?” demanded Bill. “Say, didn’t we put it all over the
fellows who tried to haze us?”

“Yes, for the time being, but they caught us later, and man-handled
us about twice as badly as if we’d let them carry out the original
program,” answered Cap musingly.

“Well, didn’t we win the cane rush, and can’t we carry our sticks?”
asked Pete as he mended a broken bat in anticipation of spring.

“Yes,” admitted Cap, “we did win the rush, and we ought to have, for
the Freshman class is big this term. That’s what I’m complaining of,
it’s so big, and there are such a lot of fine fellows in it—not to
mention ourselves—that it ought to do something to make its name known
and feared for generations to come in the annals of Westfield.”

“Meaning just what?” asked Whistle-Breeches, as he carefully marked a
page in his algebra, lest he forget it.

“Meaning that we ought to get busy. Now have you fellows anything to
propose?”

“We might paint the class numerals on the bell tower. That hasn’t been
done in a couple of years I understand,” spoke Bill.

“Childish,” was Cap’s objection.

“Let’s go about town, changing all the signs in front of the stores,”
came from Pete. “The Freshmen did that one year, and a chap with a pair
of shoes to fix took them into a millinery joint. That would be sport.”

“Regular high-school game,” was what Cap said. “That’s old. Think of
something new.”

“Besides, it isn’t altogether safe,” added Whistle-Breeches. “I tried
to get some signs for my room the other day, and I did get a nice one
from a ladies’ hair dressing parlor, but the proprietor turned out
to be a man, and he spotted me. It cost me just seven-fifty for that
sign. I could have had one made for a dollar. I’m not stuck on the sign
racket. But, Cap, how about taking down the Junior flag pole? We could
dig it up some dark night and shift it over to the football field.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” remarked Cap condescendingly. “But I have
what I think is a better plan. You know that big meteor, or piece of a
meteor, that stands just off the middle of the main campus?”

“The Senior stone?” asked Bill.

“That’s it. Now what’s the matter with taking that and depositing it on
the college front steps some dark night?”

“What, move the Senior stone?” cried Whistle-Breeches aghast.

“Exactly,” answered Cap, “it isn’t chained down; is it?”

“No, but it weighs several tons,” declared Bill, “and besides it is
almost sacred. Why, it’s a piece of a meteor that some polar discoverer
brought back and presented to the school. The Seniors have always
claimed it, and that’s where they hold their farewell doings every
commencement.”

“I know it,” said Cap. “All the more reason for moving it. The meteor
must be tired of staying so long in one place. Besides we owe the
Seniors something, for the way they turned in and helped the Juniors
haze us this term.”

“But—move the Senior stone!” gasped Pete, as if it was a crime unheard
of.

The Senior’s stone at Westfield was an ancient and honorable
institution. I forgot how many years it had occupied a spot on the
campus, and, as Bill said, the graduates always gathered about it at
Commencement and had “doings” there. The stone, which was of meteoric
origin, was very heavy, and was considered almost sacred to the upper
class. Freshmen were required by school tradition to take off their
hats when passing it.

“Now what do you say to it?” asked Cap, when the idea had sufficiently
filtered through the minds of his brothers and their visitor. “Wouldn’t
that be worth doing?”

“If we could manage it,” answered Pete. “But it’s infernally heavy, and
how could we shift it?”

“Easy,” answered Cap. “I’ve got it all worked out.”

“It would take half the class to carry it,” went on Bill, “and if we
get a crowd like that out on the campus at night the faculty would be
on in a minute, to say nothing of the Seniors.”

“I don’t intend that half the Freshman class, or even ten members of it
shall have a part in it,” went on Cap. “We four are enough.”

“What, to move that big stone?” cried Bill.

“Hush!” exclaimed his elder brother. “Do you want to give the scheme
away? Not so loud. Evidently you haven’t studied physics lately; and
the principles of the wedge, lever, pulleys and the like are lost on
you. I have the very machine needed to move the stone, and if you
fellows will help we can do it to-night.”

“Of course we’ll help!” said Pete.

“We haven’t done much lately,” added Whistle-Breeches. “I’m with you.
But why to-night? It’s late now.”

“So much the better. We can get out without any one seeing us. Besides
the Seniors are having a class meeting to-night and they won’t spot us.
If you’re ready come on.”

The others hesitated a moment, and then prepared to follow Cap. That
leader, having ascertained by a careful observation that the coast was
clear below, let himself out into the corridor, went down it a short
distance to see that no scouting monitor was on the alert, and then
signalled to his brothers and Whistle-Breeches.

A little later four shadowy forms, skirting along in the darkness made
their way softly out of the school grounds.

“Where are you going?” asked Bill, as Cap led them along a road which
was dug up for the putting in of a sewer and water system. “This is as
bad as crossing the Alps.”

“Well, beyond the Alps lies Italy, and beyond these dirt piles is
the machine we need for moving the Senior stone, my lads,” was Cap’s
whispered answer. “Come on, we are almost there.”

They proceeded in silence until there came a sudden cry of dismay from
Bill.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Cap.

“Oh, I stumbled in a hole! Say, it’s as dark as red ink, and full of
gullies along here.”

“You’re as bad as Beantoe,” declared Pete. “Come on. How much farther,
Cap?”

“It’s around here somewhere I think. I spotted it to-day as I was
coming from town, and that’s how I happened to think of the scheme. Ah,
here it is,” and in the semi-darkness he went over to something that
looked like half of a wagon truck. It consisted of two high wheels,
with an iron arrangement between them, a long pole or lever and several
chains.

“What’s that, for the love of tripe?” demanded Bill.

“That,” said Cap, “is a stone-carrier, a pipe-carrier, a stump-puller
and is also used in a variety of other ways to lift heavy weights
and transport them from one place to another. The technical name has
escaped me, but I think that will answer you,” and with this delivered
in his best class room style, Cap took hold of the long pole and began
moving the machine out from amid a pile of sewer and water pipes.

“Say, I believe that _will_ do the trick!” exclaimed Bill admiringly.

“Of course it will,” declared Cap. “Come on, now. We haven’t any too
much time, for the Seniors may come out of meeting any minute, and some
may take a notion to stroll around the campus, though it’s not likely.”

Behold the conspirators then, a little later, trundling the big
two-wheeled affair along the dark road. Fortunately the dirt was
thick, and the machine made no noise. Also the campus grass was long
and soft and the wheels rolled smoothly along.

A careful bit of scout-work on the part of Bill, a cautious approach
and soon the plotters were beside the meteor ready to fasten the chains
around it, lift the heavy weight by the enormous leverage of the long
handle, and wheel it to the main school steps.

Cap and Bill adjusted the chains, handling them with care, so that they
would not rattle. The links were soon fastened about the stone.

“All ready now?” asked Cap in a whisper, as he took his place at the
lever.

“Let her go,” answered Pete.

Cap and his two brothers bore down on the handle. Something began to
give. Suddenly there was a hoarsely whispered appeal.

“Oh! For cats’ sake! You’ve got my foot caught in the chains! You’re
lifting me with the rock!”

It was the unfortunate Whistle-Breeches who had been stationed near the
meteor to steady it when it was raised from its ancient bed.

“Hurry up, get loose!” commanded Cap, and he and the others raised the
pole until the chains were slackened sufficiently for Donald to get his
foot out.

“All right, go ahead!” he called.

There was a creaking of wood and metal. The big lever came slowly down.
More slowly Whistle-Breeches saw the meteor being raised. At last it
was free from the ground, and was slung, in the chains, between the two
big wheels.

“All right!” he whispered. “She’s free!”

“Come on then,” ordered Cap, and they started across the campus,
pulling after them the Senior stone, which from the time when the mind
of man ran not to the contrary, had reposed in a place of honor. Now it
was moved.

“Right in the middle of the steps,” suggested Cap, and they bent their
course in that direction. A little later the heavy stone, weighing
several tons, was carefully lowered on the big paving flag that marked
the beginning of the main school entrance.

“I rather guess they’ll open their eyes when they see that,” said Cap,
as he wheeled the machine away, and stood off to observe the effect.
Truly the meteor rested in a strange place.

“Come on—no time for artistic observation,” suggested Bill. “We may
get caught. Let’s make a get-away.”

“Sure,” agreed Whistle-Breeches, and silently through the darkness they
sped with the wheeled affair.

As they were leaving the college grounds they heard some one
approaching along the road which they must take to return the lifter.

“Some one’s coming! Duck!” whispered Cap hoarsely.

“And leave this?” asked Bill.

“Sure. Shove it into the bushes.”

They tried to carry out this plan, but, even as they were doing so some
one came into sight. There was just light enough to see that the man
was Professor Landmore of the science class, and at the sight of him
the four lads, abandoning the machine, made a headlong dive for the
bushes.

“Who’s there?” demanded the professor, suddenly halting.

No answer, of course; only the sound of hurried flight.

“I demand to know if you are Westfield lads!” went on the instructor
vigorously.

“Think he recognized us?” asked Bill, as they paused for breath, for
they were now well hidden.

“I don’t think so,” answered Cap, peering through the bushes.

“He’s gone to look at the two wheels,” reported Bill, who was also
making an observation.

“Then we’re safe,” decided Cap. “He’ll make a book of notes about it,
and calculate how much more weight it could lift if it had bigger
wheels, and a lever twice as long. Come on, we’ll get back to our
little beds,” and he started away as stealthily as possible.

“But won’t he see the machine, and know how the stone was moved?” asked
Pete.

“What of it? We can’t help it, and even a member of the Senior class in
differential calculus and strength of material will know that meteor
couldn’t move of itself. As long as Prof. didn’t see us I don’t care.
Come on.”

And, before they made their silent ways into their rooms that night,
the four conspirators took another look at the big stone of Senior
fame, resting in its unaccustomed place.

“There’ll be a row in the morning,” was Cap’s opinion.




CHAPTER VIII

ORGANIZING THE NINE


Nobody was late for chapel next day—a most unusual occurrence. But the
news of the removal of the stone had early become known, and before
the first call for breakfast almost the entire school was out on the
campus, gazing at the work of the Smith boys and Whistle-Breeches.

“Say, that was a peach of a stunt all right,” was the general comment.
“Who did it?”

“Well, if we find out who of you Freshies did it, there’ll be something
_else_ doing,” was the angry retort of the Seniors, since, just before
leaving the stone, Cap had painted on it in hastily scrawled characters:

  “COMPLIMENTS OF THE FRESHMEN.”

“Don’t you wish you knew?” demanded Pete, with a wink at his brothers.

“What would you do if you did know?” asked Bill.

“Make you fellows roll it back with your noses,” was the grim answer.

“How in the mischief did they do it?” some of the cooler-headed Seniors
wanted to know.

“Why the little beggars must have used a platform, on long poles to
carry it on,” decided one of the upper class. “Though how they got
away with it, and so quietly, is a mystery. How are we going to get it
back?”

“Have to hire a gang of men I guess,” said a companion dubiously.

The matter was spoken of by Dr. Burton at the morning exercises, and he
requested whoever had perpetrated the “alleged joke,” as he called it,
to make himself, or themselves, known. Of course no one confessed, nor
did the good doctor expect them to, but he had done his duty, and then
he hurried back to his study to resume work on translating some clay
tablets, of early Assyrian characters, a friend had sent him.

It was Professor Landmore who solved the problem, by telling his class
that day of a curious machine he had seen for applying the principle of
the lever, and he described the big two wheeled affair he had noticed
beside the road the previous evening. Then the secret was out, and the
Seniors learned how the trick had been worked. It was even rumored
that the Smith boys had had a hand in it, but nothing came of it, and
the upper classmen had to endure the taunts and stings of the Freshmen
until, by hiring some of the sewer contractor’s men, the stone was put
back in its old place.

But the joke created quite a stir, and our heroes were considered
“honor men” in the Freshman class, which had gained undying fame by so
simple a means, for it was many years before the story of the removal
of the Senior stone grew stale in the annals of Westfield.

But now matters were more or less settled down in the school, and our
three friends gave at least part of their time to study. Meanwhile
they had joined several Greek letter fraternities, and were having
their share of college life. They wanted to make the Varsity football
team, but failed, as there was an overabundance of material that fall.
However they did make the Freshman team, and proved themselves worthy
of the honor. But as I intend to tell of the prowess of the Smith boys
on the gridiron in a book to follow this, I will merely mention now
that Bill, Pete and Cap did more than their share of work in winning
the Freshman championship for the school, after many hard-fought
battles.

The final game on the gridiron had been played, and the Westfield
Varsity had won. Long hair was sacrificed to the barber’s shears, dirty
suits and leather pads were laid away, and nose guards and helmets put
upon the shelf until another fall. Then began a winter of more or less
discontent, according as the lads liked or disliked study. Our heroes
were about the average, neither better nor worse.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was rather a more balmy feeling to the air than had been noticed
in some time. The snow had gone, and the grass that had been brown and
sear was beginning to take on a tinge of green. Cap Smith, mending
a rip in his big catching mitt looked out of the window, yawned and
stretched lazily.

“Too much study?” asked Bill.

“No, I think I’m getting the spring fever. How about you, Pete?”

“Same here. I’m tired of this measly Latin. Say, where is that new
mushroom bat I bought the other day?”

“I don’t know, unless Whistle-Breeches borrowed it to prop his window
up with. Jove! but it’s getting warm!”

“I like his nerve if he has,” and Pete made a hasty journey to the
room of the lad at the end of the corridor, returning with the stick in
question, and followed by the culprit himself.

“I didn’t know it was a _new_ bat,” said Whistle-Breeches in
extenuation. “Besides there won’t be any baseball for a month.”

“There won’t, eh?” retorted Bill. “I’ll bet they’ll have the cage up in
the gym this week.”

“I heard something about it,” admitted Cap. “Mr. Windam, the coach,
said he’d soon be on the lookout for candidates.”

“Think we have any show?” asked Pete eagerly.

“I guess so. We had a good record from home.”

“That doesn’t count so much here,” was the opinion of Whistle-Breeches.
“I’d like to make the nine, but I’m afraid I won’t.”

“Where do you play?” asked Cap, sizing up his chum with a professional
eye.

“Right field.”

“Then you bat some?”

“I did a little better than two eighty-nine last year,” was the modest
answer.

“Then you ought to get in all right. Now I want to catch, and Bill
wants to pitch,” went on Cap, “and—”

“And I’d like to fill it at short,” interrupted Pete.

“And that’s the trouble,” came from Bill. “It would look too much like
a family affair if we were all on the nine.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Whistle-Breeches. “If they want good players—”

“They’ll take us,” declared Cap with a laugh. “Well, even if we can’t
make the Varsity, we’ll have some games. I wish the ground would dry up
a bit, so we could get out and have some practice.”

Bill leaned forward and looked from the window, which gave a view of a
path leading to the gymnasium. On a post not far away from the building
was a bulletin board, and at that moment Forbes Graydon, captain of the
Varsity nine, was tacking something up on it.

“Wonder what that is?” asked Bill idly.

“Let’s go look,” proposed Pete. “Come on, Whistle-Breeches.”

They hurried down, and after a hasty reading of the placard waved their
hands to Cap and Bill, who soon joined them, together with a throng of
other students.

For the notice gave announcement that all who wished to try for the
baseball team were to report in the Gymnasium that afternoon, when
matters pertaining to the organization of the nine would be talked over.

“Shall we go, fellows?” asked Cap.

“Go? You couldn’t keep me back if you hitched me to the Seniors’
meteorite,” declared Bill with energy.

“Going to try for it, Bondy?” asked Whistle-Breeches of their wealthy
neighbor at Bill’s end of the corridor.

“Me? No. Baseball is such a rough and dirty game. But I shall cheer for
our team, and back it with my money, of course. Do you think we have a
chance to win the championship? I’d like to wager something on it.”

“Oh, you and your money!” growled Whistle-Breeches as he turned away in
disgust. “We play ball at Westfield for the _game_—not for _bets_!”

“Ah—really!” exclaimed James Guilder in supercilious tones as he wiped
his glasses with his silk handkerchief.

There was a big crowd in the gymnasium that afternoon, when Mr. Windam,
who occupied the platform with Captain Graydon and J. Evans Green, the
manager, banged his gavel for order.

“You all know why we are here, so there is no use wasting time going
over that,” said Mr. Windam. “There are several vacancies on the
Varsity nine, and we shall be glad to have new candidates announce
themselves. You new men will all be given a fair try-out, and those who
do not make the team will become substitutes.

“I might add, though you probably all know it, that we won the pennant
last year by only a narrow margin. It is going to be hard to keep it
this year, for I understand Tuckerton College, our most formidable
rival, has an exceptionally strong team, and they are after our scalps.”

“Well, they won’t get ’em!” Voice from the throng.

“Not if we can help it,” went on the coach. “Only I want to warn
you that we expect top-notch playing from every member of the team.
Financially we are in good shape, and just as soon as the candidates
can be picked out we’ll begin work in the cage. This week, if possible.

“Now, Mr. Green, Captain Graydon and myself will take your names if you
will come forward.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Cap Smith, with a look at his
two brothers, arose and walked toward the platform. There was a murmur
in the throng as Pete and Bill followed, and as Whistle-Breeches got
up.

“The whole Smith family!” called a voice, and there was a snicker of
mirth.

“Well, maybe we’ll be glad of more of the Smith boys before the season
is over,” said Mr. Windam good-naturedly. “Now boys, your names, and
the positions you’d like to have.”

The organization of the Westfield nine was under way, and as Cap and
his brothers noted the number of candidates they began to fear that
their chance of all being together on the team was a slim one.




CHAPTER IX

BILL IS HIT


“Well,” asked Mr. Windam, as Cap stood before him. “What name?”

“Smith—John.”

“Um. Spell it with a ‘Y’”

“Not much. Just plain Smith.”

“Good; and the position?”

“Catcher.”

“We’ve got three, but never mind. Accidents will happen. Next!”

“Smith,” said Bill laconically. “Plain Bill.”

“I see. And you’d like to be—”

“Pitcher.”

“Good again, as Mr. Pumblechook would say. Do you know Mr. Pumblechook?”

“Slightly,” answered Bill, as he recalled his Dickens.

“Pitcher; eh?” mused the coach, as he jotted Bill’s name down. “We’ve
got about seven candidates, but the more the merrier. Glass arms are
catching. Next!”

“Smith—Peter,” and the third member of the well-known family stood
forth.

“Great Scott! Any more? What is this anyhow, a family affair?”

There was a laugh, and Mr. Windam wrote Pete’s name down with
“shortstop” opposite it.

“Not so bad,” the coach murmured. “We need a good man at short, and you
look as if you’d fill the bill.”

Sawed-off smiled in a gratified manner, and the taking of names
proceeded. There was a large number of candidates, and they appeared
promising, the coach, captain and manager agreed as they looked them
over later. Then, announcing that work in the cage would start in two
days, and admonishing the lads to be on hand, and do their best, the
meeting was called to a close.

“Think we’ll make it?” asked Bill anxiously as he and his brothers,
together with Whistle-Breeches, walked to their rooms, to at least make
a pretense of reading and studying.

“We will if work is going to count for anything,” declared Cap.

The work soon began, and within the next few days there was a
considerable weeding-out.

Our heroes were lucky, or, rather their former good playing stood them
in excellent stead, and they, together with their friend of the former
corduroy trousers, were among the fit survivors. True they were not
assured of any particular positions on the team, but they realized that
they would be fortunate if they made the Varsity at all. In batting
Pete did better than either of his brothers, and he received some
compliments from the coach.

Cap was on the anxious seat regarding his position behind the bat,
and it was not until on one occasion he did some fearless work, and
demonstrated a good throwing ability that he drew from the coach and
captain a word of praise that meant much.

“I guess you’ll do, ‘Plain’ Smith,” said the coach with a reassuring
smile. “Of course I can’t tell until I see you out of doors, but you
look good to me.”

“How about Bill?” asked Cap anxiously, for he wanted to see his brother
fill the twirling box, and he knew that the control Bill had of the
ball, his curving ability, and his lasting qualities would win him a
place if he had a fair try-out.

“Well, I don’t know,” was the somewhat dubious answer. “Alex Mersfeld
pitched all last season, and naturally he’s entitled to it again. He’s
our star man, but of course if your brother is better—well, we’ve got
to have the best—that’s all. I don’t play any favorites.”

And with this Cap had to be content.

Spring came with a rush, the ground dried up, and two weeks after
the applications for the team were all in out-of-door practice was
ordered. Then the ranks were further thinned, but our heroes and
Whistle-Breeches still held their own.

Cap was slated as first substitute catcher, and Pete was honored with a
firm place on the Varsity as shortstop. But with Bill it was different.
Mersfeld held his old position, and there was no denying that he had a
good arm.

Still, when Bill got a chance to show what he could do he opened the
eyes of the coach and captain.

“If we ever need to take Mersfeld out there’s a chap who can fill the
box to perfection,” declared Mr. Windam. “I almost wish we could play
him regularly.”

“But he’s only a Fresh,” objected the captain, “and if we put the three
Smith boys on the team, it’ll be said we are trying to make a family
affair of it.”

“Can’t help it—we want to win.”

And, as the days went on the Smith boys further demonstrated their
abilities. Practice was now held regularly and there were games between
the Varsity and scrub nines, Bill pitching on the latter team. His
curves were a source of wonder and delight to his team mates, and
chagrin to his opponents, and on one occasion, when they did not get a
hit off him in five innings, the coach shook his head in doubt.

“I don’t know about it,” he murmured. “If he keeps on improving as he
has he’ll displace Mersfeld.”

“Nonsense!” said the captain easily.

It was one afternoon toward the close of a practice game, when the
scrub was one run ahead, and the coach was exhorting the Varsity lads
to “perk up,” and put some ginger into the contest. Bill was in the
box, and had been doing some excellent work for the scrub when Graydon,
of the Varsity, came up to the bat.

“Now’s a chance to strike me out!” he called good-naturedly. “If you
don’t I’m going to make a home run.”

“Then you’d better go sit down now,” replied Bill, as he wound up for
a swift out. It went from his hand with a speedy whizz, and the batter
caught it squarely on his stick. There was a resounding whack, and the
ball came straight for Bill, at about the level of his head.

He put up his hands for it, instinctively, but so swift was the
horsehide sphere traveling that it broke through and hit him on the
head, just over the left eye. He dropped like a stone, and Graydon,
tossing aside his bat, raced for the fallen lad.

“By Jove old man!” he cried contritely, all thoughts of the game
forgotten. “I’m sorry for that. Wow! But that’s a nasty bump!”

Poor Bill was lying in Graydon’s arms, unconscious, while a big lump
was swelling up on the pitcher’s head.

“Some water!” cried Graydon, and they brought the pail. Pete and Cap
hastened up, as did Mr. Windam.

“Now don’t cut off all the air,” said the coach. “Harris, perhaps you’d
better ask Dr. Blasdell to step down,” there being a physician on the
school’s staff of teachers.

But Bill opened his eyes as the cold water trickled down his face, and
murmured:

“I’m—I’m all right. I’m not hurt—just a little dizzy.”

“Take it easy, old man,” advised the coach. “A little more water. Here,
Snyder, mix a little of that aromatic spirits of ammonia. You’ll find
the bottle in my valise,” for Mr. Windam kept a few simple remedies in
readiness for first aid to the injured.

Soon Bill was much better, and there was no need for the services of
Dr. Blasdell, who came hurrying down at the summons. He found that
there was no apparent injury to Bill’s skull, and the plucky pitcher
wanted to go on with the game, but they would not hear of it, and put
another man in, while our hero was taken to his room to lie down. The
Varsity won the game, but took little credit for it, and when the
contest was over there were many inquiries for Bill.

“Well, how do you feel?” asked Pete the next day, as his brother got up
and looked in the glass at the strip of plaster over the big bump, for
the skin was broken.

“I feel as though I tried to stop a taxicab with my head. Dizzy, you
know. But I guess it will pass over.”

He felt much better as the day passed, and wanted to get into practice
that afternoon, but the coach would not let him.

However, on the following afternoon, Bill insisted so strenuously
that he was allowed to get into a uniform, and take his place on the
diamond. There was no game, but he and Cap did some work together.

The first few balls Bill pitched went a bit wild, and his brother did
not pay much attention to them, but when, after he had delivered about
the seventh one, and it went wide of the plate, Cap called:

“Get ’em over, Bill. They’re a bit too far out.”

“Too wide! What’s the matter? That cut off as big a corner of the plate
as you’d want.”

“What? It was four inches out.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Bill. “You can’t see straight. Here, how’s this?”

The ball shot from his hand, but Bill had to step some distance out to
gather it into his big mitt.

“Worser and worser,” he said with a smile. “Guess your vacation didn’t
do you any good.”

“Say, what’s the matter?” demanded Bill somewhat peevishly. “I’m
getting those over all right.”

“Then there’s something the matter with your eyes,” declared his
brother seriously, and he looked anxiously at the younger lad.

“Watch this!” called Bill.

He threw very carefully but he seemed to lose control of the ball,
which ability was one of his best features. It again went wide, and Cap
had to reach out for the sphere.

The catcher shook his head.

“How are your eyes, Bill?” he asked kindly, walking toward his brother.
“Maybe the jar they got when you were hit, sort of put them on the
blink for a few days. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t see how it could be. Just try a few more.”

They did, but Cap only shook his head. Other players were noticing
something wrong, and as soon as Cap saw this he called the practice off.

“We’ve had enough for to-day,” he declared, as though it was of no
consequence, but Bill knew that his brother’s light tone covered a
deeper meaning. There was a vague alarm in the heart of the lad who
aspired to be the Varsity pitcher.

Was his eyesight going back on him? Was he losing his control? What
ailed him?

He hardly dared answer, yet he resolved to put it to the test soon.

“My head does feel a little queer,” he admitted to himself, and much
against his will. “And my eyes—my eyes—I wonder if there can be
anything wrong?” and he walked moodily off the diamond, while Cap and
Pete gazed apprehensively after him.




CHAPTER X

THE DOCTOR’S VERDICT


“Maybe if you take a few days’ rest you’ll be all right, Bill,”
suggested Pete a little later, when the brothers were in their
connecting rooms.

“That’s it,” agreed Cap eagerly. “A rest will do you good, Bill, and
then you’ll be in shape for the try-out just before the first league
game. Take a good rest.”

“I’m not tired,” protested Bill who sat in a corner nervously fingering
his pitching glove. “Why should I need a rest?” He asked the question
fiercely as though there was some disgrace attached to it.

“But your eyes,” said Cap. “You know you’re off in your pitching.”

“That’s right—I did rotten to-day, and if I’d been in a game they’d
have knocked me out of the box. But I’ll be all right in a few days
more. That lump is still as sore as the mischief,” and he tenderly felt
of the place where the batted ball had hit him.

“And if you don’t get all right?” asked Cap softly.

“Then I’ll see a doctor!” exclaimed Bill with energy. “I’m not going to
lose a chance to pitch on the Varsity this season, and I believe I will
have a chance. I’ve been watching Mersfeld, and he’s not such a wonder.”

“I don’t think anything of him,” admitted Cap. “I’ve caught for him
in a couple of practice games, and he hasn’t half your speed, though
he has some nice curves, and a good control. I don’t believe he’d last
through a hard game.”

“Oh, we’ll fix Bill up, and have him on the Varsity yet,” declared
Pete easily. He could afford to speak thus for he was sure of his own
position at short, and Cap had at least a tentative promise of being
behind the bat in a number of the big games that would soon be played.

The brothers talked over the situation, and then fell to studying,
with more or less energy, until interrupted by the entrance of
Whistle-Breeches and Dick, or “Roundy,” Lawson, the genial senior
having gotten into the habit lately of calling on his neighbors.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Whistle-Breeches as he noticed Bill’s rather
dejected attitude.

“Oh, I’m on the blink. Can’t see to throw straight,” and then the
story, which was already known to several in the school, was told.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” began Lawson, and his words were carefully
listened to, as befitted a Senior. “You want to see a doctor, Bill.”

“You mean Doc. Blasdell?”

“No, he’s all right for a pain on your insides, but I mean an eye
doctor—an oculist. I know a good one. I had trouble with my eyes once,
and I went to him. He can fix you up. Maybe there’s a little strain
which some medicine will cure. Why don’t you go to see him?”

“I believe I will. It’s tough to be knocked out before the season
starts. I’ll go to-morrow.”

Then they fell to talking of the baseball prospects, how this player
was making out at first, another in the field, what the chances were
for good batters, the prospects of Westfield holding the pennant, and
kindred matters.

All the while Bill sat in a darkened corner, for Lawson had insisted on
this since his advent into the room, saying that darkness was good for
weak eyes. And poor Bill fingered his pitching glove, wondering if he
would ever get back into the box again. Cap was straightening a bent
wire in his mask and Pete was re-winding some tape on a favorite bat
that always opened at the split every time he used it. But he could not
bring himself to throw it away.

“Mind now,” stipulated Lawson, as he and Whistle-Breeches took their
leave, “you see that eye man to-morrow.”

And Bill promised.

They went to the oculist’s together, Cap and Bill, and the pitcher was
put through a number of tests. He sat and looked at candles, while
the medical man put a lens in front of the lights, and turned the
glass sideways to make the single image develop into two. Then when
Bill admitted that the two lights were not on the same level (as they
should have been to one of normal vision) the oculist shook his head
doubtfully.

Next he looked through the eye away into the back of Bill’s head, with
a queerly constructed instrument, and reflected glaring lights into
the lad’s orbs until he blinked in pain. Reading cards of different
size type, taking a stick, and trying to impale a series of concentric
circles, first with his left eye closed and then with the right one
shut, ended the test.

“Well,” announced the oculist at length, “it’s not as bad as it might
be. Your left eye is considerably out of focus, and I should say it was
caused by some pressure on the optic nerve—possibly the result of that
blow with the ball.”

“But what can be done about it?” demanded Bill with a note of despair
in his voice.

“Well, nothing much. In time it may readjust itself, and again—it may
not.”

“Do you mean that I’ll always be this way—not able to throw straight?”
demanded the pitcher almost springing up from his chair.

“Easy now, old man,” cautioned Cap in a low voice.

“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—”

“Yes, I know how it is,” and he spoke bitterly. “I’d be of no use in
the box. Well, I s’pose there’s no help for it,” and Bill picked up a
round stone, and threw it at a telegraph pole. He missed it by a foot,
though usually he was a good shot. He laughed mirthlessly, and turning
to Cap said: “See how it is?”

“Oh, well, don’t take it so hard. That was a nasty blow you got, and
the effects may be a long time wearing away. But I’m sure you’ll be all
right next season, if you’re not this.”

“But a whole season off the diamond!” gasped Bill in dismay.

“Oh, you don’t need to get off. Maybe Windam will play you in the
outfield. You can catch; can’t you?”

“Yes, but I want to be in the box. However if I can’t—I can’t,” and
seeing that he was causing Cap pain by his manner, Bill tried to assume
a more cheerful air.

“Graydon will be cut up over it,” said the elder lad, referring to the
player whose batted ball had been responsible for Bill’s mishap.

“It wasn’t his fault,” declared the pitcher. “I ought to have known
better than to try to stop it at such close range. It was going like a
bullet. I should have passed it.”

“You couldn’t—and be a Smith boy,” exclaimed Cap with a laugh. “We’d
take a chance on anything in the shape of a ball, I guess.”

“Well, I’ll go back in a couple of days, and get the reading glasses,
and maybe they’ll help some,” decided Bill, as they walked on. They
were nearing the college, the many buildings of which could be seen
in the distance above the trees, the red tiled roofs making a pretty
picture seen through the green foliage.

“Hello, something’s going on!” exclaimed Cap, as they swung into the
main road that led up to the grounds. “Look at the crowd.”

“Baseball game?” suggested Bill.

“No, they’re away this side of the diamond. There’s some sort of a
wagon there—a Gypsy van, I guess. Maybe some of the fellows are having
their fortunes told. Come on, we’ll get in the game, and have some fun.”

“Maybe it’s an ambulance, and some one is hurt.”

“Get out! They don’t have ambulances around here.”

The brothers increased their pace, and as they neared the vehicle
something vaguely familiar about it attracted the attention of Bill and
Cap. They looked at each other.

“It can’t be him!” exclaimed Bill.

“It looks like his rig, though,” assented Cap. “But it’s painted a
different color. I wonder—?”

“Hark!” cautioned his brother.

They were close to the throng of students now, but could only see the
top of the wagon, which was a covered one. A voice could be heard
droning away like this:

“Young gentlemen, it is one of the greatest pleasures of my life to
speak to students—to persons of learning, in which class I am so
fortunate as to count myself, though in an humble capacity. Learning, I
may say, extends even to the noble steed which draws my equipage, whose
cognomen is, I may say derived from—”

“That’s all right, old sport, what’s the horse called?” demanded one of
the students, with a laugh.

“Yes, get down to business,” added another.

“Right you are, young gentlemen,” admitted the voice, though Bill and
Cap could not yet see the speaker. They observed their brother Pete
beckoning frantically to them, and they increased their pace. “Right
you are,” resumed the owner of the covered wagon. “The name of my noble
animal is Pactolus, called after, I need not remind you—”

“The river of Lydia in which the King Midas washed himself one Saturday
night, so that he put the golden touch on everything,” interrupted
one of the classical students, and there was a laugh, but it did not
disconcert the traveling vendor, for such Bill and Cap now knew him to
be.

“Exactly,” he admitted. “The river whence ever after the visit of the
king, the sands became golden. Thus I named my horse Pactolus in the
hope that some day he might stumble into a river which, if it did not
turn him to gold might at least make him a steed of silver.

“But, young gentlemen of Westfield, which I understand is the name of
the school in the distance, I did not attract you hither by the magic
of my voice and playing to talk to you on classical subjects. This is
a practical world, and we who live in it must also be practical. Whoa,
there, Pactolus!” This as his steed showed signs of restiveness, due to
the fact that some of the boys were tickling his ears.

“Whoa, Pactolus. Never mind if some of your longer-eared brothers are
whispering to you to entice you away to pastures green—stay you here!”

This reference to donkeys had the effect of causing the mischief loving
lads to hastily draw away from the horse, in some confusion, for there
were snickers at their expense.

“It is a practical world,” resumed the speaker, “and we must recognize
that, and be practical ourselves. Now there is nothing more practical
for the removal of any kind of misery, whether inward or outward, than
my Peerless Permanent Pain Preventative, which is good for both man and
beast, and eradicates all the ills that flesh is heir to, and some that
it is not. Good for man and beast I repeat. See! I use it on myself,”
and suiting the action to the word, the man, who had black flowing
locks, as Bill and Cap could now see, and who wore light trousers, a
red and green striped vest and a red shirt with black polka dots—this
man vigorously rubbed some stuff from a bottle on his big forearm.

“There I had a pain—’twas there, ’tis gone. ’Twas mine, ’tis
yours—for the asking,” and he waved his hand toward the throng of
students who laughed again, and seemed amused by the clatter of the
traveling medicine man.

“Think not it is only for external pain—’tis also for the ills of the
inner organs. See, I take some thusly,” and, tilting back his head the
speaker swallowed a generous potion from the bottle. “Good for man and
beast,” he went on, smacking his lips. “As harmless as a baby, and as
powerful as an electric current. See, Pactolus minds it not, yet it
will take the stiffness from him like magic,” and, leaning forward he
rubbed some of the contents of the bottle on the animal’s flank.

Pactolus merely looked around, waved his ears slowly to and fro, and
seemed to take but a mild interest in the matter under discussion.
Probably he was used to it.

“Now who wants a bottle of this wonderful remedy?” went on the man.
“The regular price is one dollar, but to introduce it among gentlemen
of learning I am selling it for the small sum of twenty-five cents—a
quarter—and it would be cheap at half the price. Or, if you have
no immediate need for this, let me introduce to your favorable
consideration and notice, my Rapid Robust Resolute Resolvent, which
is a cake of soap guaranteed to take out stains on linen, silk, wool,
cotton, velvet, calico and satin, the skin of the hands or face, from
wall paper, newspaper, writing paper or wrapping paper. Positively
nothing like it known to science.

“Or, if you care not for these, I have others. My Spotless Saponifier
is a soap worthy to be used by all the gods that on Olympus dwell,
and it sells for only ten cents a cake. An’ you like that not, let
me introduce to your polite and favorable consideration my Supremely
Sterling Silver Shiner. Nothing like it known for cleaning silver,
gold, brass, copper, pewter, iron, lead, bell-metal, watch chains,
baseball bats, and gloves, and for brightening up a dull intellect it
has no equal, though I despair of selling any for that purpose when I
gaze on the bright, smiling and intelligent faces before me.”

There was a mocking groan from the students at this, and some more
laughter.

“And now,” went on the vendor, “who will be the first to purchase some
of my Peerless Permanent Pain Preventative, my Rapid Robust Resolute
Resolvent, my Spotless Saponifier or the Supremely Sterling Silver
Shiner? Who will be the first?” and the man, who was as gaudily attired
as his wagon was painted, advanced into the crowd.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Cap, Bill and Pete, who were
standing together, exchanging queer glances, heard Bondy Guilder say in
a low voice to some of his particular cronies in the sporting set:

“I say, fellows, let’s have some fun. Let’s upset his old apple cart,
and spill his Pain Killer and other stuff. He has nerve, trying to do
business so near the school. There ought to be a rule to keep these
peddlers away. Let’s make a rough house for him.”

“Sure! Go ahead! We’re with you!” agreed several. “Come on, we’ll all
make a rush together.”

Cap and his brothers heard. They looked at each other and nodded.

“Here you are, young gentlemen! Here you are!” the voice of the vendor
was murmuring. “You have listened with gratifying attention to the
patter of Professor Theophilus Clatter, and now you may buy his wares.
You need not beware of the wares of Theophilus Clatter!” he declaimed
in a sing-song voice.

“That’s him!” exclaimed Pete.

“Of course,” agreed Bill.

“And they’re going to make a rough house for him,” added Cap. “Shall we
stand for it?” he asked in a low voice.

“How are we going to stop them?” demanded Bill.

“If we say he’s a friend of ours I think they’ll pass it up.”

“Acknowledge him as our friend before this crowd—tell how we traveled
with him and sold patent medicines,” asked Pete. “They’d laugh at us!”

“What of it?” inquired Cap indignantly. “Professor Clatter helped us
when we were in a hole, after we’d run away from home. It’s up to us
to help him now. I’m going to stand up for him. If the boys get going
they’ll demolish the wagon, and everything in it. We can’t have that.”

“I guess not,” agreed Pete and Bill in low tones.

“Come on then,” suggested their elder brother, edging his way through
the throng.

The plan proposed by the rich bully had taken the fancy of his fellows.
The word was passed around and the students got ready for a rush that
would overturn the wagon. Already they were jostling the professor who
was aware of a change in the temper of the students. He looked around
uneasily, and glanced back at his wagon. Quite a throng was now between
him and the vehicle. He turned to retreat, vaguely alarmed, but found
himself cut off.

“My Rapid Robust Resolute Resolvent,” he was saying, “is guaranteed
to—”

“Come on now, fellows, over with the wagon!” cried Guilder.
“Altogether, with a rush! Make a rough house! This faker has no
business here!”

The rush started but before it could get under way, Cap, Pete and Bill
Smith had sprung up on the steps that were let down from the back of
the vehicle. They stood together looking over the crowd of their fellow
students.

“Hold on!” cried Cap calmly, raising his hand for silence.

“What’s up?” demanded Bondy with a sneer.

Professor Clatter, with a look of wonder on his face was staring at the
three Smith boys.

“No rough house here,” said Cap determinedly, noting with relief that
nearly every one in the crowd was a Freshman. Had they been Sophomores,
Juniors or Seniors he would hardly have dared take the stand he did.

“No rough house? Why not?” demanded the rich lad. “Why can’t we have
some fun with this fellow?”

“Because,” went on Cap resolutely, and no one knew what an effort it
was to make the announcement in an exclusive crowd of students, “this
man is a friend of my brothers and myself. If you’re going to make
trouble for him, you’ve got to reckon on us,” and Cap standing there,
with his brothers beside him, looked sturdy enough to put up a pretty
good argument.

“Your friend?” sneered Bondy.

“Our friend,” repeated Cap calmly. “So you’ll please pass him up, as a
matter of class courtesy.”

It was an appeal that could not well be denied.

“Listen to Professor Clatter’s friend!” cried several of Bondy’s
cronies.

“Proud to acknowledge it,” put in Bill in drawling tones, “and so would
you, if you knew the story.”

Professor Clatter was still staring at the three lads on the steps of
his wagon.

“The Smith boys! The Smith boys!” he murmured. “I’d never have believed
it. Whoa, Pactolus! We have unexpected allies,” and he made his way
through the crowd of wondering students to where our three heroes
waited for him on the wagon steps.




CHAPTER XII

PROFESSOR CLATTER’S PLAN


Standing there, facing their fellow students who were gathered in a
mocking crowd about the medicine wagon, Cap, Bill and Pete hardly knew
how to begin, nor what to talk about after they had started.

“Do you mean to say you’re going to stick up for—for _this_ person?”
demanded Bondy, and he put all the scorn of which he was capable into
the words.

“We certainly do,” declared Cap firmly. “If you’ll let us explain,
we’ll—”

“Young gentlemen, permit me,” broke in the voice of Professor Clatter.
“I believe I can—”

“No more of your patent medicine jargon!” interrupted some of Guilder’s
cronies. “We’ve had enough.”

“I wasn’t going to speak of my wares,” said the vendor simply. “I hope
you will give me credit for knowing how to deal with gentlemen—when I
see them.”

There was a laugh at this, and the Professor knew he had at least some
of his audience with him.

“I was going to ask my friends, the Smith boys, to allow me to make the
explanation,” Mr. Clatter went on. “I believe I can give all the facts
necessary.”

He looked at Cap, who nodded an assent. Then, mounting the steps beside
the lads, the vendor of the Peerless Permanent Pain Preventative and
the various other nostrums, told simply, but effectively, how, one
morning, he had met our three heroes as they were fleeing from home,
under the mistaken notion that they were to be tarred and feathered.
Mr. Clatter related how he had provided them with breakfast from his
wagon, how they had traveled about with him, selling his goods, taking
part in a sort of minstrel show, all as related in the first volume of
this series.

“And when I was arrested for innocently practicing palmistry, in an
effort to locate a man who had robbed their father, these boys kept on
with the business alone, and made money enough to pay my fine,” said
the professor. “I can never thank them enough for what they did, and
now they have more than ever put me in their debt by standing up in
this friendly fashion for me when—well, I know you young gentlemen
love fun, but this wagon and stock is all I have in the world,” he
concluded simply, and there was a break in his voice.

For a moment there was silence, and then the story, which the professor
told much more dramatically than either of our heroes could have
presented it, had its effect.

“By Jove! That was no end of a lark!” exclaimed Roundy Lawson. “I wish
I could travel around like that, and eat when I pleased.”

“That was _rich_!” declared Whistle-Breeches Anderson. “Why didn’t you
ever tell us that, Cap?” he demanded.

“I never thought you fellows would care about hearing it. But now,
boys, do you blame us for sticking up for Mr. Clatter?”

“Not a bit of it!” came in an emphatic chorus. “You’re all right,
professor!”

“Pass out some of that Rapid Resolute Resolvent!”

“I want some of that Spotless Soap!”

“Me for the Pain Killer. I ate too much dinner!”

“A little silver polish will about suit me!”

The students were clamoring for the wares, now, and the vendor, who had
shaken hands with our heroes, and whispered to them how grateful he
was, began passing out his goods. Whether the students really wanted
it, or only bought out of sympathy, or because of a class spirit,
mattered little as long as he sold the articles, and the professor did
a thriving trade.

“Come on,” disgustedly called the rich lad to the cronies in his own
particular set, “I might have known better than to come to Westfield.
I was warned that a number of common persons attended it, and now I’m
sure of it. I shall write father and have him withdraw me at once.”

“Why don’t you withdraw yourself, and save daddy the trouble?” asked
Whistle-Breeches as the rich lad passed on amid his chums, with a sneer
on his face.

All danger to the professor’s wagon was now over, and he at once made
friends among the students, for he was a man who had traveled much, and
his ways, while suiting his particular business, were genial and kindly
when once you knew him, though at first they might seem bombastic and
uncultured. He knew how to gain the attention of an audience.

“Well, it’s a real pleasure to see you boys again,” went on the
professor when the desire of the crowd for his wares had been
satisfied, and when most of the students had strolled away. “And so
you are attending school here? Well, what has happened since last we
met?”

“Lots,” declared Cap, and he proceeded to tell the main facts.

“Are you still traveling about in the same way?” asked Pete.

“Yes, but I don’t do any more palmistry. It’s too risky. But what’s the
matter with you, Bill? You don’t seem well.”

“Got hit with a ball,” explained the lad, touching the place where
there was still a lump on his head.

“Too bad, but you’ll soon be over it. Pactolus once kicked me, and it
was a week before the swelling went down.”

“The swelling is the least part of it,” spoke Bill gloomily, and Pete,
who had not yet heard of the result of the visit to the oculist, looked
in alarm at his brother’s tone.

“What’s the trouble?” inquired Mr. Clatter. “Perhaps some of my pain
killer will help you. It’s good stuff in spite of the way I sell it. I
used to know something of medicine. Let me wrap you up a bottle for old
times’ sake.”

“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.

“I expect to do a little business early in the evening so if I am
clattering when you arrive, just wait in the crowd for me. I still do
some singing and banjo playing to draw a throng. I don’t s’pose you
boys would like a try at your old job?” and he laughed heartily.

“I’m afraid it would hardly be in keeping with our characters as
students at Westfield,” said Pete. “But say, if you’ll stay around here
long enough maybe we can get the glee club to do a stunt for you.”

“That would be asking too much,” declared the genial professor, with a
wave of his fat hand on which still sparkled the diamond ring. “Well,
farewell until the shades of night do fall.”

“The same old professor,” remarked Cap, as he and his brothers strolled
toward the school buildings.

“Yes, I’m glad we could help him—they would have put him on the blink
for keeps,” said Pete earnestly if a bit slangily.

Bill said nothing, but there were bitter thoughts in his heart as he
walked on, and nothing his brothers could say or do served to cheer him.

Meanwhile Professor Clatter, standing in the back room of his wagon,
which was his house, his store, his sleeping apartment and his theatre
of entertainment, watched the three boys.

“Fine fellows,” he murmured. “It’s too bad about Bill. I wonder if I
couldn’t help him? He’ll have to wear glasses—wear glasses and play
ball—I wonder if it could be done? I don’t see why not, especially in
the pitcher’s box. Now I wonder if Duodecimo will be on hand?

“If he comes I have a plan to propose to him! Jove, I don’t see why it
wouldn’t work. If he hasn’t forgotten all he used to know about eyes it
ought to! I’ll chance it, anyhow. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Maybe I can
fix up a scheme so that Bill can pitch on the Varsity team after all.
I’d like to. Yes, I’ll propose it to Duodecimo, and see what he says,”
and, filled with pleasant anticipations about his plan, Professor
Clatter proceeded to get his simple meal on the little oil stove he
carried in his wagon.

“What ho! Mercurio!” he cried, clapping his hands. “Come, base varlet,
set out the magic table, for I am an hungered and would’st dine!”

And then, having given his orders to his menial, Mr. Clatter, highly
pleased, proceeded to carry them out himself.




CHAPTER XIII

BILL IS HIMSELF AGAIN


“Well, are you coming?” asked Pete of Bill as he tossed into a corner
of his study one of a pile of books over which he had been doing more
or less “boning” in the last hour.

“Coming where?”

“Over to see Professor Clatter. Cap’s ready.”

“Oh—I don’t know.” Bill spoke listlessly. He had been trying to study
but a curious watery mist came into his eyes, and, try as he did to
brush it away, the film seemed to return. The eye near the injured spot
smarted and burned.

“Come ahead,” urged Cap, entering his brother’s room at that moment.
“Whistle-Breeches wants to go and see the performance.”

“All right, you fellows go, and I’ll stay here. I don’t care much about
it.”

Cap winked at Pete. They understood Bill’s despondency, and were
determined to get him out of the slough of it.

“Oh, it’ll be sport—like old times,” urged Cap. “The professor will
do his singing and banjo act, and I’ve a good notion to get up on the
platform and show Whistle-Breeches how we used to earn our board and
lodging.”

“Better not, Bondy might spot us and there’d be a faculty row. He’d be
just mean enough to squeal. But come on, Bill. The professor expects
us. Say, remember the time after he got nabbed, and we tried to take
the spot out of the man’s vest, and it turned green, red, yellow and a
few other colors? Remember that, Cap?”

“I should say I did!” exclaimed John Smith. “I thought sure it was all
up with us,” and he laughed heartily. A smile came over Bill’s gloomy
face. Pete saw it and nudged his brother.

“We’ll see the rain-maker again,” went on Pete. “Better come, Bill.
Don’t worry about your eyes, and pitching and all that. Maybe it will
come out right.”

“Yes, it’s easy enough for you fellows to talk, for you can play ball,
but—Oh well, what’s the use of kicking. I s’pose I’ll get in form
again for next year,” and with rather a bitter laugh Bill prepared to
follow his brothers.

As they had been on their good behavior of late, and as there was such
a competition for places on the ball team, it was decided that they
should get permission to make a trip to the village instead of trying
to run the guard.

“I’m not hankering to have the proctor’s scouts nab me,” explained
Cap, “and I guess we can get a pass all right if we put it up to Nibsy
good and strong,” the aforesaid proctor who rejoiced in the appelation
Alexander McNibb being thus designated.

They obtained permission easily, though the proctor looked at them
rather sharply, and Pete wondered if he recognized in him and his
brothers the lads who had, a few nights previous, wheeled a town
sprinkling cart into the middle of the school inner court and left
it there with an admonition printed on a big placard adorning it,
recommending that certain members of the sporting crowd get aboard the
water vehicle. But if the proctor knew anything he kept it to himself,
and, a little later the three Smith boys, and Whistle-Breeches were
trudging toward town.

They saw the glare of the gasoline torches on the professor’s wagon
before they heard his voice, but it was not long ere they recognized
his resonant tones calling out the merits of his Rapid Robust Resolute
Resolvent and other wares.

There was a large throng about the wagon, and business was good. The
professor, looking over the heads of his audience recognized our
heroes, and nodded to them pleasantly, yet never ceasing his “patter.”
Between the sale of his remedies and soap, he rendered several ballads
accompanying himself on the banjo.

“It sure does remind me of old times!” exclaimed Pete, humming the
chorus of the song the professor was singing.

“Cut it out!” advised Cap hastily.

Bill was not very talkative, but Whistle-Breeches enjoyed the affair
immensely, and was greatly interested in what Professor Clatter called
his “patter.”

“We ought to get him to some of our class rackets,” said Donald. “He’d
be no end of a lark.”

“I guess he doesn’t stay in this part of the country long—nor, in fact
anywhere more than a couple of nights,” replied Pete, and, as he spoke
he looked beyond the gaudily decorated vehicle of the medicine vendor
and caught a glimpse of another wagon drawn alongside the road. It was
one with something like a three inch quick-firing gun projecting from
the covered top, and Pete whispered to his brothers:

“There’s Duodecimo Donaldby’s rig if I’ve got my eyesight left. I
wonder if he’s shooting rain-making bombs for a living now, or curing
sick horses?”

“We’ll soon know,” said Cap. “The professor is nearly through.”

The crowd having exhausted the entertaining features of the medicine
man’s little effort, and the sale of the remedies and soaps being about
at an end, Mr. Clatter announced that he was through for the evening.
The people began to disperse, and soon Cap, with his two brothers and
Whistle-Breeches were seated inside the snug little wagon, enjoying a
cup of tea and some cakes which the professor set before them.

“I’m glad you boys came,” he said, as he looked in the tiny teapot to
see how much of the beverage remained. “I want to have a talk with
you—but hold on, I was almost forgetting an old friend.”

He stepped to the window of his vehicle, poked out his head, and
gave a call which was at once answered. Presently some one was heard
approaching, and, as the door opened the head of the character known to
our friends as the “rain-maker,” was thrust inside.

“Welcome to the Smith boys!” he called.

“Enter!” invited Mr. Clatter.

“Yes, come in and talk over old times, Mr. Donaldby,” added Pete.

“Hush! Not that name!” exclaimed the weather prophet, with a warning
finger laid athwart his lips. “Not that name or by a shattered
cirrus-nimbus cloud you’ll have the authorities about my ears!”

“How about Mirthrandes Hendershot?” asked Cap.

“No—no! Not that! Not that! Spavin, ring bone and blind staggers are
things of the past. I dare not undertake to cure any more horses.”

“Just what _are_ you doing?” asked Pete, as the former weather prophet
entered and took a low stool.

“Ah, now we are coming to it,” was the answer with a smile. “In the
first place my name—how does Tithonus Somnus strike you?”

“An odd combination,” remarked Cap, recalling the one ancient god who
was turned into a grasshopper, and the other who symbolized sleep.

“Odd, and so much the better,” went on Mr. Somnus. “It typifies my
calling.”

“Which might be—?” asked Bill suggestively.

“Which might be almost anything, and nothing, and which, at times is
neither or both, but which at present is that of astronomer ordinary.
That is my present occupation. I go about the country initiating
the farmers and country folk into the mysteries of the heavens. In
fact I jump about from place to place, hence the name Tithonus. I
jump while others sleep, and show the stars which only come out at
slumber-time—hence the name, Somnus. Is it clear?”

“Perfectly so,” answered Whistle-Breeches, who thought the astronomer a
most delightful character.

“And so you are showing the stars and moon?” asked Pete.

“On all except cloudy nights,” was the reply. “I find it pays well.
Only misfortune seems to follow me. The other night when there was
a most delightful moon, I had trained my telescope on it, and was
admitting the populace to the view at so much per ‘pop’ as it were. I
could not understand the murmurs of indignation that arose from some of
the gazers, nor the expressions of wonder from others, until taking a
look myself, I saw a strange and weird countenance peering at me from
the end of the telescope. I had been describing the mountains of the
moon, but lo! they turned out to be the whiskers and eyes of my pet cat
Scratch, who, perched upon the roof of my wagon, was calmly gazing down
through the object lens.”

“A cat!” cried Cap. “No wonder the people couldn’t understand what they
saw.”

“And so I was in ill-repute,” continued the astronomer gloomily, “and
had to travel on. Then it was cloudy to-night so I can do no trade. But
enough of this, tell me of yourselves,” which the boys proceeded to do.

The talk worked around to Bill’s misfortune, and as soon as this topic
was reached Professor Clatter, who had hitherto been talking but
little, evidenced a sudden interest.

“Now it is my turn to say something,” he said. “I asked you boys to
come here for a purpose, and the purpose was connected with my friend
Duodecimo—I beg your pardon, Tithonus Somnus. In the first place,
Tithy, which I will call you for short, in the first place, Tithy, have
you forgotten what you used to know about spectacles?”

“Spectacles? No,” was the reply. “But what in the world has that to do
with baseball, and the fact that Bill will have to give up pitching?”

“I’ll get to that in time,” replied the professor. “You used to go
about the country fitting people with glasses, did you not, Tithy?”

“I did, until they passed a law requiring one to maintain a fixed
residence if he would practice as an oculist, and then I became a
weather prophet, a rain-maker, a horse doctor and other professional
men in turn.”

“Exactly,” said the professor. “And am I right in thinking that you
still have your eye-testing apparatus with you, and also some of the
spectacle lens?”

“You are. In fact I have made a small telescope of some of my glasses.
You may not think so,” he went on, turning to the lads, “but I
received a fine medical education, and I specialized in eyes. I was
once considered a good oculist, but love of a roving life precluded me
practicing with success. Still I have not forgotten my knowledge.”

“I thought not!” exclaimed Mr. Clatter with energy. “That’s why I asked
the boys to come here to-night to meet you. I had a plan in mind, and I
hope, with your aid, Tithy, to carry it out.

“Bill, here, wants to pitch on the Varsity nine. He has a good chance,
or, rather he had a good chance, until his unfortunate injury lost him
a certain necessary control of the ball. Am I not right?” he asked,
appealing to the youth in question.

“That’s right,” answered Bill, wondering what was going to happen.

“Very well then. Now it seems that with the proper glasses the
temporary defect in your vision would be corrected as far as reading
was concerned; wouldn’t it?”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“Correct again. Now then, if you can wear glasses to read with, why
can’t you wear them to play ball with?”

“Play ball in glasses!” cried Bill.

“It has been done,” went on the professor easily. “Of course it would
be rather hard for a catcher or a baseman to wear them, with the
necessity of having to catch balls thrown with great swiftness. But
it’s different with a pitcher. He practically only throws the ball, and
it is returned to him easily. Glasses would not be a hindrance to you.
In fact, in your case, they would be a help.”

“I—I never thought of wearing glasses and pitching,” stammered Bill.

“All the more reason for thinking of it now. Here is my plan.”

The professor motioned for the boys and the astronomer to give close
attention.

“We’ll get Tithy here to give you a good examination,” said Mr.
Clatter, “and we’ll have him make you a special pair of glasses. He’ll
put them in a strong frame, so they will set close to your face, and
fasten on securely. They won’t come off no matter how hard you run,
and in fact you may not need them when you’re at the bat. But you do
need them to pitch with, and you’re going to have them. Can you make an
examination to-night, Tithy?”

“Better than in daylight. I have all the instruments, and I think I
could make the glasses.”

“Then it’s all settled!” declared Mr. Clatter, as if that was all there
was to it. “Come along, boys, we’ll go over to the other palace car,
and see what happens. Bill, you’re going to pitch again, and if you
don’t make the Varsity it’s your own fault!”

The medicine man had rattled on at such a rate that the boys had hardly
had a chance to speak. As for Bill his brain was in a whirl. He did
not know whether or not to have any faith in what was proposed.

“Do you really think it can be done?” he asked.

“Of course it can!” declared Mr. Clatter.

“I can make the glasses all right,” answered Mr. Somnus with
professional pride.

“But could I pitch with them on?” asked Bill.

“I don’t see why not,” was Cap’s opinion.

“Wouldn’t the fellows laugh me off the diamond?”

“I’d like to see them do it!” exclaimed Whistle-Breeches fiercely.

“If you can’t play, after you show that you can still pitch as good as
before, Cap and I won’t be on the team,” declared Pete with energy.

“Oh, I’m not going to act that way about it,” spoke Bill, but there was
a more hopeful look on his face.

A little later he was again being put through the eyesight test. Mr.
Somnus, as he preferred to be called, was in his element. He had a very
good set of instruments, and he very soon demonstrated that he knew his
business.

“Ha! Hum!” he exclaimed from time to time, as he made test after test,
and jotted down the results of some calculations on paper. “I find
that you will have to have a very peculiar pair of lens,” he said. “I
haven’t them, but I can get them for you.”

“And will the defect in my eyes be corrected?” asked Bill eagerly.

“You’ll never know you had it,” was the confident answer. “The injury
was a peculiar one, involving, as the other doctor told you, one of the
optic nerves. It may pass away at any time, but while it exists it must
be corrected. Glasses will do it, and inside of a week I predict that
you will pitch as well as before. Shall I make the glasses?”

“Yes!” fairly shouted Bill. “I don’t care what they cost.”

The details were soon arranged. Mr. Somnus knew of an establishment
where lens for glasses were ground, and he undertook to procure them
for Bill. He would return with them in a few days, he said, and adjust
them in a proper frame—a frame that would admit of rough play.

“Then we’ll see what happens,” said Professor Clatter. “I have to
travel on in the morning, but I’m coming back to see the test. I’m
interested in this,” and the honest, if somewhat eccentric character,
clapped Bill heartily on the back.

The pitcher’s spirits had come back to him, and on the way back to the
school that night he laughed and joked with his brothers as before.

It seemed as if the time would never pass. Baseball practice was the
order of the day now, and every afternoon the Westfield diamond was
thronged with prospective members of the Varsity nine. Cap was more
than ever assured of a place as catcher, Pete, as I have said, was
the regular Shortstop, but poor Bill had to wait, and see his rival,
Mersfeld, filling the box.

“But keep up your spunk,” Pete told his brother one afternoon,
following a grueling practice. “They’re not half satisfied with
Mersfeld, and if your glasses are any good at all you’ll have his
place.”

“I don’t want to put him out,” said Bill. “If I only get a chance to
play in some of the big games I’ll be satisfied.”

He refrained from pitching during the time he was waiting, and was
excused from some of his studies until he had the reading glasses the
town oculist made for him.

Then, one day, came a note from the rain-maker stating that he and his
wagon were in their former place, and that the “ball-glasses,” as Bill
called them, were ready.

“Now for the test!” cried Mr. Somnus, as Bill, his brothers and
Whistle-Breeches arrived at the improvised camp early one afternoon.
Cap had brought his mask and glove and was to catch for his brother.

“I hope my plan works,” murmured Mr. Clatter.

The special lenses which Mr. Somnus had had made were fitted into a
strong, black rubber frame, and it set close to Bill’s eyes. It gave
him an odd appearance, but it was just the thing for playing a game of
ball. He had demonstrated that he could bat well without any glasses,
so he would only have to be a “four-eyes,” as he dubbed himself, in the
pitching box.

The glasses were put on. Bill took a ball, and walked off a short
distance while Cap donned his mask and mitt.

“Let her go!” he called to his brother, who was “winding up,” in his
usual fashion. A square stone had been laid down as a plate.

There was an anxious moment among the little knot of spectators. Bill
drew back his hand, worked his arm a couple of times, squinted through
the glasses, and then with the speed of a miniature projectile, the
ball left his grip and sped toward Cap.

“Biff!” That was the ball hitting the big mitt.

“Strike!” yelled Cap. “It was over the plate as clean as a whistle, but
it had a curve to it that would fool Hans Wagner himself! Good work,
old man!”

“Try another!” called Bill, trying to keep his voice cool.

Once more the ball went over the plate cleanly.

“Strike!” called Cap again.

“Are they all right?” asked Bill.

“Right as a trivet! Oh, Bill, you’re yourself again!”

There was a moisture in the pitcher’s eyes, but the odd glasses
concealed his tears of gratitude.

“Hurrah!” yelled Professor Clatter leaping about like a boy. “Now
you’ll make the Varsity; eh Tithy?”

“He will! I can read it in the stars!” said the little astronomer,
gaily.




CHAPTER XIV

THE TRY-OUT


That Bill was delighted to find his former skill had not deserted him
goes without saying. It was tempered a bit by the fact that he had to
wear glasses, but that could not be helped.

“I wonder how Mr. Windam will take to ’em?” he asked his brothers as
they walked back to school together.

“He won’t care as long as you can pitch the way you did this
afternoon,” declared Cap.

“I wonder what Graydon will say?”

“I don’t see how he can say anything,” came from Whistle-Breeches. “Any
captain wants the best pitcher he can get.”

“And as for J. Evans Green, he’s the kind of a manager who wants to
see games won, and keep possession of the pennant,” declared Pete.
“There won’t be any kicking about the glasses, Bill. He’d let you wear
hoop-skirts if it made you play better.”

But there was objection to Bill when he appeared for practice wearing
the odd goggles, though it did not come from coach, captain or manager.
It was first voiced by Bondy Guilder, and some of his cronies.

“Why don’t you play a lot of men with crutches, and their arms in
bandages?” asked the rich youth with a sneer.

“I would if they could do better than some fellows I know who seem to
think a ball will bat itself and catch itself,” declared the captain
with energy, for there had been a slump in practice that day.

It even extended to Mersfeld the crack pitcher who issued passes to a
number of men and was hit more times than he liked to count.

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded the coach half savagely as the
scrub pulled over three runs in succession, and Mersfeld walked another
man to first. “Are you dreaming that this is a tennis match, or don’t
you want to play?”

“Of course I want to play!” was the reply, “only I can’t be at
top-notch all the while.”

“You’ve got to!” was the curt decision. “If you don’t do better than
this in the final try-out you’ll be a substitute instead of a regular.”

“And I suppose ‘Foureyes’ Smith will have my place?” suggested Mersfeld
with a sneer.

“It’ll go to the man who does the best work—four eyes or eight
eyes—rest assured of that. Now put some ginger into your pitching, if
you can!”

Stung by the words of the coach Mersfeld did a little better, and the
Varsity saved the game by a narrow margin. But there were many whispers
around the school and in the gymnasium that day there were strange
rumors of a shake-up in the team, rumors of the strong nines which the
Tuckerton Sandrim and Haydon schools had ready to put on the diamond to
battle for the pennant in the interscholastic league.

The opening of the season was not far off. Day by day the practice on
the Westfield diamond grew harder and more exacting. Bill had gotten
back all his former skill, and the little rest seemed to have done him
good, for his speed increased, and his curving ability was considered
remarkable by his friends. He had gotten used to the glasses which he
only wore when in the box, and he hardly noticed them at all.

Mersfeld, too, had taken a brace, and was doing good work, whereat
coach and captain were glad.

“I guess he’ll make out,” said Graydon one night when he and Mr. Windam
were talking over matters. “But I’m glad we have Smith to fall back on.”

“So am I. Smith may be first pitcher yet. When have you arranged for
the try-out game?”

“Day after to-morrow. We’ll play Mersfeld four innings on the Varsity
and then give Smith a show. That will be the test.”

There was so much interest in the try-out that almost as big a crowd
assembled on the diamond to witness it as usually was present at a
match game. Bill was a trifle nervous for he realized what he was up
against, and as for Mersfeld, that pitcher went about with a confident
smile on his face.

“Are you going to make it?” his friends asked him.

“Of course I am,” he assured them. “I’ll pitch against Tuckerton all
right Saturday.”

For the first league game was to take place then, and it was
unofficially announced that the players who made the best records in
this, the final try-out would have the honor of representing Westfield
on the diamond at the opening of the season.

“Play ball!” called the umpire, and Bill watched his rival take his
place in the box. How he longed to be there himself! But he knew his
turn would come, and he felt in his pocket to see if his precious
glasses were safe. Without them he would be lost, and he wished now
that he had had two pairs made for emergencies. He decided he would try
to locate the traveling astronomer and get another set.

The game opened up with a snap, and this was maintained right along.
Everyone was doing his best, for it was no small honor that was at
stake. There was no denying that Mersfeld did well for the first three
innings. There was only one hit off him, and in the fourth he struck
out two men in quick succession.

Then, whether it was a slump, whether he went stale, or whether it was
nervousness due to the fact that he was under close observation did not
manifest itself, but the fact remains that, after getting two men out,
he grew wild, passed one of the poorest batters, was hit for a three
bagger by the next, and when another got up, and knocked a home run,
there was pandemonium among the members of the scrub nine.

“What’s got into Mersfeld?” was the general inquiry.

Nobody knew, and when the fifth inning opened, with Bill in the box,
there was intense excitement. Bill adjusted his glasses and got ready
to pitch.

“Now watch Foureyes put ’em over!” sneered Bondy Guilder.

“That’ll do!” called Mr. Windam sharply. “This isn’t a match game, and
there’s no need of rattling one of our own men. Save your sarcasm,
Guilder, for Tuckerton!”

Bondy muttered something under his breath, and walked over to talk to
Mersfeld, who was darkly regarding his rival from the coaching line.

Bill was a bit nervous but as Cap had been sent in to catch the pitcher
grew confident as he saw the friendly face of his brother, and caught
the well-known signal for an out shoot.

Bill nodded in confirmation, drew back his arm, hesitated a moment,
wondered for one wild second whether he was still himself, and could
see to make the curve, and then—he threw.

“Strike one!” howled the umpire, and then Bill knew that he _was_
himself, and a fierce joy welled up in his heart. He caught the ball
Cap tossed back to him, and sent it stinging in again.

“Strike two!” was the reassuring call, and the batter pounded the plate
in desperation, for he had not before moved his stick.

He swung viciously at the next one, and—missed it clean.

“That’s the boy!”

“Go at ’em!”

“Put some more over like that!”

“Give the next one a teaser!”

Thus Bill’s friends encouraged him.

The try-out game went on, growing more fierce as each player struggled
to make a record. Bill was a marvel with the ball. But one hit was
registered off him during the five innings that he pitched. After the
contest there was a consultation among the captain, manager and coach
and it was announced to the anxiously waiting ones that Bill Smith
would pitch the first five innings of the opening game with Tuckerton,
with Mersfeld as second pitcher, while Cap Smith would catch for his
brother, and Dean Denby for Mersfeld.

“I told you that’s how it would be!” cried Whistle-Breeches clapping
Bill on the back with such heartiness that the pitcher’s glasses nearly
flew off.

“Boy, I’m proud of you!” spoke Cap fervently.

Mersfeld said nothing but there was a bitter feeling in his heart.

“An upstart Freshman!” he muttered as he passed by Bondy Guilder.

“That’s what,” agreed the rich youth, “and I’d like to see him taken
down a peg. Do you know how it can be done?”

“No,” replied the rival pitcher.

“Come here and I’ll tell you,” suggested Bondy, and the two walked
across the diamond arm-in-arm, talking earnestly, and the talk boded no
good for Bill Smith.




CHAPTER XV

THE CONSPIRATORS


There was plenty to talk about that night. The rooms of the Smith boys
were thronged with some old and many new admirers, for nothing succeeds
like success, and now that Pete was officially named as Varsity
shortstop, now that Bill had the preference, at least in the opening
game, as pitcher, and when Cap was named to catch for his talented
brother our heroes found themselves very much in the lime-light.

“To think of all three of us making the Varsity in our first year!”
exclaimed Bill, as he received the congratulations of several new
acquaintances.

“It’s great!” declared Cap. “I’m afraid our rivals will dub it the
‘Smith Nine,’ instead of Westfield.”

“Let ’em,” declared Captain Graydon, who was present. “I don’t care
what they call the nine if we keep the league pennant. But let me tell
you Smith boys, and all you other baseball fellows who are here, it’s
going to be no easy matter. Tuckerton has a battery that’s hard to
beat, and Haydon has a better team than ever before. We’ve got our work
cut out for us.”

“And we’ll make good!” exclaimed Whistle-Breeches, who was happy
because he had been promised at least part of the opening game, even
though he was in centre field.

But among the visitors to the rooms of our heroes Mersfeld and Bondy
were conspicuous by their absence. The failure of Mersfeld to call
was commented on, and it was openly said that he was jealous. And as
Westfield was an institution where the school spirit was especially
strong this was all the more marked.

“I’m sorry there’s a feeling between the two pitchers,” said Captain
Graydon to Mr. Windam as they walked to their dormitories together
after the informal little visit. “For both Smith and Mersfeld are fine
fellows. We may need them both before the season is over.”

“I expect we will. But we couldn’t pass over Mersfeld’s poor work
to-day. By putting Smith ahead of him it may spur him up a bit.”

“I hope it doesn’t spur him up to any mischief,” murmured the captain
dubiously.

“Mischief; how?”

“Well, he has a very ugly temper, and once he gets aroused—well, the
worst he can do is to withdraw from the team, I suppose.”

“I’d be sorry for that,” went on the coach. “But we really have a find
in Smith. He’s better than before his injury, or else those glasses
help him.”

“I guess it’s the glasses. No one’s vision is perfect the doctors say,
and perhaps we’d all be better for spectacles. I was just thinking what
would happen if they became broken in a critical game. Bill couldn’t
pitch.”

“That’s so. He ought to have a pair in reserve. I’ll speak to him about
it.”

Then the coach and captain fell to talking about other baseball
matters, including the coming game on Saturday, and the chances for
winning.

Bill and his brothers rejoiced among themselves, and with their
friends, and a letter telling about the honor that had come to the
Smith boys was sent to their father, all three joining in making it a
sort of composite epistle.

“Two days more and we’ll see what we can do on the diamond in a league
game,” said Cap, as he got ready to do some neglected studying. “Now
don’t mention ball again for an hour. I nearly slumped in Latin to-day,
and if any of us fall behind we’ll be hauled up and put out even if we
knock a home run. So buckle down, fellows.”

It was hard work to apply oneself to lessons after the events of the
day, but they did it—somehow.

Meanwhile, strolling along a dark and infrequented road that led back
of the school buildings, were two figures deep in conversation.

“It’s too risky a game to play,” objected Mersfeld, as he strode
moodily along.

“But you don’t want him to knock you out of your place, do you?”
demanded his companion, Bondy Guilder.

“No, of course not. But suppose I’m found out?”

“You won’t be. I can get the glasses easily enough, for his room is
right next to mine. I was going to change, for I don’t fancy the crowd
he and his brothers trail in with—they’re regular clod-hoppers. I’m
glad now I didn’t, for it will give us just the chance we want.”

“What have _you_ got against him?” asked the pitcher.

“Oh, he’s a regular muff, and he thinks he’s as good as I am,” was the
illogical answer. “I’d be glad to see him off the nine. It ought to be
composed of more representative school fellows, anyhow than a lot of
‘Smiths.’”

“I haven’t anything against the name, but I have against Bill,” said
Mersfeld. “He shoved himself in, and pushed me out—and I’d like to get
even.”

“You can, I tell you. If I get hold of his glasses he can’t pitch in
the game Saturday.”

“Can’t he get another pair?”

“Not the way I’ll work it.”

“Why not? Suppose you do manage to sneak in his room and get his
goggles. He’ll miss them sure as fate, and send for another pair.”

“No he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t take them until Saturday morning, or just before the
game, and it will be too late to get another pair. Or, better still, I
can take out the special lenses that are in the frames, and substitute
others. Then he won’t suspect anything, he’ll go to the box, pitch so
rotten that Graydon will have to take him out, and you’ll go in. Bill
won’t know whether it’s the glasses, or whether his eyes have gone back
on him again. How’s that for a trick?”

“It’s all right I guess,” was the hesitating answer. “I rather hate
to be a party to it,” went on the pitcher, who was not a bad chap at
heart. “But—”

“But he had no right to come here and supplant you,” put in Bondy.

“No, that’s right. Well, can you get the glasses from his room?”

“Sure, and I’ll arrange to have other lenses to slip in them. I’ll
get the size, and they’re easy to change. I was close to him to-day,
and I saw how the rubber frames were made. I guess Bill won’t be such
a wonderful pitcher when I get through with him,” and Bondy chuckled
as he and his fellow conspirator turned around and walked back toward
school.




CHAPTER XVI

CAUGHT


There was an air of subdued excitement all about Westfield, that
extended even to good old Dr. Burton. He even found it rather difficult
to apply himself to translating some early Assyrian tablets into modern
Hebrew as a preliminary to rendering them into ancient Chinese.

The various members of the faculty found their students paying rather
less than the usual attention to the lectures, and in one quiz, when
Cap Smith was asked concerning the raising of an unknown quantity to
the nth power his answer was:

“He’s out on first!”

“Doubtless true, but unfortunately Westfield has no chair for the
science of applied baseball,” answered the professor as the laugh went
rippling around the room.

But the spirit of the game was in the air, it hung about the school
buildings, lingered in the dormitories, and the very smell of chemicals
in the laboratory seemed replaced by the odor of crushed green grass,
the whiff of leather and the sound of the explosions of the miniature
Prince Rupert’s drops, as the science teacher demonstrated the effect
of a sudden change in the strain of a congealed body seemed to the lads
to be the blows of the bat on a ball.

Over on the diamond, which had been as carefully groomed as a horse
before he is led out to try for the blue ribbon, were any number of
eager enthusiasts practicing. There were talks between the coach and
captain, anxious conferences with the manager, and on every side could
be seen lads in their uniforms carefully looking after balls, bats,
masks or chest protectors. Some were tightening the laces of their
shoes, others mending ripped gloves, while Bill Smith had indulged in
the luxury of a new toe plate.

For the next day would mark the opening of the Interscholastic league,
and the first big game—that with Tuckerton—was to be played.

  “And you must wake and call me early,
  Call me early, Peetie dear,
  For to-morrow is the opening
  Of the dear old baseball year.”

Thus Cap misquoted the verse, and joined his brothers and chums in the
laugh that followed.

But if there were many hearts that rejoiced at the near prospect of the
big opening contest, there were two lads whose souls were filled with
bitterness. One was Mersfeld, the partially deposed pitcher, and the
other Bondy Guilder, who, for no particular reason, had come to almost
hate Bill and his brothers.

“Do you think you can get the glasses?” asked Mersfeld of his crony, on
the night before the big game.

“Sure. I’ve been watching Bill—his room’s next to mine you know—and I
know just how he goes and comes. I have some ordinary lenses all ready
to slip in the place of the special ones I’m going to take out.”

“How’d you get the right size?”

“Oh, I made a pretence of wanting to see his glasses and while I had
them I pressed a sheet of paper on them, got an impression of the size,
and got the lenses in town. They are not an unusual size, only they’re
ground differently to bring one eye in focus with the other. Bill won’t
pitch more than one inning in the game to-morrow, and then you can go
in.”

“But he’ll know what’s wrong as soon as he has his eyes, and the
glasses tested again.”

“What of it? He won’t suspect us, and all you want is a chance to make
good; isn’t it?”

“Yes, for if I do make good in the opening game I’m sure they’ll have
to let me stay through the season, and Bill won’t be in it. I’m glad
you’re helping me.”

“I’d do more than that to put one over on the Smith boys. I don’t like
them. I wish they’d get out of Westfield.”

Bondy had his plans all laid, and had, after considerable trouble
secured a pair of lenses to replace those in Bill’s pitching glasses.
Now, like some spider watching for his hapless prey, he sat in his room
on the morning of the day of the big game, waiting for a chance to
sneak in and make the substitution. He felt that he could do it, for no
one ever locked his door at Westfield, and Bill had been in the habit
lately of spending a lot of time in the apartment of Whistle-Breeches.

But now Bill was in his room, and Bondy was impatiently waiting for him
to go out. The sneak knew that if he could change the glasses the trick
would not be discovered until after Bill was in the box, for he did not
use the goggles in preliminary practice where there was no home plate
over which to throw.

“Hang it all! Why doesn’t he go?” thought the rich lad as he peered
from the partly-opened door of his study, and saw Bill moving about in
his room. The pitcher was taking a few stitches in his jacket, which
had been ripped. “I haven’t much more time,” mused the conspirator,
“for they’ll soon go out to practice, and he’ll take the goggles with
him.”

There was a call from down the corridor. It came from the room of
Whistle-Breeches.

“I say Bill, where are you?”

“Here. What’s up?”

“Give us a hand, will you? I can’t get this needle threaded and there’s
a hole in my stocking as big as your fist. I wouldn’t mind, only it’s
opening game and we want to look decent. I caught it on a nail.”

“Wait a minute. I’ll be with you,” sung out Bill, and dropping his own
work he darted for the room of his chum.

“Just my chance!” whispered Bondy. “But I haven’t much time!” He had
the substitute lenses ready, and a small screw driver with which to
open the frame and make the change.

Into Bill’s room the sneak darted when he saw the pitcher enter the
study of Whistle-Breeches. A rapid glance around showed him where the
goggles were—in their usual place on top of a shelf of books.

It was the work of a minute to secure them, and begin to loosen the
screws. Bondy worked feverishly, but his very haste and nervousness
were against him. His hands trembled, and he was in a sweat of fear.
One glass was almost loose, when, with a suddenness that was as
startling as a clap of thunder would have been, the door leading from
Bill’s to Pete’s room opened, and the shortstop entered. He did not
notice Bondy at first, as the latter stood in the shadow of the book
shelves, and this fact gave the conspirator time to shove the screw
driver and extra lenses into his pocket.

“Caught!” he murmured under his breath.

The tinkle of glass caught Pete’s ears, and he wheeled around.

“Oh! Hello, Bondy!” he exclaimed, and then catching sight of his
brother’s goggles in the other’s hands he quickly asked:

“What are you doing with those glasses?”




CHAPTER XVII

BILL’S PITCHING


For a moment Bondy did not answer. On his face there was a sickly grin,
and he seemed to turn a sort of greenish white.

“What are you doing with those glasses?” repeated Pete as he took a
step forward.

“I—er—I just came in to see Bill,” stammered the rich lad. “He was
out, and I—I—er I was looking at them. Queer lenses; aren’t they? One
seems to be loose. I was going to tell Bill he ought to tighten it.”

No wonder it was loose, for the sneak had partly taken out the screw.
The expression on Pete’s face changed. He had had a quick suspicion
that all was not right, but he began to feel now that perhaps he was
mistaken.

“See, here is the loose glass!” went on Bondy eagerly, for he was quick
to notice the altered expression on the other’s countenance. “It ought
to be tightened, or it might drop out during the game, and become
broken. You can tighten it with a knife.”

He dared not offer his own screw driver.

“That’s right; it does need fixing,” admitted Pete. “Much obliged for
noticing it, old man. Bill might not have seen it.”

“Yes, I just came in—er—to ask Bill how his arm was, and I noticed
the glasses,” went on the visitor lamely.

“Why, what’s the matter with his arm?” asked Pete quickly, and in some
alarm.

“Oh, nothing, I—I just wondered if it would hold out.”

“Oh, I guess it will. There, the glass is tight now,” and Pete, who had
used his knife to set the screw, tapped the rubber frame to listen for
any vibration. There was none.

“Well, I’ll be going,” announced Guilder, with an air of relief. “See
you at the game. It’s most time to start,” and he slipped from the
room, just before Bill returned.

“I wonder what he wanted?” mused Pete, looking after the retreating
figure of the rich lad. “Mighty funny his getting friendly all of a
sudden. I wonder what he wanted?”

Pete looked at his brother’s glasses. He glanced toward Bondy’s room,
and pondered again. Just then Bill came in.

“Say, son, you ought to keep these locked up,” remarked Pete, handing
the glasses to him.

“Why?”

“They might get broken if you leave them around so promiscuous. I just
tightened a screw.”

“Thanks. Crimps! but I’ve got to hustle. I was showing Whistle-Breeches
how to mend a rip in his stocking. He was for tying a string around
it as if it was a bag he was closing up. Well, we’ll soon be
slaughtering—or slaughtered; eh?”

“Yes, how about you?”

“Fit as a fiddle. I wish I had to pitch the whole game.”

“Maybe you won’t after you see the way they knock you out. They’ve got
some hard hitters.”

“I’m not worrying. Is Cap on the job?”

“Yes, we’re all ready. What are you waiting for?”

“Just got to put a few more stitches in this jacket. I’ll be right
over. Go ahead.”

“No, we’ll wait for you,” and Pete took a chair in his brother’s room.
He was thinking of Bondy’s visit but he made up his mind to say nothing
about it at present. After all he might be wrong in his suspicion, but
he resolved to keep a sharp lookout.

Soon Bill had finished his sewing task, and went out with his brother.
Cap joined them, and a little later they were on the diamond, indulging
in some light practice.

Down the road came the sound of songs and cheers, mingled with
indiscriminate yells. Then came the blast of horns.

“The cohorts of Tuckerton!” cried Cap. “Here they come!”

Several big stages swung into view, laden down with students and girls,
for the boys had brought a lot of their young lady friends to see the
game.

The vehicles were gay with colors—flags and banners waved from canes
and long staffs. Horns adorned with the hues of Tuckerton were waved
and blown. Then came more songs, more cheers, more wild yells, and more
rioting of colors, as the banners, flags, ribbons and streamers were
shaken at the crowds of Westfield students who poured out and greeted
their rivals.

As the stage loads of spectators drew up and were emptied, another
carryall swept along the road. It contained the opposing nine, and in
grim silence, like gladiators coming to the battle, they alighted.

“Three cheers for the best nine in the league!” called the leader of
the Tuckerton cohorts, and the yells came in quick response.

“Now three cheers for the second beet nine—the one we’re going to
wallop—Westfield!” called the same youth who was almost hidden behind
a big bow of his school colors.

Westfield was appropriately serenaded, and then they returned the
compliment. The grand stands and bleachers were now beginning to fill,
for a game of baseball between these two schools was worth coming a
long distance to see.

“Gee! what a lot of pretty girls!” exclaimed Pete as he stood with his
brothers near home plate after some sharp warm-up practice.

“You let the girls alone—until after the game,” advised Cap.

“There _is_ a big crowd,” remarked Bill.

“Don’t let it fuss you,” suggested his older brother, for Bill was
likely to get a bit nervous, and he had never played in such a big
and important game before. “Come over here and we’ll try a few balls.
Better wear your glasses to get more used to them.”

“Gee! maybe it’s a good thing I got caught as I did,” mused Bondy as
he saw Bill putting on the goggles before the game had started, as he
was practicing with Cap. “He’d have found it out by now, and the game
would have been all up. But I’ll get him yet! I wonder why Mersfeld
doesn’t come around. He acts afraid.”

The other pitcher was afraid—horribly so. His heart misgave him for
consenting to the trick, and yet he let it be carried out. At least
he supposed it had been, for he took pains to keep out of the way of
Bondy. And when he saw Bill in the goggles pitching a few preliminary
balls to his brother, he wondered what sort of balls they were.

“How long will he last—how long?” he murmured, for he thought the plot
had been carried out.

The crowds increased. The Tuckerton nine and substitutes trotted out
for practice, and good snappy practice it was. Captain Graydon shook
his head as he watched.

“They’ll come pretty near having our numbers,” he remarked.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the coach. “They play fast and snappy, that’s a
fact, but we can do the same.”

“No, that’s just where our men fall down,” went on Graydon. “They’re
good stickers, and can pull a game out of the fire in the last few
innings, but they don’t wake up quickly enough. That’s what I’m afraid
of. I wish we had decided to let Smith pitch the last half instead of
the first innings.”

“Say, that’s what we’ll do!” suddenly exclaimed the coach. “This is
the first chance I’ve had to get a line on the Tuckerton boys, and
I believe it will be policy to put Mersfeld in at the opening. He’s
feeling sore, and he hasn’t as good lasting qualities as I’d like.
We’ll put him up first, and if he can’t hold ’em down we can change at
any time. I’ll tell Smith.”

Bill felt a sense of disappointment that he was not to open the game,
but he knew better than to dispute with the coach. Cap looked as
though he could not quite understand it, and he wondered if it was a
sample of what would happen in other games.

“We’ve got to save you two for a pinch,” explained Graydon to the
catcher, just before the game was called. “Begin to warm-up again after
the third inning.”

The preliminaries were over, and the Tuckerton men took their places on
the bench, the home team having last chance at the bat. The Westfield
nine walked to the field, and Bill and Cap took their places with the
other substitutes.

“I wonder what’s up?” mused Mersfeld as he was told to go to the box.
“He must have the changed glasses and Mindam and Graydon have seen how
punk he is even in practice. Here’s where I get my chance!”

The game began, and the first crack out of the box netted a two-bagger
for the initial hitter of the Tuckerton nine. Mersfeld smiled a sickly
smile as the ball came back to him.

“It’s all right,” called Denby reassuringly from behind the bat. “We’ll
get this fellow.”

Mersfeld did strike him out, after the man had made two foul strikes,
and, feeling a trifle nervous the twirler issued walking papers to the
next hitter, who had a high average for stick work.

“Work for this man,” signalled the catcher to the pitcher, but
Mersfeld, as he was about to throw was aware that the first hitter was
stealing to third. He shot to the baseman quickly—but wildly. It went
over his head, in among a crowd of spectators, and before the ball
could be fielded in the man was home with the first run of the game,
and with only one out.

What a wild burst of songs and cries of gladness came from the stands
where the visitors were! Flags and banners waved, and the shrill voices
of the girls seemed to mock the Westfield players.

“Starting in bad,” murmured Bill to Cap.

“Oh, well, all our fellows are a trifle nervous. I guess we’ll make
good.”

Mersfeld redeemed himself a few seconds later by striking out the next
man up, and with two down, the last man knocked a little pop fly. It
looked good but Pete got under it, and had it safely in his hands when
the runner was ten feet from first.

“Well, now to see what we can do,” remarked Graydon as he came in from
first with his men eager to get a chance at the sticks.

They did not do so much, for there was an excellent battery against
them, and one run was all they could tally. But it tied the score, and
gave the home rooters something to shout for.

Whether it was nervousness or whether his conscience troubled him
was not made known, but Mersfeld seemed to get worse as the game
progressed. His throws to the basemen were wild, and he practically
lost control of the ball, while his curves broke too late, and the
opposing team readily got on to them.

“Oh, we’ve got the pitcher’s ‘Angora’ all right!” chanted the visiting
rooters, that being the classical term for “goat” or nerve.

“And I believe they have,” admitted the coach, when the fourth inning
opened with the score eight to one in favor of Tuckerton. They had
garnered two in the second frame, three in the third, and a brace in
their half of the fourth. The one lone tally was all Westfield had when
they came to bat in the ending of the fourth, and though they worked
fiercely not a man got over the rubber.

“Smith and Smith is the new battery for the Westfield team!” announced
the umpire as Graydon’s men went out to the field at the opening of the
fifth. Mersfeld had not said a word when ordered from the box. He knew
he had been doing poor work, but with a bitter feeling in his heart
he watched to see how Bill would make out with, as he supposed, the
changed glasses.

“Now watch the celebrated Smith brothers work!” cried a Tuckerton wag,
as Cap and Bill took their places.

“Yes, and they _will_ work, too!” murmured Pete.

“At least if we can’t get any more runs, I hope we can keep the score
down,” thought the coach, to whom the game, thus far was a bitter
disappointment. All his work so far that season seemed to have gone for
naught.

Bill was smiling confidently, as he took his place in the box. The
crowd which had not before had a good look at him, caught sight of the
goggles, and instantly there was a chorus of cries.

“Foureyes! Foureyes!”

It was what Cap and Pete had feared would happen. Would it bother their
brother?

Bill showed no signs of it. He did not appear to resent the name, but
smiled back at his tormentors in an easy fashion.

“I wear these so I can strike out more men!” he called.

“I guess he’ll do,” murmured the anxious captain on first base, and the
embittered coach took heart.

Cap and Bill exchanged a few preliminaries, and then signalled for the
batter to take his place. The man up was a terrific hitter and Bill
used all his wiles on him. First he purposely gave him a ball, and then
sent in a slow teaser which the man did not strike at, but which the
umpire counted.

“Here’s where he fans!” thought Bill, as he tried an up shoot. It
made good, and the bat passed under it cleanly. There was a murmur of
chagrin from the stick-wielder’s fellows and he resolved to knock the
cover off the next ball.

But alas for hopes! Once more he swung wildly—and missed.

“Out!” howled the umpire gleefully, for his sympathy was with
Westfield, as much as he dared show it.

And when the next two men never even touched the ball there was joy
unbounded in the ranks of the home team, for now they saw a chance for
victory.

“I don’t see that you did anything,” whispered Mersfeld to Bondy as the
change was made for the ending of the fifth.

“Didn’t get the chance,” whispered back the plotter. “I was nearly
caught. But this isn’t the only game. There’ll be other opportunities.”

Westfield was at the bat, and it must have been the effect of Bill’s
pitching for every man up made a hit, and the bases were soon filled.
But only two runs came in, for the opposing team took a brace at an
opportune time for themselves, and in season to prevent too heavy
scoring by the Westfield lads.

“Now only six runs to beat ’em!” called Captain Graydon cheerfully, as
though that was a mere trifle. “Keep up the good work, Bill, and we’ll
dedicate a chapel window to you.”

Bill did. He surpassed even his own previous pitching records, and did
not allow a hit in that inning, while in their half of it Westfield got
one, making the score four to eight in their opponents’ favor.

“Now for the lucky seventh!” called the coach, when that inning
started. “Don’t let them get a run, Bill, and help our fellows to pull
in about a dozen.”

Bill smiled, and—struck out the first two men. Then one of the heavy
hitters managed to get under a neat little up shoot, and sent it far
out over the left fielder’s head. It was good for two bags, and the
next man brought the runner in, to the anguish of Bill, who feared he
was slumping, as there had been two hits off him in succession. But
with a gritting of his teeth he held his nerves in check, and that
ended the scoring for the first half of the seventh.

“Now, boys, eat ’em up!” pleaded coach and captain as Bill and his
teammates came in. They did, to the extent of three runs, which seemed
wonderful in view of what had previously been done, and there was a
chance for wild yelling and cheering on the part of the home rooters.

With the score seven to nine, when the eighth opened, it looked better
for Westfield’s chances, and when she further sweetened her tallies
with another run, brought in by Pete, there was more joyful rioting.

“They mustn’t get another mark!” stipulated the captain when the final
inning opened. “Not a run, Bill.”

“Not if I can help it!” the pitcher promised. From a corner Mersfeld
watched his successful rival—watched him with envious eyes.

From the grandstand Bondy also watched, and muttered:

“I won’t fail next time. I’ll spoil your record if it’s possible!”

Amid a wild chorus of songs and school cries Bill faced his next
opponent. He proved an easy victim, as did the lad following, but
from the manner in which the third man began hitting fouls it seemed
to argue that he would eventually make a hit. And a hit at this stage
might mean anything. For Westfield needed two runs to beat, and they
were going to be hard enough to secure—every member of the team knew
that.

It was the fourth foul the batter had knocked. The others had been
impossible to get, though Cap had tried for them. Now, as he tossed off
his mask, and stared wildly up into the air to gage the ball he heard
cries of:

“Can’t get it! Can’t get it!”

“I’m going to!” he thought fiercely. He ran for it, and was aware that
he would have to almost run into the grand stand to reach it. The crowd
made way for him. Into the stand he crashed, with a shock that jarred
him considerably, but—he had the ball in his hands!

“Wow! Wow! Wow!” cheered the crowd, even some of the Tuckertons
themselves. The side had been retired without a run, and they cheered
Cap’s fine catch.

“Now for our last chance!” said Captain Graydon when his men came in.
“We’ve just _got_ to get two runs. No tenth inning—do it in this!”

“Sure!” they all agreed.

Whistle-Breeches came up first, and when he had fanned out he went off
by himself and thought bitter thoughts. For he had narrowed the team’s
chances.

“Don’t worry, we may do it yet,” said the coach kindly but he hardly
believed it.

Graydon made good in a two bagger, and got to third when Paul Armitage
made a magnificent try, but was out at first. And that was the
situation when Cap Smith came up. There were two out, a man on third,
and two runs were needed. Only a home run it seemed could do the trick.

“And a home run it shall be!” declared Cap to himself.

But when he missed the first ball, and when, after two wild throws a
strike was called on him, it looked as if the chances were all gone.

“He’ll walk you!” shouted some sympathizers, but the Tuckerton pitcher
had no such intentions. He was going to strike Cap out, he felt.

“Whizz!” went the ball toward the catcher. Cap drew back his bat, and
by some streak of luck managed to get it under squarely. He put all the
force of his broad shoulders into the blow, and when he saw the ball
sailing far and low, he knew it would go over the centre fielder’s head
and into the deep grass beyond.

“It’s a home run or a broken leg!” murmured Cap, as he dashed away
toward first.

“Oh you Cap!”

“Pretty! Pretty!”

“A lalapalooza!”

“Run! Run!”

“Keep on going!”

“Come on in, Graydon! Come home! Come home!”

Thus the frantic cries.

Graydon was speeding in from third, and desperate fielders were racing
after the ball. It could not be located in the tall grass, and Cap was
legging it for all he was worth.

“Run! Run! Run!” Thus they besought him. Graydon crossed the rubber
with the tying run, and still the ball was not found. Then, as Cap
passed second, a shout announced that a fielder had it. But he was far
out, and the second baseman knew his teammate could never field it in
from where he was. He ran out to intercept the ball, as Cap was legging
it for home.

“Thud!” The second baseman had the horsehide. He turned to throw it
home, and the catcher spread out his hands for it. But Cap dropped and
slid over the plate in a cloud of dust, and was safe just a second
before the ball arrived.

Westfield had won! And on the last chance!




CHAPTER XVIII

A PLOT AGAINST BILL


What rejoicing there was among the members of the nine and the
supporters of the team! How the lads howled, their hoarse voices
mingling with the shrill cries of the girls! Sober men danced around
with their gray-haired seat-mates, and several “old grads” who had
witnessed the contest jumped up and down pounding with their canes on
the grandstand until it seemed as if the structure would collapse.

“Good boy, Cap!” cried Bill, clapping his brother on the back. “Good
boy!”

“All to the horse radish,” added Pete.

“Oh, you fellows didn’t do so worse yourselves,” remarked John, as he
tried to fight off a crowd that wanted to carry him on their shoulders.

He was unsuccessful, and a moment later was hoisted up, while a
shouting, yelling, cheering procession marched around the grounds,
singing some of the old school songs of triumph. It was a glorious
victory.

It was fought all over again in the rooms of the boys that night, and
the team was praised on all sides.

“Still it was a narrow squeak,” declared the coach to the captain,
“and we’ve got to do better if we want to keep the championship.”

“Oh, I guess we’ll do it,” answered Graydon. “Those Smith boys are a
big find.”

“I should say so! I don’t know what to do about the battery, though. We
can’t let Mersfeld and Denby slide altogether.”

“No, we’ll have to play them occasionally. And Mersfeld isn’t so bad
sometimes. He gets rattled too easily, and Bill Smith doesn’t. Well,
come on out and I’ll blow you to some chocolate soda.”

Meanwhile the Smith boys were having a jollification of their own in
their rooms, whither many of their friends had gone. Bill brought out
some packages of cakes, and bottles of ginger ale and other soft stuff,
on which the visitors were regaled.

“Here’s more power to you!” toasted Billie Bunce, a little fat junior,
who was not above making friends with the freshmen.

Mersfeld did not attend the little gathering in the rooms of our
heroes. And had they seen him, in close conversation with Jonas North,
a little later, and had they heard, what the two were saying, they
would not have wondered at his absence. Mersfeld met North as the
latter was strolling about the campus.

“What’s going on up there?” asked North, as he motioned to where lights
gleamed in the rooms of our friends, for it was not yet locking-up time.

“Oh, Smith Brothers and Company are having some sort of an improvised
blow-out,” replied the temporarily deposed pitcher. “Those fellows
make me tired. Just because they helped pull one game out of the fire
they think they’re the whole cheese. I’d like to get square with
Four-eyes somehow or other.”

“Why don’t you?” proposed North, with a grin. “Seems to me you ought to
be able to ‘do’ him.”

“I am, if it came to a fight, but I wouldn’t dare mix it up with him.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’d be a howl, and everyone would say I did it because I
was jealous. I’d have to have some mighty good excuse to warrant wading
into him.”

“Well, can’t you think of one?”

“No, I can’t. I’d like to get square with him, though.”

“Put him out of business you mean—so he couldn’t pitch for a while?”
asked the bully.

“That would do, yes.”

“You might put up a job to burn his hands with acid in chemistry
class some day. Just a little burn would do. You could say it was an
accident.”

“No, that’s too risky,” remarked Mersfeld, after thinking it over.
“I’d like to have it come about naturally. Now if he or his brothers
would try some trick, and get caught—suspended by the faculty for a
month—or laid off from athletics, that would do. But the Smith fellows
seem to have given up pranks lately, and have buckled down to lessons.
I guess they’re afraid.”

North did not answer for a few moments. He walked along, apparently
deeply thinking. Suddenly he exclaimed:

“I believe I have it! Get them caught while doing some fool cut-up
thing, such as is always going on around here. That would do it, if we
can get them into something desperate enough so they’ll be suspended.
Fine!”

“Yes, it’s all very well enough to say ‘fine!’ But how are you going to
work it? Haven’t I told you that they’ve cut out jokes?”

“That’s all right. We can get ’em into the game again.”

“How?”

“Easy enough. All they need is to have some one to make a suggestion.
They’ll fall into line quickly enough, and then—have McNibb catch ’em
in the act, and it’s all off with their baseball. I haven’t any love
for ’em, either, and I’d like to see ’em out of the game. They don’t
belong in our class here.”

“Oh, they’re all right, but they think they’re the whole show,”
complained the pitcher bitterly. “All I ask is for Bill Smith to get
out of the box, and let me in. I can do as good as he!”

“Of course you can,” agreed North, though if Mersfeld could have seen
the covert sneer in the bully’s smile perhaps he would not have been so
friendly with him. “Well, if you’ll help, I’ll work it. We’ll have ’em
caught in the act—say painting the Weston statue red or green—that
ought to fetch ’em.”

“Yes, but how are you going to arrange to have ’em caught?” asked
Mersfeld.

“Easy enough. Here’s my game,” went on North. “First we’ll propose to
Bill or Cap, or to the other brother, that as things around the school
are a little dull, they ought to be livened up. They’ll bite at the
bait, for they like fun, and when they hear that it would be a good
stunt to decorate the big bronze statue of old man Weston, in front of
the main building with green or red paint, they’ll fall for it.”

“Yes, but they know enough not to get caught, even if they go into the
trick.”

“They can’t help being caught the way we’ll work it,” was the crafty
reply.

“Why not?”

“Because the night they select for the joke—and we’ll know when it
is—there’ll be an anonymous letter dropped at Proctor McNibb’s door,
telling him what is going to be pulled off. He’ll get on the job, and
catch the Smith boys at the game. How’s that?”

Mersfeld meditated a moment.

“I guess it will do,” he said slowly—“only,—”

“Well, what’s the matter with my plan?” demanded the bully half angrily.

“If you or I propose such a game to Bill or his brothers they’ll smell
a rat right away.”

“Of course they will, but you don’t s’pose I’m such a ninnie as to
propose it ourselves; do you?”

“What then?”

“Why I’ll have some one who is friendly to them do it. Oh, don’t worry,
they’ll fall for it all right enough. Now come on over to my room,
and we’ll fix it up,” and the two cronies, one a rather unwilling
participator in the plot, walked along the campus, casting back a look
at the gaily lighted windows of the apartments of the Smith boys.

“Hang it all!” mused Mersfeld as he tried to quiet an uneasy
conscience, “I don’t want to get those fellows into trouble, but I
want to be back in my rightful place as pitcher on the Varsity.”

And then he and North went into the details of the plot against our
heroes, against Bill more particularly, for it was he whom Mersfeld
wanted to displace.




CHAPTER XIX

THE PROFESSOR’S WARNING


“Say, Cap, don’t you think things are rather slow, not to say dreary
around here?” asked Bob Chapin a few days after the ball game, as he
strolled into the elder Smith lad’s room, and appropriated the easiest
chair. “It’s the spring fever or the summer sleeping sickness coming
on, I’m sure.”

“What’s up now, Bob?” asked Bill, as he tossed aside his chemistry,
glad of an excuse to stop studying.

“What Bob needs is to train for the eleven or get into a baseball
uniform,” added Pete. “He’s getting fat and lazy, and he hasn’t any
interest in life.”

“Get out!” cried the visitor, who did not go in for athletics, and who
preferred to be considered a “Sport,” with a capital “S,” wearing good
clothes and spending all his spare time in a town billiard parlor. “You
get out, Pete. Didn’t I try for the glee club?”

“Yes, but you were too lazy to practice,” remarked Cap frankly.

“How brutal of you!” cried Chapin, with a mock theatrical air. “Didn’t
I even forgive my enemies and beg them to take me into the banjo club?”

“Which, for the good of the service, they refused to do,” went on the
elder Smith.

“Oh, have you no mercy?” asked the visitor in a high falsetto voice,
striking an attitude.

“We’re all out of it—expect a fresh lot in next week,” answered Bill.
Then after a pause he added: “Now there’s a thing you could do, Bob.”

“What’s that?”

“Go in for theatricals. Why don’t you join the Paint and Powder club?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Afraid of spoiling my complexion with burnt cork and
grease preparations, I guess,” was the indolent reply. “But I don’t
want to discuss myself. I was asking if you fellows didn’t find it dull
here? Why, there hasn’t been a thing pulled off since we brought the
calf into the ancient history class two weeks ago. It is frightfully
dull at Westfield. Don’t you think so, really?”

“Hadn’t noticed it,” replied Cap. “What with baseball practice, and
digging and boning and lectures and writing home occasionally for money
we manage to exist; eh fellows?”

“Sure!” chorused his brothers.

“Well, I say it’s dull,” went on Chapin. “Now you fellows used to cut
up some, when you first came, but you’d think you had all reformed the
way you’ve been keeping quiet lately.”

“There’s nothing to do,” complained Bill, in whom the spirit of
mischief burned more strongly than in his brothers. “Show us a good
lively time and we’ll be in on it.”

“I can’t show it to you,” replied Chapin. “You’ve got to make it for
yourselves.”

“Well, I’ll do my share,” went on Bill eagerly. “Why, is there
something up?”

“Now, Bill, you haven’t any time to undertake any pranks you know,”
admonished Cap, but his voice was not at all commanding, and there was
a gleam of interest in his eyes.

“Yes, cut out the funny business,” added Bill. “But what is it, anyhow,
Bob? No harm in telling; is there?”

“Sure not. I was just wishing a racket would break loose, and I
happened to think of something a while ago. It would take some nerve to
do it though, and maybe you fellows—”

He paused significantly—temptingly.

“Say, who says we haven’t got the nerve?” demanded Bill quickly.

“Now, Bill go easy,” advised his older brother, but he, too, looked
interested.

“Oh, well, certainly you have the nerve,” admitted Chapin. “But it’s
risky.”

“Are you willing to go in on it?” asked Pete quickly.

“Of course,” was the instant rejoinder.

“Then name your game!” came from Bill, “and you’ll find us right behind
you up to the muzzle of the cannon. Out with it!”

“Oh, I wish you’d stayed away,” spoke Cap. “I’m back in my
trigonometry, and if I flunk—Well, I suppose we may as well hear what
you’ve got up your sleeve,” and he laid aside his book, with a laugh
and a half-protesting shake of his head.

Bob’s first act was to go over to the door of Cap’s room, in which the
gathering took place, and see that the portal was tightly closed. Then
he listened at the keyhole.

“Is it perfectly safe?” he asked in a whisper. “Can anyone hear us?”

“Say, what are we up against?” asked Cap with a laugh. “Is this a
gunpowder plot, or merely a scheme to burn the old school.”

“Listen, and I will a tale unfold,” went on Chapin. “Gather ’round, my
children, gather ’round the camp-fire and Anthony shall tell us one of
his famous stories. So they gathered ’round—”

“Oh, get along with it—we’ve got to do some boning to-night, Bob,”
complained Pete. “We’ve heard that camp-fire joke before.”

“Do you know the bronze statue of ‘Pop’ Weston in front of the school?”
asked the visitor in a stage whisper.

“Do we know it? The statue of the founder of Westfield? Well I should
bust a bat but we do,” answered Bill.

“What do you think of the color of it?” asked Chapin.

“What do you mean?” Cap wanted to know.

“I mean wouldn’t it look prettier red or blue or pink, than the shade
it is now?”

He paused to look at the three brothers. They did not answer for a
moment. Then Bill exclaimed:

“Say, is that what you mean—to paint the statue?”

Chapin nodded slowly.

“It’s—sacrilege,” whispered Cap.

“Only an iconoclast would dare think of such a thing,” declared Bill.
“But—” there was an eager light in his eyes.

“It was done once, years ago,” proceeded the tempter, “and the whole
Freshman class was suspended for a week, as the faculty couldn’t find
out who did it. It has been many, many, weary years since such an honor
fell upon us Freshmen,” and he sighed deeply, as though in pain.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Cap softly. The daring plot appealed to him,
conservative as he was.

“How did they get the paint off?” asked Pete.

“It had to wear off,” replied Chapin. “But I don’t want to do anything
like that. We can use water colors, and they won’t spoil the bronze,
and really it would be a little too rotten to make such a mess of it.
Just tint it a light Alice blue, or a dainty Helen pink—it will wash
off, but it will look pretty for a while, and the freshmen class will
have made a name for itself that it can be proud of. Are you with me?
It can easily be done, and the chances are we won’t be caught. How
about it?”

“I’ll do it!” exclaimed Bill quickly.

“I don’t know,” began Cap.

“Oh, come on,” urged Pete. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had any
fun.”

“If we’re caught, it means good-bye to balls and bats,” went on the
eldest brother.

“But we won’t be caught,” declared Chapin eagerly. “Besides, what if we
are—that’s half the fun.”

“All right, go ahead,” agreed Cap. “Might as well be killed for a sheep
as a lamb, I guess. I’m in on it.”

“Now about the paint,” went on the tempter, as he again listened at
the door. “We’ll have to be careful where we get it, as McNibb is a
regular detective for following a clue. It ought to be bought out of
town.”

“That’s so,” agreed Pete.

“Hold on, I have it!” cried Bill, after a moment’s thought. “Professor
Clatter.”

“Professor Clatter?” inquired Chapin. “You mean that medicine man with
his queer wagon?”

“Exactly,” went on the pitcher. “I saw him in town the other day, and
he said he was coming back to play a return engagement near here. He’s
got some new kind of stomach dope or something like that. Besides,
he has some patent face powder that he says he got at a bargain, and
he’s going to try and work it off on the ladies in the crowd. It’s
a beautiful pink, and it’s harmless. I was looking at a box of it,
and it got on my hands. Say, for a few minutes I had the nicest baby
complexion you’d want to see. But it all washed off as easily as soap.”

“Well, what’s the answer?” asked Chapin, as Bill paused.

“Why we’ll get some of that powder from the professor, mix it up, and
use it on the statute. It will come off easily and I defy Proctor
McNibb to trace where it came from. The professor is a friend of ours,
and he’ll keep mum.”

“The very thing!” cried the visitor. “When can you get it?”

“To-morrow, or next day,” answered Bill, who had now entered heart and
soul into the piece of mischief. “I’ll get enough to give Pop Weston a
liberal coating.”

“Night after to-morrow,” mused Chapin, looking at a calendar over Cap’s
table. “That will do. There’s no moon. What about brushes?”

“I guess a whitewash one will do. Maybe the professor has one—or a big
sponge, such as he uses for cleaning his wagon.”

“Fine!” cried Chapin. “Oh, I can just see the faculty when they file
past the bronze statue, done to a beautiful baby pink! Great! No more
will the lordly Seniors boast of having once run a dump cart into the
class room. The Sophs with their little trick of putting tar on the
bell tower will take a back seat, and the Juniors, whose stronghold,
so far, has been the horrible task of burning red fire under Prexy’s
windows, will be green with envy. Oh, what a lucky day this has been!”

“It isn’t over yet,” remarked Cap significantly.

“Well, I’ll see Clatter and get the stuff,” promised Bill. “Then we’ll
meet and do the decorating. How many are in on it?” asked the pitcher,
pausing in his planning.

“We don’t want too many,” spoke Chapin cautiously. “Us four perhaps,
Bondy and Whistle-Breeches if you like, as they’re on this corridor.”

“Not Bondy,” said Pete quickly. “We’ll let Whistle-Breeches in, but
Guilder isn’t in our set. He wouldn’t come if we asked him, and we’re
not going to. Besides, he might squeal.”

“Well, five are enough,” said Chapin. “Now I’ll depend on you to get
the paint, Bill.”

“And I’ll get it.”

“Fare thee well, then,” and with another cautious listening at the
door, Chapin took himself out.

“Well?” asked Cap, of his brothers a little later, when they had sat in
silence pondering over the plan.

“It’s all to the red-pepper,” declared Bill. “We need something to
wake us up.”

“I guess this will prevent dreams for some time,” observed the eldest
Smith.

“It’ll be a scream of a nightmare when the faculty sees it,” came from
Pete, “but there’s no harm in it as long as the paint washes off.”

With many nods and winks Chapin recalled to the three brothers, and to
Whistle-Breeches, next morning the plot they had made. Whistle-Breeches
had been let into it early in the day, and had eagerly agreed to do his
share. They would need ropes with which to mount to the top of the big
statue, and Anderson had agreed to procure them.

“I can climb, too,” he said, “and I’ll decorate the top part.”

“Good for you, Whistle-Breeches!” exclaimed Pete.

It was that same afternoon that Bill saw Bob Chapin in close
conversation with Mersfeld and Jonas North. It was the first time he
had noticed that Chapin was chummy with the Varsity regular pitcher,
and with the lad who, because of his bullying tactics was generally
shunned, except by his own crowd.

“I hope Bob doesn’t talk too much about the statue business,” reflected
Bill. “Too many cooks make the hash taste burned. It might leak out.”

Then, as he was summoned to practice he gave the matter no more thought
until that evening, when he set off alone to see Professor Clatter, and
get the pink paint.

Pete and Cap wanted to accompany him, but Bill declared that there was
safety in small numbers, and that he preferred to go alone.

He found his old friend getting ready for an evening performance,
filling his gasoline torches, looking over his stock of supplies, and
tuning the banjo with which, and his not unmelodious voice, he drew a
throng about the gaily painted wagon.

“Ha, my young friend, back again!” cried the professor. “Greetings to
you. And where are the brothers?”

“Studying, I expect, or making a pretense to.”

“Good again! Ah, the lamp of learning burns brightly when one is young.
What ho! Mercurio! Some more gasoline for this torch! We must have
light!” Then the professor having ordered about an imaginary slave,
proceeded to fill the torch himself.

“Speaking of lamps of learning,” broke in Bill, thinking this was
a good time to announce his errand, “we’re going to do a little
illumination over at Westfield on our own account. How much of that
pink paint have you, Professor?”

“Pink paint—you mean my Matchless Complexion Tinting Residuum?”

“I guess that’s it. We need some.”

“For a masked ball?”

“For a bronze statue,” replied Bill, and he proceeded to relate the
details of the plot. The professor listened carefully. Bill told
everything, and at length the traveling vendor asked:

“Did you and your brothers think of this scheme, Bill?”

“No, as a matter of fact Bob Chapin proposed it.”

“Ah, I suppose he is one of the leading spirits when it comes to these
plots of—er—innocent mischief?”

“No, I never knew him to get up anything of the kind before. And that’s
the funny part of it. He never takes a hand in ’em. But now he comes to
us with the idea, and he’s going to help carry it out. I never knew he
had gumption enough to break out this way. It’s a good one, though.”

“And doesn’t it strike you as odd that he suddenly breaks out now?”
asked the professor in rather a curious voice.

“Odd? Dow do you mean?”

“I mean do you think he had any object in it?”

“Object in it?”

“Yes, to get you boys interested and—”

“Why, he’s interested himself. He’s going to help decorate Pop Weston.”

“I know, but you say he never did anything of the kind before,”
objected Mr. Clatter, looking sharply at Bill.

“No.”

“And isn’t it rather late in the college year for him to begin?”

“It is—say, look here, Professor Clatter! Do you know anything about
this?” demanded Bill.

“No, only what my common sense tells me. But I gather that there is
some feeling against you because of baseball matters.”

“A little—yes, Mersfeld is sore, but—”

“Wait a minute. Now, if some of your enemies could get you into a game
like this, and then desert you, and let the whole blame fall on you,
or, even, we’ll say, tip off the college authorities, to use a slang
term—wouldn’t they make trouble for you.”

“Yes, they would, but—”

“Is this Bob Chapin a particular friend of yours?”

“Not particularly.”

“Is he in with this Mersfeld?”

“No, not any more than—By Jove!” Bill checked himself suddenly. The
remembrance of Chapin talking earnestly to Mersfeld and North came back
to him.

“Ah!” exclaimed the professor knowingly, as he rubbed his hands. “I
fancy we are getting at something. Now if our friend Tithonus Somnus
were here we would get him to read the stars for us, but, in his
absence I’ll venture to give you a bit of advice, Bill.”

“What is it, Mr. Clatter.”

“You may consider this in the light of a warning,” went on the medicine
vendor earnestly. “Don’t have anything to do with the trick of painting
the statue, Bill; or if you do—”

He paused significantly.

“Well, if we do?” repeated Bill.

“If you do, then play the double cross, and catch your enemies in the
net they have spread for you,” was the reply in a low voice.

Bill started, and, as he did so there came a cautious knock at the door
of the wagon.

“Who’s there?” asked the professor quickly.

“It’s me—Tithonus,” was the answer in a hoarse whisper. “Let me
in—quick! The police are after me!”




CHAPTER XX

THE PLOTTERS CAUGHT


Professor Clatter swung wide the door, and the figure of the rain-maker
toppled in, rather than walked.

“Quick! Shut it and lock it!” he cried, and he assisted in the
operation. Then he passed beyond the small room in the rear of the
wagon—a room that served as dining hall, living apartment, sitting
room and parlor, and in a few seconds Mr. Somnus could be heard
crawling into one of the bunks.

“If they come for me—you haven’t seen me, of course,” came his voice
in muffled tones, indicating that his head was under the bed clothes.

“Of course not, my dear Tithy,” replied the professor. “And, in fact,
so quick was your passage through, like a half back making a touchdown,
to use a phrase doubtless familiar to my friend Bill Smith—to use that
phrase, I have scarcely seen you. But what is the matter? Why this
haste? There doesn’t seem to be any one following you—at least not at
your heels.”

“Are you sure?” asked the muffled voice.

“Sure, yes, Tithy,” replied the medicine man, after a moment of
listening. “No one is coming. But what in the world is the matter?”

“Oh, it’s an unfortunate mistake I made,” was the answer. “If you’ll
wait a while, to make sure the police and sheriffs officers are not
after me, I’ll come out and explain.”

“I wish you would, Tithy, for Bill and I are much in the dark.”

After a wait of several minutes, during which Bill wondered what in
the world could have caused the rain-maker to flee in such terror,
the individual in question came out of the compartment devoted to the
sleeping bunks.

“Well?” asked the professor.

“Not well—bad,” was the despondent reply. “You see I found the
star-gazing trade poor lately, on account of so many cloudy nights, so,
in order to make a living I ventured to proclaim that I would read the
stars and reveal the future—for a consideration. It was risky, I know,
but I did it, and did it well—for a time.

“All was prosperous and happy, until to-night, just before supper I was
visited by a man who wanted to know whether he would be successful in a
certain undertaking. I consulted my charts and said that he would.”

“What was the undertaking?” asked Bill.

“He was going to collect a long overdue bill from a man who owed him
some money,” went on the astronomer. “I told him to be firm, and he
would succeed.

“A little later he came back, all tattered and torn, with one eye
blackened, his collar a rag, and his clothes covered with dirt. He
entered my wagon without knocking, and presented himself before me.

“‘I was firm!’ he shouted at me, ‘but I did not succeed. This is
what the other man did to me!’ Oh, it was terrible. He accused me of
deceiving him, and he sprang at me, and would doubtless have made me
suffer, but I escaped through the front door, leaving my beloved cat,
Scratch, behind, and I fled here.

“As I ran on I could hear the terrible threats the man uttered against
me, of causing my arrest. Even now I fear—hark! What’s that?”

Mr. Somnus paused in alarm, and seemed about to dart for the bunks
again.

“Nothing—absolutely nothing,” answered the professor, calmly. Mr.
Somnus listened, and seemed satisfied.

“I guess that fellow didn’t mean all he said,” put in Bill.

“Perhaps,” agreed the astronomer, with a sigh. “I certainly hope not.”

“You are not the only one who has troubles,” went on the traveling
medicine man. “Here’s Bill.”

“What troubles has he?” asked Mr. Somnus. “Has he been
predicting—reading the stars?”

“Not exactly,” answered the pitcher. And then Professor Clatter told
about the proposed painting of the statue and his own warning.

“I’m glad you happened in, Tithy,” went on the vendor of the Peerless
Permanent Pain Preventative, “for I’d like your opinion about
this matter. I say it’s a plot to get Bill and his brothers into
trouble, what do you think about it?” He detailed the reasons for his
suspicions, and waited for an answer.

“Well,” began the fugitive, “not speaking by the stars at all, you
understand, and making no promises for which I can be held responsible,
I think you’re right, Theophilus. And I’d advise Bill to look out.”

“But how?” eagerly asked the pitcher. “I’m beginning to agree with you.
How can I catch Mersfeld and North at their little game, for a game I
think it is?”

“Easy enough,” said the professor. “Go on as if you and your brothers
and Whistle-Breeches—Oh, what a classical name—go on as if you
intended to carry out the trick. Take my word for it those fellows
will be hidden somewhere ready to see you caught, and you can turn the
tables on them.

“In some way they will, I feel sure, get word to the college
authorities of what is on foot. Very well, you have but to stay away at
the last moment, and give some sign by which the proctor will be led
to the hiding place of your enemies. Then, by judiciously spilling a
little of the pink paint near their rooms, and secreting a pot of it
near their hiding place, you will have them on the hip, as my friends
the Romans say.”

“Good!” cried Bill, after a moment’s thought, “I’ll do it.”

“Then here is the pink powder,” went on the professor, handing Bill
several packages, “and may luck attend you. Just mix it with water, and
it will do the work. Now, Tithy, I can attend to your case.”

“And I’ll get back to school, and put up a game on North and Mersfeld,”
said Bill.

“We wish we could be there to see,” spoke Mr. Clatter in eager tones.
“Tithy and I would enjoy it, but we have troubles of our own. I’ll be
around this way in about two weeks again, and you can tell me about it.”

“Come to the ball game,” invited Bill. “We’re going to play Sandrim in
a league contest.”

“I will, if I am not in jail,” promised the astronomer solemnly.

Bill hurried back to his brothers and told his story, adding the
professor’s suspicions, warnings and advice.

“The sneaks!” burst out Cap. “Mersfeld and North to put up a game like
that on us.”

“And Chapin to go in with them,” added Pete.

“They ought to be run out of school!” declared Whistle-Breeches.

“Easy,” suggested Bill. “Maybe Bob Chapin didn’t know what he was up
against. We’ll have a talk with him.”

Bob soon proved to the satisfaction of the Smith brothers and Donald
Anderson, that he was not aware of the “double cross” plan of the
deposed Varsity pitcher.

“North and Mersfeld suggested the scheme to me,” Bob admitted, “and
said you fellows would be good ones to do it.”

“And they’re going to play a safety, and hide somewhere to watch us be
nabbed by McNibb; aren’t they?” demanded Cap.

“They’re going to hide some place near the statue,” replied Bob,
“because I heard them saying something about it. But, honest, fellows,
I didn’t know that they were going to squeal. They got me all worked up
and I was interested. I hope you believe me.”

“We do,” Bill assured him. “Now to get even. I guess, in case they make
the split, that they’ll send an anonymous letter to McNibb. How about
it?”

“Naturally,” agreed Cap and Pete.

“Then we’ll add another,” went on Bill, “and in it we’ll disclose the
hiding place of the sneaks. Where did you say it would be, Bob?”

“In the clump of rhododendron bushes in front of the statue.”

“Good! Now the plot thickens, and we’ll have to thicken the pink paint.
Come on, fellows, get busy. First I’ll prepare the second anonymous
letter.”

A few hours later Proctor McNibb was rather surprised to receive a
screed, signed with no name, informing him that a plot existed among a
certain lot of Freshmen, and that the said plot consisted of a plan to
paint the founder’s statue baby-pink.

“If you wish to catch the vandals, be on hand near the statue shortly
after midnight,” the anonymous epistle went on.

Now the proctor was an honorable man, and usually did not pay much
attention to unsigned letters. But here was one he felt that he must
heed. Where it had come from he did not bother his head about.

“Some upper classmen, who have given over such sacrilegious horse-play
may have sent it,” he argued, “or the townsman from whom the paint was
purchased may have been stricken with remorse, or have a fear that
he will be found out. At any rate I’ll catch them red-handed. No,
pink-handed I guess,” and the proctor smiled at his joke.

The official’s surprise may be imagined when, shortly after the receipt
of the first letter, he got another. Our friends had a spy, in the
person of one of the janitors, who did work in that part of the school
where Mr. McNibb had his rooms, and the janitor at once informed Bill
when there were signs of unusual activity in the proctor’s office.

“It’s their letter!” declared Bill. “Now for ours!” and it was sent,
disclosing the information that the would-be painters of the statue
would be hidden in the clump of rhododendron bushes.

Then there was a busy time for our friends. Throwing in his lot with
the Smith boys and Whistle-Breeches, Bob Chapin helped them in the
plot, by pretending to keep Mersfeld and North posted.

“You can hide in the bushes, just as you planned,” said the languid
youth to them.

“And see the fun?” eagerly asked Mersfeld. “Will they be on hand?”

“Oh, they’ll be on hand all right,” said Bob, and there was a grim
smile on his face, which the plotters did not observe.

So anxious were they to be present, and see the Smith boys captured,
that Mersfeld and North left their rooms early. This was the cue for
Bill and his brothers to make their way to the enemies’ apartments,
and, by scattering around a little of the pink mixture, give the idea,
to a casual observer, that the coloring stuff had been prepared there.

In the meanwhile, and before the two lads who had planned to get their
classmates in trouble had gone to their hiding place, several pails
of the pink mixture had been hidden in the clump of bushes. Strings
led from the pails to behind a stone wall, where Bill, his brothers,
together with Whistle-Breeches and Bob, would hide. At the proper
time the strings would be pulled, and the stuff upset. This would be
additional evidence against the two plotters.

“Well, I guess it’s about time for us to go out,” said Cap, as midnight
approached, that hour, having been suggested to Bob by the plotters.
“Go easy, now, for McNibb may have spotters posted.”

“No, I think not,” said Bob. “He’ll depend on catching us at the
statue. Oh, wow! Won’t those fellows be surprised!”

Mersfeld and North were in hiding. They had been waiting for some time.

“Hang it all!” muttered the deposed Varsity pitcher, “why don’t they
come?”

“Oh, they’ll be here all right.”

“You don’t s’pose they could have backed out; do you?”

“No, Bob Chapin said they were hot for the trick, and rose to it like a
hungry trout to a fly. Oh, they’ll be here.”

“Then I wish they’d hurry. I’m getting a cramp in my leg, crouching
down so long.”

“That’s nothing. I know I’ll have rheumatism or housemaid’s knee, or
something like it, for sitting on the damp ground. But think of it!
They’ll be suspended, and you’ll be back on the nine!”

“Yes, that makes it worth while.”

“Hark! I think I hear something!” cried North suddenly.

They peered out. Two dark figures could be seen coming cautiously
around the base of the statue.

“That’s them!” whispered Mersfeld.

“No, that’s McNibb, and one of the janitors is with him. He’s too
early! He’ll scare ’em off!”

“Jove! It looks so. I wonder—”

“Say! He’s heading this way!” cried North suddenly. “Can he see us?”

They waited in an agony of fear and apprehension. There was a movement
in the bushes—a curious sloshing, splashing sound, and something
seemed to be flowing around the feet of the two plotters.

“Great guns!” cried Mersfeld, “what are we up against?”

“Keep quiet,” begged North hoarsely.

It was too late.

“Ha! I have you! Waiting for a chance to despoil the statue; are you?”
cried the voice of the proctor.

He made a rush for the bushes. Mersfeld and North made a rush to get
out. Their feet became entangled in the strings that had been pulled a
moment before by the hidden Smith boys. Down in the pink paint went the
conspirators, just as the proctor and his impressed aide hurried up and
grabbed them.

“I have you!” exclaimed the college official. “I have stopped your
nefarious work just in time. Strike a match, Biddel.”

The janitor obeyed. In the glow stood two sorry-looking figures, pink
paint dripping from them.

“Mersfeld and North!” ejaculated the proctor. “I would not have
believed a member of the Varsity nine capable of such a trick.”

“We weren’t going to do it,” began the pitcher, and then the futility
of the denial made itself plain to him, as in the dying glow of the
match he saw the sight he and his companion presented.

“Follow me, gentlemen,” said the proctor simply, leading the way to his
quarters.

“Caught in their own trap!” whispered Bill softly, as he and his
brothers and chums looked over the top of the wall, and saw what had
taken place.

“Talk about painting the town red,” murmured Cap. “The very _grass_ is
_pink_, over there,” and chuckling to themselves our heroes hurried to
their rooms lest they, too, be taken in for being out after hours.




CHAPTER XXI

AN INTERRUPTED SUPPER


“Wasn’t it great?” demanded Bill.

“All to the lalapalooza!” was Cap’s opinion.

“I thought sure McNibb would hear us snickering when we pulled the
strings and upset the paint,” added Pete.

“And what a sight Mersfeld and North were!” remarked Whistle-Breeches.
“They must have looked like walking complexion advertisements when the
lights were turned on.”

“I wonder if they’ll be fired?” spoke Bob Chapin. “I wouldn’t like
that.”

“Hu! That’s probably what they wanted to happen to us!” cut in
Whistle-Breeches. “It’s a case of chicken eat turkey I reckon, and
everybody have cranberries.”

“They didn’t actually _do_ anything,” went on Bill, as he and his
brothers and chums were talking over the affair next morning. “The
evidence only pointed to them as if they were _going_ to do it.”

“That’s enough for McNibb,” commented Cap. “Great monkey doodles! There
goes last bell and I’ve got to look over my Pindar yet. Holy mackerel!”

The whole school was buzzing with the news, and it was soon generally
known that the Smith boys had neatly turned the tables on the plotters.

As for those worthies, the events had followed each other so rapidly
that they hardly knew what to think, much less say or do. It was a
complete surprise to them, and they dared not utter a word as to what
their real intentions had been.

As Cap had said, the circumstantial evidence was enough against
them. They had been caught, if not exactly with the paint in their
possession, at least with it all over them, and the anonymous letter
was enough to declare their object, albeit that screed was intended to
throw suspicions on others.

“Have you anything to say?” the proctor had asked them when he had them
in his sanctum.

“I—er—I guess not,” answered North, with a glance at his pink-stained
clothing.

“How about you, Mersfeld?”

“I—I don’t know, it was not our intention—Oh, well, I guess I have
nothing to say, either,” and the pitcher gave up the attempt.

“Very well. You may go. I’ll take your case up with the faculty.”

The two lads were in an agony of apprehension lest they be expelled, or
suspended for the remainder of the term, but after a faculty meeting,
in which Dr. Burton had made a plea for them, it was decided to debar
both lads from participation in all athletic or other sports for a
month, to stop all evening leave for the same period, and to inflict
other punishment in the matter of doing extra classical study.

The fact that they had not actually committed any overt act of
sacrilege against the statue was in their favor, though, as the
proctor said, only the receipt of the anonymous letter prevented it.

And how Mersfeld and his crony writhed in agony as they thought of the
letter they had themselves written! They guessed that their plot had
been laid bare, and they suspected Bob Chapin, who, fearing punishment,
spoke to the Smith boys about it. Then, on Cap’s suggestion, and in
order that the truth might be known, a statement of how it had all come
about was drawn up and sent to the two plotters.

“That’s the last time I try any of _your_ tricks,” said Mersfeld
bitterly to North.

“Get out! Weren’t you as hot for it as I was? Why don’t you think of
something yourself then, if you’re so smart?”

“I will—next time,” and the two parted not the best of friends.

The barring of Mersfeld from the diamond took him off the Varsity team
for the time being, though he was still considered a member of it, even
if he could not play. He was allowed to take part in practice games,
however, for Captain Graydon and Coach Windam well knew the value of
keeping some box men in reserve.

“No telling when Smith will develop a glass arm or go up in the air, or
get wild,” said Graydon.

“No, but he’s doing well now,” declared the coach. “He pitched a
no-hit-no-run game in a five inning practice the other day.”

“That’s too good to last. We’ve got to hold on to Mersfeld, and work up
some one else.”

“Sure. Mighty queer how the Smith boys turned that statue trick; eh?”

“Oh, those fellows aren’t greenhorns, if they did come from the
country. Wait until they get hold of the ropes here a little better,
and they’ll cut things loose.”

“Yes, and maybe they’ll be barred from the team.”

But our heroes showed no inclinations, at present, of doing anything
like that. They went on the even tenor of their ways, showed up
regularly at baseball practice, and had their lessons as well, perhaps,
as the average student. They did not “cut” more than the regulation
number of lectures, and they made many friends.

Bill kept on improving in his control and his curve work, until the
delighted coach and captain declared that they already had a good grip
on the pennant.

Several unimportant games were played, and one or two of the league
contests, in which the Westfield nine made about an even break. The
season was far from over, and he would indeed have been a wise prophet
who could have told who would win the pennant.

“I think even Duodecimo Donaldby, alias Tithonus Somnus himself would
be at a loss,” declared Cap. “But, fellows,” he went on, addressing his
two brothers, “keep up the good work. Make the name of ‘Smith’ a credit
to the school.”

“The only trouble is that there are so many Smiths that in ages to come
they won’t know which breed it was who did it,” complained Pete.

Mersfeld was bitter in his heart against our heroes, and was anxious
for revenge, but he and North had had a falling out, and he did not
know what he could do to get even with the Smith boys. Meanwhile he
sulked in his room, and thought mean thoughts.

“Say, fellows, do you know I think we ought to do something,” remarked
Bill to his brothers one day, as they came in tired but happy from the
diamond, after some hard practice. “It’s been dull lately.”

“Yes, let’s paint another statue,” remarked Cap grimly.

“Or put a cow in the physics class,” suggested Pete.

“No, but seriously, I think it’s up to us to do something,” went on
Bill. “We’ve got a lot of friends who expect things from us, and we
ought to keep up our reputation. What do you say that we give a little
spread? Dad sent me two fivers the other day.”

“You can’t give a spread for that,” declared Cap.

“I know it, but you fellows have some, and if you loosen up a bit—”

“Oh, count us in,” came quickly from Pete, “only how are you going to
do it? Hire a hall in town, and—”

“Oh, not that kind!” cried Bill quickly. “I mean a little midnight
supper up in our rooms. We can do it fine here, as we’re on the same
floor. It’s like one big room when the connecting doors are open.”

“We’d get caught sure as blazes,” observed Cap, “and you know our
reputations are none too good. I think McNibb suspects us of having
something to do with the statue game.”

“Why?” asked Bill.

“Oh, the other day he was up here, snooping around, and he saw a splash
of that pink paint on the wall. He went over to it right away, and
looked at it like Sherlock Holmes. I was in a nervous sweat, and I
thought he’d ask some questions, but he only said: ‘Ah, Smith, that
color has a powerful spreading ability; hasn’t it?’”

“And what did you say?” demanded Bill.

“What _could_ I say? Nothing. I just played safety and kept still, and
mighty glad I was that he didn’t ask any more. But as I say, I think he
suspects us, so we’ve got to be careful.”

“Oh, we can pull this off all right,” declared Bill. “I have a plan.”

“Tell it,” begged Whistle-Breeches. “Things are dull of late. Liven ’em
up.”

He had entered just in time to hear Bill’s last remark.

“Well, some big-gun from the other side, England or Germany, is coming
here next Friday night, to lecture on pedagogics or something like
that. The entire faculty is going, I understand, and only McNibb and
the janitors will be on hand. Besides that, the Seniors have some sort
of a legitimate blow out, and there’s the Junior concert. So things
will be quiet around here, and we can just as well as not have our
spread. What do you say, fellows?”

“I’m for it—here’s my cash,” answered Pete, passing over some bills.

“Ditto,” added Cap, following suit.

“Say, fellows, I’m broke,” put in Bob Chapin, who looked in at that
juncture, “but if there’s anything like that going on, count me in.”

“Me too!” cried Whistle-Breeches.

“This is strictly on the Smith boys,” declared Bill. “It’s to
celebrate our second childhood, or something like that. Well, I’ll go
ahead with the arrangements.”

On the Friday night in question there might have been seen a number of
figures—dark, stealthy figures—stealing, one at a time, toward the
dormitory where the Smith boys lived and moved and had their being. Yet
not a gleam of light shone from their windows, for Bill had bought some
black roofing paper and tacked it over the casements.

“It makes it warm,” he said, “but it’s safer.”

The good things had been bought, and some boards to be covered with
newspapers and laid on the beds were to serve for tables. As the lights
were turned off at a certain hour, save in the corridor, candles had
been procured.

“At last all was in readiness,” as they say in novels. The guests
had assembled and were gathered about the banquet table. No one had
been caught, as yet, for Bill had laid his plans well, and all of
the faculty, some of whom might otherwise have been prowling about
the school, were listening to a very deep lecture on how to impart
knowledge to boys, by a man who had never had any. As for Proctor
McNibb, he had so many extra duties on his hands that he did not go
near the Freshmen’s dormitory until quite late.

This gave our heroes and their friends the lack of attention which they
much desired. There was a goodly crowd present, when Whistle-Breeches,
who had been named as toastmaster, arose, and with a bottle of ginger
ale in one hand, and a cheese sandwich in the other, proposed:

“Those Smith boys! May we always have ’em with us!”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Wendell Borden, in a dull, monotonous voice.
Wendell had read that this was what Englishmen said at banquets, and
his father had come from England.

“Less noise!” ordered Bill. “Do you want to have the place pulled, and
all of us pinched? Go on and eat!”

They fell-to, and there was merry feasting, even if the jests did have
to be passed around in whispers, losing thereby much of their wit.

“Now, fellows,” began Bob Chapin, as he rose and held out a bottle of
lemon soda, “let me propose—”

There was a knock on the door—a knock as of one having authority.

A sudden hush fell upon the assemblage.

“Answer, Bill, Cap—some of you,” whispered Whistle-Breeches nervously.

“What’ll I say?” demanded Bill.

The knock was repeated.

“Ask whose there,” suggested Bob.

“Who—who’s—there?” stammered Bill, as though it cost him an effort.

“It is I—Mr. McNibb. Are there any persons in your room besides
yourselves?”

“Ye—yes,” stammered Bill. Lying was not permitted by the school honor
code.

“Open the door!” came the command.

Bill looked appealingly around. Some of the boys made motions as though
to dive under the beds.

“Face the music!” ordered Cap sharply, for he detested sneaking tactics.

“Open the door,” came the command again, in stern tones.

There was no choice but to obey, and Bill arose to draw the bolts.

He slowly opened the portal, and, as it swung back the banqueters
peered forward to behold the smiling countenances of Ward and Merton,
two of the biggest seniors in the school.




CHAPTER XXII

HITTING A BULLY


Blank looks of surprise, astonishment, relief and anger at the manner
in which they had been deceived, struggled for mastery over the faces
of the Freshmen. The two seniors walked in, looked coolly about,
as though the whole affair had been arranged for their especial
entertainment and inspection, and then calmly took two vacant seats
near the head of the improvised banquet table, which is to say the bed.

“Ah, very cozy and comfortable here; eh Ward?” observed Merton.

“Indeed yes. The old Romans weren’t in it with these chaps. They don’t
recline at table, but make their table on the recline! Ha! Ha! Joke!
Everybody laugh!”

There was a grim silence, at which the Seniors seemed surprised. They
looked around at the banqueters.

“Well, why don’t you laugh?” demanded Ward. “Don’t you Freshies know
what’s good for you?”

“Ha! Ha!” burst out Bill, as much in relief at not finding McNibb in
their midst, as at the alleged joke.

“Laugh!” commanded Merton sternly.

“Laugh!” ordered Ward sharply.

It was instruction that could not be disobeyed, for the Freshmen,
under certain circumstances, were by the unwritten, but none the less
stringent rules of the school, bound to do certain things commanded
by their class superiors. Thereupon there ensued a series of snickers,
more or less forced.

“Not so loud!” ordered Merton. “Or you _will_ have McNibb here. Sorry
if we gave you fellows heart-failure, but we smelled out this little
feed, and thought we’d better show you how easy it is to get caught.
Pass the cheese.”

“And I’ll have some of those pickled lambs tongues,” added Ward. “I
say, boys, you _do_ know how to get up a grub-fest. Who’s doing?”

“The Smith boys,” murmured Whistle-Breeches.

“Might have known,” declared Merton. “Say, you fellows are cutting
things loose at Westfield. Well, it’s good for the old school. Here,
Ward, are some prime macaroons.”

The seniors helped themselves and each other to what was best on the
table, making more or less funny remarks, while their unwilling hosts
looked on, not daring, because of another unwritten law, to eat with
them.

“Here, get busy, you fellows,” ordered Ward. “Pass things up toward
this end. We’re hungry, and it isn’t often that you have two noble
Roman senators to grace your banquets. Get busy.”

“What appetites!” murmured Cap in whispered admiration. “I thought I
could eat, but they have me beaten a mile.”

“Never mind, as long as it wasn’t McNibb. They’re welcome to all that’s
left—we had a good share,” spoke Bill.

The Seniors seemed to be having a good time, but they could not keep
on eating, and even in their hearts was the fear lest they be caught.
So, with a mock farewell, they took their departure, promising to send
some of their fellows around to enjoy the feast of good things.

But no more of the fourth-year men arrived, due to the fact, probably,
that the meeting at which were the entire faculty, was nearly at
an end, and soon the college and the grounds would be infested by
professors. Then, too McNibb might come around at any moment.

“Hurry, fellows,” suggested Bill and his brothers. “Eat what’s left and
then cut out of here. It _might_ be McNibb next time.”

“Say, I thought it was all up with us, when that knock came,” remarked
Pete.

“Same here,” added Whistle-Breeches. “Are there any stuffed olives
left?”

“Nary a one,” answered Cap. “Those chaps stuffed themselves on ’em.”

“Stuffed Seniors instead of stuffed olives,” observed Bill grimly.

The feast was over, the remains cleared away and, one by one, or in
couples, the guests departed, with intervals between the leavings, so
that too much noise might not be created.

The last one had gone—the room was in fairly good shape, albeit
bottles and cans had been piled into closets until the recesses were
almost overflowing—there to stay until such time as they could be
smuggled out.

“Well; how about it?” asked Bill.

“It was all right—even the interruption,” replied Cap.

There came a sudden knock on the door. The brothers, who were not the
only occupants of their adjoining rooms looked at each other with fear
in their eyes.

“Gentlemen, are you in bed?” demanded the unmistakable voice of the
proctor.

“Ye—yes!” exclaimed Bill, making an appealing motion to his brothers.
With a single motion they threw themselves, dressed as they were, upon
the covers, while Bill extinguished the single candle. “We’re in bed,
Mr. McNibb.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” was the grim retort. “I thought I saw a light
through the key hole.”

“No—no, sir,” declared Pete. The room was in darkness but the smell of
a recently extinguished candle was only too evident.

“Very well,” and the proctor passed on, leaving the Smith boys to
recover of near-heart-failure as best they might.

The banquet given by our heroes was the talk of the school for several
days—wireless talk, of course, for it would never do to have it come
to the ears of those in authority. Those who had not been favored with
an invitation were wondering how they could cultivate the good graces
of our friends, and the lucky ones who had attended were wondering when
there would be another spread.

There was hard baseball practice the day following the little affair,
and, for some reason Bill was a little off in his pitching.

“You’ll either have to get a new pair of glasses,” grimly remarked the
coach, “or you’ll have to cut out your midnight suppers, Smith.”

“All right,” agreed the pitcher, for the word of Mr. Windam was law.
The scrub, on which Mersfeld was pitching was close to beating the
Varsity, over which fact the deposed twirler was gloating.

“If things go on this way,” he said to his crony North, as they left
the field, the two again being friendly, “I’ll be back in the box once
more.”

“I’d be glad to help you,” was the answer, for though North did not
exactly care for Mersfeld, whom he felt was not in his “class,” yet the
bully had formed an unreasoning hate toward our heroes, and would have
been glad to see them run out of the school. “If anything turns up by
which we can get back at those fellows, count me in.”

“All right,” replied Mersfeld, duly grateful.

The two strolled across the campus, and, as they got behind a clump
of bushes, North saw a small, timid boy, one of the students at a
preparatory school connected with Westfield, passing along. He called
to the lad, whom he knew slightly:

“Here, Harvey, carry my glove and bat, I’m tired,” for North had been
playing on the scrub.

“Oh, please, I can’t,” replied Harvey. “I’m in a hurry. I—I will next
time.”

“I said now!” exclaimed North putting out a hand, and catching the
small chap roughly by the shoulder. “_Now_, do you hear! Not next week,
but _now_. What’s getting into you fellows from the prep, anyhow? Take
that bat!” and the bully brought it down with considerable force on
Harvey’s shoulder.

The little lad gave a cry of pain, and started to run, breaking from
North’s hold. With a coarse expression the larger student threw his
heavy glove at the little boy, catching him on the back of the head.
Then, with a quick jump North was at his side again, and had the little
fellow’s arm in a cruel grip.

“Try to run away from me; will you?” he demanded. “I’ll show you that
it won’t do to fool with me—you prep. kids are getting too fresh. Now
you get down on your knees and beg my pardon, and then take my glove
and bat, and Mersfeld’s bat too.”

“Oh, North—” began the pitcher, who was a fairly decent chap.

“Let me manage him,” exclaimed the bully. “These kids have to be taught
their place. Get down on your bones, now!”

He seized the frail lad’s hands in his strong ones, and bent them over
backward.

“Oh, Mr. North! Please don’t. I—I won’t do it again! I’ll carry the
bat! Oh, you’re breaking my hands!”

He cried out in agony, and Mersfeld took a step forward half intending
to interfere. But he did not get the chance.

Some one with blazing eyes leaped from behind the clump of bushes and
confronted the bully. A clenched fist was drawn back, and then shot
forward. Right on the point of North’s aristocratic chin it landed with
a sound that could be heard for some distance.

Backward the bully was hurled, almost turning over, and then he slumped
down on the grass. He stayed there for several seconds, and then got up
slowly.

“Who—who did that?” he asked thickly, for he was a bit dazed.

“I did,” answered Cap Smith quietly, “and if you want any additional
just try some more of your bullying tactics on boys smaller than
yourself.”

North staggered to his feet, and rushed at Cap.

“Not here! Not now!” cried Mersfeld, throwing himself in front of his
crony. “Meet him later! There’ll have to be a fight, of course?” and
the pitcher looked at Cap.

“Of course,” was the grave answer.

“All right. I’ll see one of your friends,” for these matters were
rather scientifically arranged at Westfield, on certain occasions.

“See Bill or Pete,” answered Cap, as he turned aside and strolled up
the campus.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE FIGHT


“Time!”

It was the call of the watch-holder, and, as he spoke the word, two
scantily clad figures leaped toward each other.

“Take him easy now, Cap!” cautioned Bill to his larger brother.

“Go in and finish him!” advised Mersfeld to North, for whom he was
acting as second. Merton was keeping time, and Ward, the other Senior
who had been the unbidden guest at the little spread was referee.

It was the fight between North and Cap Smith—the fight which was the
inevitable outcome of the interference when the bully was mistreating
little Harvey.

The contest took place where all such affairs were “pulled off,” if
I may use such a term, in a well-secluded spot back of the baseball
grandstand.

“Watch his left!” was the further advice of Bill, who was acting as
second, gave to his brother, while Mersfeld sarcastically cut in with:

“Look out for biting in the clinches, North.”

It was a useless insult, for Cap never answered it.

Narrowly he watched his opponent, looking into his eyes, and trying to
guess, by close observations of those organs, how the lead would be.

Out shot North’s left, after a weak feint with his right. Cap was not
deceived. Cleverly he blocked the blow and countered with his left. His
aim was a bit short, but it caught North over the eye, too lightly to
raise a mark, however.

The fight was now on, and for a time blows were delivered with such
rapidity that the onlookers were in doubt as to who was having the best
of it. It was give and take, yet it was not brutal.

For the lads were both healthy and strong, and the soft gloves which
the Seniors had insisted that they wear, precluded any serious damage
to either. Nor were they scientific enough to do any material harm, for
though they had both taken boxing lessons, they were far from being in
the class with pugilists.

North half turned, made a feint as though to drive his right into Cap’s
face, quickly shifted, and shot out his left.

“Wow!” cried Mersfeld in anticipation of what was about to happen to
the youth against whom he bore a grudge.

But it was the unexpected which took place, for North in making the
shift had left himself unguarded for one fatal moment.

In shot the ready left of Cap Smith, straight from the shoulder, with
all the steam behind it which our hero could muster, and North was
neatly bowled over, bleeding slightly from the nose.

“First blood for us!” called Bill shrilly.

“Well, you needn’t shout over it, and bring McNibb here!” grumbled
Mersfeld, as he hurried to his fallen champion.

“I—I’m all right!” gasped North. “My—my foot slipped on the grass.”

“Like fun!” retorted Pete. “You’ll have some more of those ‘slips’
before it’s over.”

“That’ll do,” spoke Ward quietly. He looked at his classmate.

“Time,” called Merton, for North had been attended by his second, while
Bill looked after Cap, who was in no way distressed.

“Don’t hurry to finish him,” whispered Bill, as Cap arose from his knee
to go forward. “You can do him.”

“I don’t know about that,” was the cautious reply. “He has a strong
right, and guards pretty well. I just managed to get in.”

“Don’t let him get you that way again,” advised Mersfeld to his friend.
“It’s too risky.”

“I won’t, if I can help it.”

They were at it again, hammer and tongs, giving and taking. Several
body blows were exchanged, making both lads grunt, but doing no damage.

Then, when Cap tried for another left to the jaw he either
miscalculated, or North guarded quickly, for Cap’s fist came against
his opponent’s forearm, and the next minute our hero went down under a
well directed blow, that eventually closed his right eye. But he did
not mind this, got up quickly and was at it again.

Seeing his advantage in the next round North hammered away at Cap’s
optic, thereby not only causing the Smith lad exquisite pain, but
greatly hampering him in the fight, for his vision was reduced by half.

“You’ve got him now!” exulted Mersfeld, when the round was over, and
he was spraying his man with water from a ginger ale bottle. “Keep at
him!”

“Oh, he’s got lots of go yet,” declared North. “If I can close his
other eye I’ll have him though.”

“Then play for that.”

North tried to, but he was so intent on this that he left his own chin
unguarded. Cap did not care much about inflicting visible punishment on
the bully, but he did want to end the fight, for which, truth to tell,
he had no great hankering.

Once more his reliable left went boring in, and North gently went over
backwards, coming heavily down in the grass. He almost took the count,
but the time keeper was merciful, and allowed him a few seconds.

“He’s about all in,” whispered Bill to his brother, when after some
feeble and cautious sparring the round was at an end. “Finish him up.
I’m afraid McNibb or some of the profs. might come.”

“So am I. Here goes for a knock-out.”

Cap tried for it, but North was shifty. He was playing on the defensive
now, for he found that Cap was more cautious and was guarding his
damaged eye well. And North did not dare open his guard enough to come
back strong. Therefore he clinched several times, hanging heavily on
his opponent to tire him.

Cap tried to avoid this, and there was considerable leg work which was
hard on the breathing apparatus. He thought he saw one good chance, and
sent in an upper cut, but it fell short, and he got a blow on the ear
that made his head ring.

Thereafter he was more cautious.

“You must do him up soon,” implored Bill. “Can’t you take a chance?”

“I’m afraid to, with my bad eye.”

“That’s so. Well, use your own judgment.”

But the next round was the last, and the end came most unexpectedly.
North led with his right, intending to try once more his feinting,
shifting tactics. But he made a miscalculation. Cap blocked with his
left, and sending in a cross-counter with his right caught North on the
side of the head.

Down went the bully like a log, not badly hurt, but stunned enough to
make him take the count. There was no chance to allow the fatal ten
seconds to elapse, however, for, from the crowd that surrounded the two
contestants came the cry:

“Here comes Prexy!”

“Skip! Here’s Dr. Burton!”

“Come on, Cap! Get into your coat—never mind your shirt—out this
way!” cried Bill, Pete and Whistle-Breeches in the same breath.

Cap looked afar, and saw the figure of the venerable president bearing
down on them. The head of Westfield school was eagerly perusing one
book, and had another under his arm.

Cap hurriedly dressed as best he could. He saw North slowly rising,
assisted by his friends. Cap started toward him.

“Where you going?” demanded Bill.

“To shake hands—it’s all over. I want to be friends.”

“You’ve no time. I doubt if we can get away as it is.”

Bill, Pete, Whistle-Breeches and some of the others tried to get Cap
in their midst, so that his blackened eye would not be seen. They
hoped to be able to get back to their rooms by a round-about path, but,
alas for their hopes. Dr. Burton looked up, saw them, and changing his
course, bore down more directly on them.

“It’s all up!” groaned Pete.

Bill looked around, and saw North and his friends hurrying into the
dressing rooms under the grandstand. He wished he had thought of that,
but there was no time now.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE KIDNAPPED PITCHER


“What’ll you say when he asks you what’s up?” asked Whistle-Breeches.

“Guess I’ll have to tell the truth,” answered Cap.

“Couldn’t you say you ran into the fence catching a foul ball?”
inquired Bill.

“Nothing doing,” was his brother’s retort. “The doctor would guess
right in a minute. Besides, I wouldn’t fake it that way.”

“Of course not. I was only joking. Well, he’ll be here in a second.
He’s looking at us as if undecided whether we were Greek roots or some
Sanskrit characters. Maybe he’ll pass us up,” went on Bill.

“No such luck!” groaned Pete. “Pull your cap down farther over your
eyes, and maybe he won’t see the bruise.”

But all the efforts of the lads were seemingly to go for naught. The
venerable president, squinting at them through his thick spectacles,
smiled in a friendly fashion, as he came nearer. The students halted
and touched their caps.

“Ah, boys, just coming from a game?” inquired Dr. Burton.

“Yes, sir,” answered Whistle-Breeches, who, being slightly taller than
Cap, had stepped in front of him.

“Ah, and who won, may I ask?”

“We—er—that is we didn’t finish,” answered Bill, hoping to draw
attention away from Cap.

“The season has opened well, I hope,” went on the doctor. “And there
are good chances for keeping the pennant here, I trust?”

“We’re going to try hard,” put in Pete, who, being on the other side,
trusted to draw the attention of the president farther away from his
brother. As for that hero he remained quiet.

“Pull your cap farther down!” again advised Bill in a hoarse whisper.

Whether it was that or whether he would have noticed it anyhow, the
eyes of the president went straight to Cap’s bruised countenance. He
saw the blackened eye, and the cuts and scratches.

“Ah, there has been an accident, I see,” he remarked, and he advanced
closer to the lad.

“Er—yes—that is I—”

“Cut it out,” whispered Bill, nudging his brother in the back.

“Hit by a ball, I suppose,” went on the president. “And yet they say
baseball is comparatively harmless. Why, you look almost as if you had
been through a football scrimmage, Smith.”

“Ye—yes, sir,” stammered Cap.

“Better have it attended to right away,” continued Dr. Burton. “That
eye looks very painful.”

“It is,” murmured Cap.

“And you had better wear a stronger mask,” were the doctor’s parting
words, as he turned aside. There was a queer smile on his face, and
his eyes twinkled behind his glasses. He opened his book at the place
where a cautious finger had kept the pages apart, and passed on.

“Talk about luck!” exclaimed Whistle-Breeches hoarsely. “He never even
suspected that there’d been a fight. Oh, you Cap!”

“Suspected!” burst out Bill. “I’ll bet he knows all about it!”

“He did not!” declared the other lad. “Why, he’s so interested in that
book that I don’t believe he remembers now whether he spoke to us or
not.”

“He doesn’t; eh?” exclaimed Bill. “Say, he went off reading his book
upside down, and if that doesn’t indicate that he’s on to our game, and
is laughing at our attempts to keep it from him, I’d like to know what
it does mean?”

“Was his book upside down?”

“Surest thing you know. Say, what the doctor doesn’t know wouldn’t
cover a postage stamp. But it was white of him not to let on. You’re
lucky, Cap!”

“Yes, regular Smith luck,” put in Whistle-Breeches.

“Well, don’t take any chances. Cut away to your room. I can get you
some raw beefsteak for the optic.”

“An oyster is better,” declared Pete, and they scientifically discussed
the various merits of the two.

“If we had Professor Clatter here he’d paint it with some eye dope and
Cap would look all to the merry.” suggested Bill. But the traveling
medicine man was not available, and Cap had to do the best he could.

It was some days before he was decently presentable and North was just
as bad. Of course the faculty must have suspected the reason for the
darkened eyes and bruised faces, but as there was no official report
or complaint, nothing was said of it, and the matter was dropped.

The upper classmen took up the question, and a sort of truce was
patched up between Cap and the bully, but though North professed to be
friendly there was a sullen look in his eyes, and Cap knew he would do
him a bad turn if he got the chance. Mersfeld and North were thicker
than ever, and the Smith boys agreed among themselves to be on their
guard.

Meanwhile there was baseball a plenty. Some league games were played,
and a number of minor contests took place. It was drawing close to the
time for the annual Freshman battle on the diamond with Tuckerton, and
this game was always a hotly contested one, and eagerly looked forward
to by the first year students and their friends.

“We stand a better chance to win this time, than ever before,” remarked
Armitage, who was captain of the first year team. “We’ve got Bill to
pitch, and he’s a wonder.”

The Varsity twirler did occupy the box for the Freshmen nine, and no
objection had been raised to this arrangement until nearly time for the
Tuckerton game. Then the nine of that school sent in a formal protest,
objection to Bill on the ground that though a first year lad, he was
not properly a member of the Freshman team, since he was the Varsity
pitcher.

“Well, we’ll just ignore that objection, and if they don’t want to
play with Bill in the box we’ll claim the game by forfeit,” decided
Armitage. The dispute waxed hot and an appeal was taken to the student
body which governed athletics among the members of the school league.
They decided that Bill could pitch.

“Well, he won’t if we fellows have any spunk,” declared Borden, the
Tuckerton captain.

“Spunk? How do you mean?” asked Swain, the pitcher.

“I mean that we can put up a game on him so that he can’t pitch against
us, and they’ll have to put in Potter, the substitute. We can knock
_him_ out of the box, but Bill Smith is no easy mark. It means losing
the game for us to bat against Bill.”

“But what can we do?” asked Swain.

“Get Bill out of the way the day before the game.”

“How?”

“Kidnap him, of course. Spirit him away, and keep him in cold storage
until we win. Are you game?”

“Can it be done?” asked Swain.

“Of course. I’ll arrange it, if you fellows will help.”

“Certainly we will, but how is it to be done?”

“Easy enough. We’ll just meet him in the dark on the road, bundle him
into my auto, and take him to a quiet place where he can’t get away.”
Borden was a rich youth, and had an automobile which he had brought to
school with him.

He went more into detail about his plan, and after realizing that it
would mean losing the game if Bill pitched against them, his teammates
somewhat reluctantly agreed to the scheme. They thought they were
within their rights for they totally disagreed with the finding of the
governing body that Bill was entitled to pitch as a Freshman, even
though he was on the Varsity.

“Suppose they find out we did it, and take the game from us even after
we win?” suggested Cadmus, who was the Tuckerton Freshman catcher.

“They’ll never discover it,” boasted Borden. “They’ll lay it to some of
the Sophs or Juniors at Westfield, and Bill will never recognize us for
we’ll wear masks.”

“All right, we’re with you,” decided his chums. “Now for the details.”

These were soon settled. It was agreed that Bill should be captured the
night before the game, when there would be little chance that he could
be rescued in time to play.

“But how will we get hold of him,” asked Cadmus.

“I’ll send him some sort of a message,” replied Borden. “I’ll write a
note, in a disguised hand, and ask him to call at a certain place in
the village. We’ll be on the lookout and when he goes past that lonely
stretch of woods, on the main road we’ll grab him, run him off in my
car to a place I know of, and leave him there.”

“Suppose some of his brothers or friends come with him?” Swain wanted
to know.

“Oh, well, we can get away with Bill before they realize what’s up. You
fellows want everything too easy.”

When, on the night before the game with Tuckerton, Bill Smith received
a note, asking him to call at a certain hotel in the village, there
to talk over baseball matters, the pitcher showed the missive to his
brothers.

“Looks sort of fishy,” decided Cap.

“What name is signed to it?” inquired Pete.

“Just says ‘Baseball Crank,’” was the reply. “I think it’s a joke.”

“Are you going?” asked Whistle-Breeches.

“Might as well. But I’m going to go easy, and take a look around before
I go inside. Maybe I can turn the tables.”

“Tell you what we’ll do,” broke in Cap.

“What?”

“We’ll all go with Bill. Then, if there’s any trouble we can help him.
Maybe North or Mersfeld put up this game.”

“That’s right,” agreed Bill. “I’ll be glad if you fellows will come
along, though it may be straight after all.”

So, after obtaining from the proctor permission to go to the village
on condition that they would be back before locking-up time, the
three Smith brothers, and Whistle-Breeches sallied forth. They never
suspected there might be a joke perpetrated on them while on their way,
rather expecting some game in the village, and so proceeded along the
highway in careless ease, singing and joking.

As they reached a lonely stretch of woods, just below getting into the
village, three figures sprang out from the underbrush. Over their faces
were strips of cloth, and at the first sight of the trio our friends
drew back in some alarm, feeling they had met with a gang of highwaymen.

“That’s the one—in the centre!” called a hoarse voice, and a grab was
made for Bill. Before his brothers or Whistle-Breeches could rally to
his aid he was borne off, struggling and kicking against his unknown
captors.

“Into the car with him—quick!” was the whispered order, and, ere
the three lads left standing in the road had recovered from their
astonishment, there sounded the chug-chug of an automobile, and Bill
was whisked away.

“Well, wouldn’t that get your goat!” gasped Cap, as he stood looking
at the fast-disappearing red tail lamp of the machine. “They’ve got
Bill!”

“Come on after ’em!” yelled Pete, starting down the highway on a run.
“We’ve got to rescue him!”




CHAPTER XXV

TO THE RESCUE


“Here! Come back!” cried Cap.

“What for?” demanded Pete, pausing in the darkness, and gazing first
toward the disappearing red light and then toward where his brother
stood.

“You can’t catch an auto, no matter if you are a good base runner,”
replied the older Smith lad. “Come here.”

“That’s right, I guess there isn’t much use running,” admitted Pete
dubiously, as he slowly returned.

“But they’ve got Bill, and we ought to help him. Maybe they’ll hold him
for a ransom.”

“It’s only a joke,” decided Cap. “Come on, we’ve got to use our brains
against these fellows, and maybe we can turn the tables on them. First
we’ll go on to town, and see if any of them really are at the hotel. We
may get a line on them there.”

But there was no trace of any one at the hostelry who might, by any
stretch of the imagination, be considered as of those who had a part in
the kidnapping.

“Back to school,” ordered Cap. “We’ll see if there’s anything doing
there.”

It did not take long to learn that no hazing was going on that night,
and that none of the various school societies were engaged in any
pranks, and when it was made clear that neither Mersfeld nor North had
been out of their rooms, they were absolved from the half-suspicion
that pointed to them.

“But Bill’s gone,” said Pete blankly.

“Yes, and it’s up to us to find him,” decided Cap. “I guess to-morrow—”

“By Jove, to-morrow is the date for the big Freshman game with
Tuckerton!” exclaimed Whistle-Breeches. “You know how they protested
against him. I’ll bet a cookie, without a hole in it, that—”

“Say no more!” burst out Bob Chapin, with a tragic gesture. “The plot
is laid bare! Tuckerton has our hero! On to the rescue!”

But it was too late to do anything that night, though probably had
the college authorities been appealed to they would have permitted
further search. However our friends preferred to work out the problem
themselves.

Meanwhile poor Bill was being rapidly carried away, whither he knew
not. All that he was aware of was that a cloth had been wound around
his head and face to prevent him from seeing or from crying out. Then
he was bundled into an auto, and the car was speeded up.

Bill tried to listen and catch any sounds that might indicate where he
was being taken, but Borden, who wanted to make speed had the muffler
cut out and the only noise the pitcher heard was that made by the
machine.

It was a rough road over which he was being taken, and the car swayed
and pitched from side to side, tossing Bill about. When he first felt
himself grabbed by his unknown assailants he had tried to struggle away
from them, but they had skilfully wound ropes about his legs and arms,
and now, bundled up as he was in one corner of the gasoline vehicle,
he tried in vain to free himself. But the ropes held.

At length, however, lack of air, by reason of the cloth being too
tightly drawn over his head, caused the unlucky lad to give utterance
to a muffled appeal.

“I say, you fellows don’t want me to smother; do you?” he demanded.

“No, of course not,” came the cool answer. “If you’ll promise not to
make a row we’ll take off some of the horse blankets. How about it?”

Bill listened intently. He did not recognize the voice. He was minded
to return a fierce answer, that he would suit himself about calling for
help, but he recalled that in many cases discretion is the better part
of valor. So, rather meekly, he made answer:

“I’ll be good, kind Mr. Highwayman!”

There was a stifled laugh at this.

“Takes it well,” remarked one of his captors in a whisper.

“Yes—but wait,” was the significant comment. “You take off some of the
wrappings. Be careful he doesn’t spot you.”

Bill was soon more comfortable, as far as breathing was concerned, but
his limbs were still cramped from the cords that bound them, and he
was in a most uncomfortable position. He seemed to be reclining in the
tonneau of the car, and some one was in the seat with him. He tried
his best to make out the features, but it was dark, and the half masks
which his captors wore prevented recognition.

Nor did the voices afford any clew, for when those in the auto spoke
it was either in half whispers or in mumbled words so that the tones
were not clear. At first Bill thought it was some of the students from
Westfield who were playing a joke on him, but later he changed this
opinion. He had an idea that it was either Mersfeld, North or some of
their crowd, but the conversation among his captors soon disclosed that
they were not these lads.

“I wonder what they want of me, anyhow,” mused Bill. “It was foolish to
pay any attention to that note. I wish I had looked more carefully at
the writing.”

Yet, as he tried to recall the characters he was sure he had never seen
the hand before.

“It’s a joke, though, sure,” decided the pitcher. “And it’s some young
fellows who have me in tow. Guess I’ll talk and see if they’ll answer.”

He squirmed into an easier position, and fired this question at those
in the auto:

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll soon see,” was the reply.

“If I ever find out who you are, I’ll pay you back well for this,” went
on Bill.

“You’re welcome to—if you find out,” was the significant answer.

“I know you!” suddenly exclaimed the captive. “You’re fellows from
Sandrim, trying to get even for us boys taking your boats,” went on
Bill, for, not long before that, the lads from Westfield had carried
a lot of boats from their rival school, and deposited the craft in
the middle of their own campus. “You’re from Sandrim,” declared Bill
positively.

A laugh was his only answer. The auto kept up the speed, and presently
turned from the main road, into a sort of lane.

“Is this the place?” asked the lad who was in the tonneau with Bill.

“A little farther,” answered the one at the wheel. “Look out he doesn’t
slip away from you.”

“Oh, I’ve got him,” was the reply, and a hand took a firmer grip of
Bill’s shoulder.

The car came to a sudden stop. A door of a building which the pitcher
could see was a sort of shack, or hut, was opened, and a shaft of light
came out.

“Is that you—” began a voice.

“Yes, keep quiet!” was the quick retort. “We’ve got him. Help carry him
to the room, and don’t talk.”

Before Bill could prevent it he was again tied up, and some one lifted
him from the car. He was carried along in the darkness, trying in vain
to make out what sort of a place he was in.

Then he was laid, none too gently, on a pile of some rags in a corner
of a dark room. The door was closed and Bill was left alone with his
anxious and gloomy thoughts.

“Potato salad!” he gasped, half aloud, for the rags had been removed
from around his head, “I hope I get away from here in time to play in
the Freshman game to-morrow! It will be fierce if I don’t.”

Bill listened. He could hear the auto puffing away. He was left alone
in the deserted shack—at least he thought he was alone, for he heard
no noise.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bright and early the next morning Pete and Cap were up, ready to go
to the rescue of their brother. They arranged to cut their lectures
that day, as did also Whistle-Breeches, and, though many more students
wanted to take part in the search, it was thought best not to make too
much of the affair.

“For, whoever has done it will hear about us getting excited about it
and they’ll have more of a laugh on us than ever,” declared Cap. “It’s
a disgrace that we ever let Bill be captured.”

“We couldn’t help it,” was Pete’s opinion. “But we’ll get him back.”

Their first move in the morning was to go to the place where the
kidnapping had occurred. There they saw the marks of some auto wheels,
but, as several cars had passed by in the meanwhile it was impossible
to do any tracing.

“We’ve got to make inquiries,” decided Cap. “We’ll ask along the road,
of farmers and the people we meet.”

They did not have much success for they could not describe the auto,
nor those in it, and many cars had gone over the road.

“It’s my notion that you’re lookin’ fer a needle in the haystack,” was
the opinion of one farmer whom they asked, and when the boys thought of
it, they nearly agreed with him.

“But what will we do at the game if he doesn’t show up?” demanded
Captain Armitage. “It will be fierce to go up against Tuckerton without
Bill in the box.”

“What _can_ we do?” asked Pete hopelessly when a good part of the
morning had gone, and there was no trace of the missing pitcher.

“Go right to Tuckerton, and accuse them!” suggested the irate captain.
“Tell them we know they spirited Bill off, and demand that they produce
him, or we’ll not play.”

“They’d laugh at us,” said Cap. “Call us kindergartners, and all that
sort of thing. No, we can’t crawl that way. But I believe the Tuckerton
fellows _did_ have a hand in the game, and if we can only find out
which of them hired an auto I think we’d have a clew.”

“Maybe one of them owns a car,” suggested Whistle-Breeches. It was a
new thought for the searchers, and it was received joyously.

“By Jinks! That’s the stuff!” cried Cap. “Pete, you get on that trail,
and I’ll inquire at the only garage in town if any of the fellows from
Tuckerton hired a gasoline gig there. I’ll meet you at the cross roads.”

This was a place about half-way between the two schools which were only
a few miles apart.

With Pete went Whistle-Breeches, to help in the inquiry, and Bob Chapin
accompanied Cap. Meanwhile Captain Armitage was in despair, for he had
counted on Bill to win the biggest part of the game, and without him
he was sure his nine would lose. On the other hand there was rejoicing
in the Tuckerton camp, when it was known that Bill was missing, though
only a few of the members of the nine and its supporters, guessed the
cause of his absence.

Noon came, and Bill was still among the missing. Cap had obtained no
news at the town garage, and though Pete had learned that Borden of
Tuckerton, owned a car, he could not locate that youth or his machine.
For the nine had some grounds a distance from the school to practice
before the big game.

“I guess it’s no use,” said Cap despairingly. “It’s a queer sort of a
joke, if that’s what it is, and it looks as if Bill would be out of the
game. You’ll have to play without him, Armitage.”

“Well, I’ll wait until the last minute,” decided the captain. “He may
get away and join us. Lucky it’s on our own grounds. We’ll have that
advantage. Poor Bill. I wonder where he is?”




CHAPTER XXVI

JUST IN TIME


Bill Smith, about that same time, was wondering the same thing. He had
dozed off after his captors had left him, but, with the first glint of
morning sun into the room where he was a prisoner he had awakened. He
was still bound.

“Well, this is pretty punk!” he exclaimed. “To think that they got
ahead of me this way! I wonder where I am, anyhow? And I wonder how I
can get away, and back—Great muskmelons! If I don’t show up at the
game—”

The thought was too much for Bill. He resolved on bold tactics.
Considering that his promise not to make an outcry ended with the
leaving of his captors, he raised his voice in a shout.

“Help! Come here, somebody! Let me out! Police!”

Bill didn’t particularly want the police, for he knew that his
captivity was the result of some school prank, and the boys never
called on the officers of the law if they could help it. But “Police!”
was an easy word to say, and it carried well. Therefore the captive
yelled it again and again.

But there was no answer to his cries, and after straining his throat
until it ached, the pitcher decided that he had better save his breath
and try other means to escape.

“First to see if I can’t get rid of some of these ropes on my arms and
legs,” he murmured. He tugged and strained at them, after wiggling to
a sitting position, but the knots had been made with care, and held.
Bill tried to pull his hands from the loops but it was useless, and his
feet were equally secure. He could not gnaw through the ropes as he had
sometimes read of prisoners doing, for his hands were tied behind his
back.

“I certainly am up against it,” he said aloud. Then, for the first
time, he took note of his prison. He was in a vacant room, evidently
in some old fashioned house, to judge by the character of the woodwork
and the wall paper. There were two windows, and a door, the latter
apparently quite solid.

“Let’s have a look outside,” suggested Bill to himself. He struggled to
his feet, and, by a series of hops, gained the windows. He was in the
third story of a house, set in the midst of a neglected garden, and the
scene that met the lad’s gaze was unfamiliar to him.

“I might be a hundred miles from nowhere, for all I can tell,” he
concluded dubiously. “Well, now for a try at the door.”

Hopping over to the portal Bill turned around with his back to it, and
managed to reach the knob with his hands. It turned, but the door was
locked.

“Nothing doing there!” exclaimed the captive. “Well, here’s for
some more noise.” He yelled and shouted at the top of his voice,
accompanying himself by beating on the door with his bound fists.
Silence was his only answer.

Once more Bill hopped to the window. He looked out, hoping he might see
some one to whom he could appeal. Then, as he gazed helplessly out, he
noted a nail driven into one side of the casement. At once a plan came
into his mind.

“If I can rub the rope that binds my hands, up and down over the head
of that nail, I may fray the ropes enough to break them,” he remarked
aloud, for it made it seem less lonesome to speak thus. “Once I get my
hands loose—” Bill did not finish, but he had great hopes of what he
could then do.

He began at once with the rusty nail as a knife. It was hard work, and
several times his hands slipped and his wrists were scratched, but he
kept at it, and finally found that the cords were giving way. He worked
faster, and then, with a sudden strain he found his arms free. Then it
was an easy matter to loosen his feet, and he stood up unbound.

“Now for a try at that door!” exclaimed the lad, and after giving the
knob a vigorous turn, and vainly pulling on the portal he began to kick
it violently.

He was engaged in this, at the same time yelling and demanding to be
released, when the door suddenly opened. So suddenly in fact that
Bill toppled outward with it, and was caught in the arms of a big
man who entered quickly, carrying the captive backward with him, and
immediately locking the portal again.

Surprise bereft the lad of speech for a moment, and the man, after
gazing at him, and noting the ropes on the floor, remarked:

“Well, you got rid of ’em yourself, I see. If you’d have waited a
little longer I’d have taken ’em off. I’m a little late getting here
with your breakfast.”

“Breakfast!” gasped Bill. “You’d have taken off the ropes! Say, what
kind of a game am I up against, anyhow?”

“Oh, I guess it’s all right,” said the man easily.

“Well it isn’t all right,” declared Bill. “If you don’t let me out of
here right away there’s going to be the biggest row you ever saw,” and,
as if in support of his assertion the pitcher rushed over and began
kicking on the door again.

“Hum! Them fellers was right,” murmured the man seemingly not a bit
disturbed by what Bill was doing.

“What fellows?” demanded the pitcher, pausing in his attack.

“The ones what brought you here. They said you’d cut up rough, and make
a lot of fuss, an’ by gum, they was right! I guess you sure enough do
need a straight-jacket.”

“A straight-jacket!” gasped poor Bill. “Say, for the love of cats, tell
me what I’m up against; won’t you?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” was the calm reply. “I was told to humor
you until the keeper come, an’ I’m doin’ it. What would you like for
breakfast?”

“I don’t want any—let me out!” pleaded Bill. He was beginning to see
the joke now.

“I don’t dast,” replied the man. “The fellers what brung you here
said you was dangerous at times, an’ I might be held responsible. They
fetched you here in an automobile, an’ arranged with me to leave you
in this vacant house of mine until they could come again, with keepers
from the lunatic asylum, to take you away. I’m expectin’ ’em every
minute, but they said I was to untie you by daylight, an’ feed you, as
you was less violent when it wasn’t dark.”

“Say, look here!” cried Bill. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“I’m sure of it,” was the answer. “At least, no, I ain’t neither. There
I clean forgot to say what them fellers told me to. No you ain’t crazy.
I am, an’ everybody else is, but you’re sane. That’s what they said
I was to tell you, if you asked me that question. All crazy persons
thinks they are sane,” he went on in explanation. “You’re sane.”

“But look here!” pleaded the captive. “Of course I’m sane. I’m a
student at Westfield, and the fellows who brought me are either
students from there, or from some other school, playing a joke on me.
Now let me go!”

The man shook his head.

“They told me you’d say that, too,” he said. “I can’t let you go. I
promised to keep you here until the keepers came, an’ I’m goin’ to
do it. Now take it easy and you’ll be all right. I’ll bring you some
breakfast. You look hungry.”

“I am, but say—” Then the hopelessness of appealing any further to the
man came forcibly to Bill, and he was silent.

“That’s better,” announced the man, preparing to unlock the door again.
“I live over here a little way. This house belongs to me, but it’s been
vacant some time, so you can yell and holler all you please—no one
will hear you. I’ll go get you some victuals. Is there anything special
you’d like? My wife is a good cook.”

“Oh, bring anything,” said poor Bill. He knew that he would have to eat
if he was to keep up his strength, for he had determined to try to
escape by the windows as soon as he was left alone again. He had a wild
idea of making a rush when the farmer opened the door, but a look at
the bulky frame of the man made him change his mind.

The food was good and Bill ate a hearty meal. Then he was left alone
again, the farmer, on locking the door, saying that he expected the
keepers any moment. It was evident that he believed the stories the
captors of Bill had told him.

Once he was alone, and when a look from the windows had assured him
that he was not being watched, Bill began to put into operation his
plan of getting away.

He hoped that the ropes which had bound him would enable him to make
his way down them out of the window, but on tying the pieces together
he discovered that they were not long enough.

“Up against it!” exclaimed the lad, until, looking more carefully out
of the end casement he discovered that a stout lightning rod ran near
it, down the side of the house.

“That’s just the cheese, if it will hold me,” murmured the lad. “I’m
going to try it anyhow.”

He crawled out on the window sill, tested the rod as best he could, and
then swung himself down it. To his joy it held, and in a few seconds he
was safe on the ground.

“Now to find out where I am, and streak it for school and the game!” he
murmured, looking around to see that the farmer was not in sight. He
got his bearings and was soon out on a dusty highway. He ran for some
distance until a turn in the road hid the house of his captivity from
him, and then slowed down to a walk.

The surroundings were still unfamiliar to him, but meeting a man
driving a carriage he learned that he was near the village of
Belleville, about twenty miles from Westfield.

“And it’s coming on noon, I haven’t half enough to buy a railroad
ticket, and the game is called at two o’clock!” groaned Bill. “I
certainly am up against it good and hard!”

The man whom he had accosted was going in the wrong direction, or he
would have given the lad a lift. However, he did consent to drive him
to the railroad station.

“I’ll see if I can’t give the agent a hard-luck story, and have him
trust me for a ticket,” thought the pitcher.

But the station agent proved to be a hard-featured man, who had once
lost a dollar by lending it to a young lady who told him a pathetic
story, and he turned a deaf ear to Bill’s pleading.

“No money no ticket,” he declared.

“But look here,” gasped Bill. “Some fellows, either at my school, or
from Tuckerton, played a joke on me last night—kidnapped me. I’m to
pitch in the championship Freshman baseball game at two o’clock this
afternoon, and I’ve just _got_ to be there. I’ll pay you back if you
trust me for a ticket. Or say, you can ship me as express, C. O. D. and
the boys will pay the charges at Westfield.”

“Live stock has to travel in cattle cars, not as express,” answered the
agent with a grim smile. “Besides I don’t believe in baseball anyhow.
Some boys was battin’ a hall once, an’ they busted one of the windows
in this ticket office. I had to pay for it, too! I ain’t got no manner
of likin’ for baseball.”

Bill saw that it was no use in pleading, and turned away. With despair
in his heart he noted that it was nearly one o’clock. He might as well
give up. Already the players were beginning to get ready for the game.
In fancy he could hear the words of wonder at his absence from the
diamond.

“They may think I threw the game,” thought Bill, and then he remembered
that his brothers and Whistle-Breeches had seen him captured, and would
tell the story.

“They’d come to the rescue if they only knew where to come, too,”
thought Bill gloomily.

The pitcher was in desperate straits. A search through his pockets
disclosed the fact that he had nothing to pawn on which to raise money,
even if there had been a pawn shop in the village. He was just giving
up, deciding to walk to Westfield, hoping to arrive before dark, when,
as he left the station he nearly collided with a pretty girl, who was
just entering, having alighted from a trim little motor car, that was
still puffing outside.

“I beg your pardon,” mumbled Bill.

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl. “I—why it’s Mr. Smith!” she cried, holding
out her hand. “I’m glad to meet you again. But why aren’t you over at
school at the big game? I’m on my way there.”

For a moment you could have knocked Bill down with the wind from a
slow ball, as he afterward expressed it. He looked at the girl, and
recognized her as Miss Ruth Morton, to whom he had been introduced by
Bob Chapin at one of the school games.

“Miss Morton!” he murmured. “I—Oh, if you’re going to Westfield will
you take me? I’m marooned!”

Then, rapidly, he blurted out the whole story of his capture and his
inability to get back.

“Take you! Of course I’ll take you!” exclaimed Miss Morton. “I have to
stop for a girl friend, who is going to the game with me, but there’ll
be plenty of room for you.”

“I’ll ride on the mud guard or hang on back!” exclaimed Bill, a gleam
of hope lighting his woe-begone countenance. “Only I want to beat
Tuckerton!”

“And I want you to, even if a—a friend of mine goes there. I think it
was an awfully mean trick they played on you.”

“Oh, I’m not _sure_ any Tuckerton fellows did it,” said Bill, who
wanted to play fair. “It may have been some of the Westfield crowd,”
but he had his own opinion.

Miss Morton, who had come to the station to inquire about some express
package, hurried out to her car, followed by Bill. He offered to run it
for her, but she was not a little proud of her own ability to drive.

“We’ve got to make time,” suggested the pitcher nervously.

“I can do it,” the girl assured him, and, once she had thrown in the
third gear, the pitcher had no reason to complain of lack of speed.

Miss Morton’s girl friend—Miss Hazel Dunning—was taken aboard and
then, with Bill sitting on the floor in front, and resting his feet on
the mud-guard step, for the machine was only a runabout, the trip to
Westfield was begun.

Back on the school diamond there was an anxious throng of students and
players. The news of Bill’s kidnapping was known all over, and while
there was despair in the ranks of the Westfield Freshmen and their
supporters, there was ill-concealed joy among the Tuckerton nine and
their adherents.

“Those fellows know where Bill is,” declared Cap.

“But we don’t dare accuse them,” agreed Pete.

“And we’ll lose the game,” went on Armitage dubiously.

Bill never forgot his trip with Miss Morton. She was a daring driver,
for a girl, and once or twice took chances that made even the
nerve-hardened pitcher wince. But with a merry laugh she sped on, after
cutting in ahead of a load of hay, on a narrow bridge.

Once there was a hail from a speed-watching constable but the girl kept
on.

“There’s oil on my number, and I never expect to come this way again,”
she declared recklessly.

“If only we don’t get a blow-out!” murmured Miss Dunning.

“Don’t you dare suggest such a thing, Hazel!” cried Miss Morton.

She turned on more speed. It lacked five minutes to two, and Bill knew
the game would be called on the dot. They were two miles away, and
could hardly get there on time, but the pitcher consoled himself with
the reflection that at least he could take part after the first inning.

“Are we going to make it?” asked Miss Dunning.

“We’ve _got_ to!” declared Miss Morton, as she swung around in front
of a farm wagon, thereby causing the grizzled driver symptoms of heart
failure.

Bill could hear the shouts on the diamond now. He was in a fever of
excitement, and stood up to catch a first glimpse of the field. Miss
Morton, with her lips set firmly around her pretty mouth grasped the
steering wheel more rigidly and drove on. Toward the diamond she
turned. There was another cheer from the crowd, but Bill could not see
what was going on, and feared the game had started. There came a break
in the throng and he had a glimpse of the field. What he saw reassured
him.

“I’m just in time!” he gasped. “They’re only practicing!”

He leaped out as the girl brought the car to a sudden stop with both
brakes grinding and screeching.

“See you later! A thousand thanks—never could have done it but for
you, Miss Morton!” burst out Bill as he ran over the grass. “I’ll never
forget it.”

“Me either,” murmured the girl. “I never drove so fast before in all my
life, but I wasn’t going to tell him so,” she confided to her chum, as
they left the car and walked toward the grand stand.




CHAPTER XXVII

A SCRIMMAGE


“Play ball!” called the umpire.

“Wait! Wait!” begged Bill breathlessly, as he ran forward. “I’m in
time! I can play. Where’s Armitage? I’ve been locked up—couldn’t get
here before! Can’t I play?”

A cheer greeted Bill’s unexpected appearance. His brothers who had
given up hope rushed forward to clap him on the back. Whistle-Breeches
did a war dance around him. There was wild rejoicing among the
Westfield Freshmen. The Tuckerton Freshmen looked glum.

“Well, he got here after all,” muttered Swain, the pitcher, to Captain
Borden.

“Yes. That farmer must have let him go before I meant him to.”

“What are you going to do—protest again?” asked Cadmus.

“No; what’s the use? I think they’re suspicious as it is. All we can
do now is to play to beat ’em. Hang the luck anyhow, but—I s’pose it
serves us right.” Borden had the grace to admit that much.

Meanwhile Bill had rapidly told the story of his captivity and his ride
in the auto.

“I tell you what we ought to do!” declared Armitage angrily, “we ought
to refuse to play them, and claim the game. The idea of kidnapping our
pitcher!”

“Easy!” exclaimed Cap.

“That’s right,” put in Bill. “I wasn’t hurt any, and it was rather a
lark after I got away. Besides we don’t know for sure that Borden and
his crowd did it, though I’m almost positive it was his auto. But never
mind. Let’s play ball.”

“It’s too late to get into uniform,” remarked the captain, “and we’re
to take the field.”

“I’ll pitch as I am, and borrow a uniform when it’s our turn to bat,”
spoke Bill.

“But can you twirl?” inquired his brother. “After what you’ve been
through—away all night—knocked around in an auto, no decent meal—”

“That’s where you’re wrong, I had one good meal, and the next one can
wait until we win the game. Miss Morton—she’s several kinds of a
pretty brick, by the way—she got some sandwiches on the trip in. My!
She’s a stunner! How she did drive! She—”

“Oh, get in your box, and play ball,” interrupted Armitage, with a
laugh at Bill’s enthusiasm.

There were dubious looks on the faces of the Tuckerton players at the
advent of the talented pitcher, but a gleam of hope came when Borden
whispered that he might be all out of condition from his captivity, and
could not hold his own in the box.

Curiously enough it did not occur to any of the conspiring rivals of
Westfield that they had taken an unfair advantage in spiriting Bill
away. They felt that he had no right, as the Varsity pitcher, to play
with the Freshmen against them.

But if they hoped that Bill was out of condition they were doomed to
disappointment, for when he had put on his glasses, which Cap had
brought with him on a forlorn chance, Bill never pitched better ball.
At first he was a little stiff, and issued several passes, whereat
there was rejoicing among the visitors, and grim despair in the ranks
of the home team. But Bill shook off his momentary indisposition, and
when the final inning had ended in a dazzling succession of plays, the
Westfield team had won by a score of ten runs to three.

“Wow, Oh, wow!” cried Armitage, hugging Bill. “If you hadn’t come along
we’d have been in the soup!”

“Nonsense!” objected Bill.

“It’s true,” said Whistle-Breeches. “Swain was in great form to-day.”

“But Bill was better,” added Pete.

“You could make a story out of what you went through,” drawled Bob
Chapin. “Ring in Miss Morton as the heroine.”

“Only for her I’d never have made it,” agreed Bill, as he went over to
shake hands with the pretty, blushing girl.

“Oh, it was fine! Fine!” cried Miss Morton, as she greeted Bill and his
companions who surrounded her and Miss Dunning.

“Perfectly wonderful the way you struck out the last three men,” went
on the other girl.

Bill blushed behind his ears. He was too tanned to have the color show
elsewhere.

And so the Tuckerton-Westfield Freshmen game passed into school
history, and Bill never really found out who had kidnapped him. In fact
he never tried, for he concluded that his suspicions were good enough,
and he did not want revenge.

The summer crept on, and the close of the term was near at hand. More
games were played, and Westfield was doing well. She did not have, as
yet by any means, a clear title to the pennant. In fact the loss of a
few games would mean that Tuckerton or Sandrim would get it, but the
Smith boys and their chums were working hard.

As for Mersfeld he was still under the ban, for when he was allowed
to resume athletics he had gone so stale that after a try-out he was
relegated to the ranks of the subs for the Varsity, and Bill’s place as
first pitcher was undisputed. And there was bitterness in the heart of
the former twirler.

“Oh, if I could only get square with him!” he muttered to North.

“There’s only one way to put him out of the running,” declared that
worthy.

“And that is—?”

“To get his special glasses. He can’t get another pair made in time
now, for that old codger of an astronomer has been arrested I hear, and
the other professor hasn’t been around lately. There’s only a week more
before the close of the season, and if you get the specks Bill couldn’t
pitch. You might have a chance then.”

“I wish we could get ’em, but we risked it once, and—”

“We’ll have to do it differently this time. No more trying to sneak
into his room. We’ve got to take the glasses away from him personally.”

“How? Hold him up some dark night? That won’t do, for he only carries
them with him going to and from the games.”

“And that’s just when I mean to take them. If we could get him into
what would look like a friendly scrimmage say, one of us could frisk
the glasses out of his pocket, and he’d be left when he tried to pitch
next time.”

“Can it be done?”

“Sure. If you’re with me just hang around the next time Bill comes
off the diamond. I’ll start something, you come back at me, we’ll run
around Bill and his brothers—maybe upset ’em, and in the confusion if
I can’t get the glasses I’m no good. I know where he carries ’em.”

“All right, North. If I can only get back on the team I’d do anything!”

“Then it’s settled,” was the reply, and the two cronies walked away
together, talking of their mean plot.

Their chance came the next day, when a crowd of the players were
returning from the ball field after a practice game.

“Tag, you’re it!” suddenly cried North to Mersfeld, and he
began circling about Bill, Pete and Cap, who were walking with
Whistle-Breeches.

“Oh, cut it out!” cried Mersfeld, as if in objection, and he tripped
North up. The latter in falling made a grab for Bill, as if to save
himself, and in an instant the two went down in a heap and there was a
laughing, struggling crowd of youths rolling over the grass in what was
apparently a friendly scrimmage.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE GLASSES ARE GONE


“Here get up off me, can’t you?” demanded Bill, as he found himself
under North’s no light weight. The latter had his arms around the
pitcher.

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?” asked the bully with elaborate politeness as
he helped Bill to his feet.

“No, but I don’t want my nose rubbed in the dirt. It might spoil the
shape.”

“That’s right. Wait until I get hold of Mersfeld. It was his fault.”

North scurried off, pretending to be in pursuit of his crony, while
Cap, Pete and Whistle-Breeches, who had gone down in the melee were
fighting off several of their chums who, seeing the prostrate group,
had, boy fashion, thrown themselves on top, a-la-football practice.

“Oh, say, this is too much!” gasped Cap, as he tossed Bob Chapin to one
side.

“Yes, who started this, anyhow?” demanded Pete, digging some grass out
of his left ear.

The skirmishing and fun were general now, and no one seemed to remember
that Mersfeld and North had been the storm centre. The two were far
enough away, over the campus by this time.

“Well, did you get ’em?” asked Mersfeld nervously, as he looked back at
the throng of lads who had ceased their struggles and were brushing
what they could of the dirt off their clothes.

“I sure did,” was the answer. “Look,” and he showed him a small black
case, which, on being opened, disclosed the peculiar glasses that Bill
wore when he pitched.

“Good!” exclaimed the deposed pitcher. “Now what’ll we do with ’em?”

“Here, you take ’em,” and North held them out.

“Not much!” came the quick answer.

“Why not?”

“Think I want to be caught with them on me?”

“Well, I don’t want ’em either. Shall I throw ’em away?” and he made a
half-motion toward a clump of bushes.

“No, some one might find ’em, and give ’em back, and then we’d be as
badly off as before. Here, I’ll tell you what to do. Toss ’em into that
old cannon,” and Mersfeld pointed to one on the far edge of the campus.
It was a Spanish war trophy, loaned by the government. “No one will
ever think of looking there for ’em.”

With a quick motion North slid the case of spectacles down the muzzle.
Then the two quickly kept on their way.

Bill and his friends proceeded to the gymnasium, where the players
indulged in a shower bath, and, a little later the three brothers
were in Cap’s room, talking over baseball matters in particular, and
everything in general.

“Let’s see,” mused the pitcher as he looked over a schedule of dates.
“We play Northampton day after to-morrow, Sandrim the next day, and
then Saturday winds up the season with Tuckerton. And say, fellows, do
you know we’ve got to win every game to keep the pennant!”

“How’s that?” demanded Cap. “I thought we had a good lead?”

“So we did have, but Tuckerton and Sandrim have pulled up on us, and
it’s almost a tie now. Yes, we’ve got to make a clean sweep from now on
or we’ll not be in it.”

“Well, we can do it,” declared Pete vigorously.

“Sure,” asserted Whistle-Breeches, as if it was the most simple thing
in the world.

“Oh, certainly, my lords and gentlemen,” added Bob Chapin
half-mockingly. “Just sit here and figure it out by averages and
percentages.”

“Dry up!” advised Cap. “How’s your arm holding out, Bill?”

“Oh, I guess I’ll manage, though we’re going to have a grandstand
finish this week.”

“How about your eyes,” asked Whistle-Breeches. “Can’t you get along
without the glasses yet, Bill? I’m always afraid a ball will crack into
them, and then you _would_ be out of it.”

“That part never worries me,” said Bill. “I’m so used to ’em now that
I’d feel lost in the box without ’em. They certainly were a great
thing, and I—”

He paused suddenly, and hurriedly crossed the room to where his uniform
was picturesquely draped over a chair. Rapidly the pitcher felt through
the pockets, and a look of alarm came over his face. He began tossing
aside a multitudinous collection of articles on his bureau.

“What’s up, something bite you?” asked Pete.

Bill did not answer. He was feeling now in the pockets of the suit he
wore. As he went from one to the other his face assumed a more and more
worried look.

“For cats’ sake what is it?” demanded Cap. “Lost a love letter? We
won’t read it if we find it.”

“My glasses!” gasped Bill.

“Your glasses?” repeated Whistle-Breeches.

“Yes—they’re gone,” and with a wild look on his face the pitcher
dashed from the room and ran toward the gymnasium, followed by his
brothers.




CHAPTER XXIX

MERSFELD IN THE BOX


There was a wild search in and about the gymnasium on the part of Bill,
his brothers and his chums, but of course the missing glasses were not
found.

“Are you sure you dropped them here?” asked Cap, as he went over again
the room which his brother had used as a dressing department before and
after the shower bath.

“Well, I’m not sure, of course,” answered Bill, “but they’re gone, and
I must have dropped them somewhere.”

They went over the place inch by inch, looked in odd nooks and corners
and inquired of the janitors and helpers, but the spectacles were not
found.

“Say,” cried Whistle-Breeches with sudden illumination, “I’ll bet you
dropped them that time we were all fooling on the campus!”

“By Jinks! I believe I did!” cried Bill, and he made a mad dash for the
place. The others followed and soon the lads were scanning the grass,
going about on their hands and knees. From a vantage point Mersfeld and
North watched.

“He’s missed ’em all right,” exulted the deposed pitcher.

“Sure, and he’ll look a good while for ’em, too.”

“Think he’ll suspect us?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied North. He started toward the group of
searching lads.

“Here! Where are you going?” cried his companion in alarm.

“Going over to help ’em hunt.”

“Come back! Do you want to give the whole thing away, just when I’ve
got a last chance to get back on the nine?”

“Give it away, you chump! Why the best way to throw ’em off the track,
and make ’em feel sure that we had nothing to do with it is to help
Bill look for his glasses. Come on. It’ll be a joke, but they can’t
appreciate it.”

Somewhat dubious of the plan, Mersfeld followed North, who strolled up
to Bill. The Varsity pitcher’s face wore a worried look.

“Lose something?” asked North innocently.

“Yes, my glasses. They must have dropped out of my pocket when we were
skylarking here.”

“That’s too bad!” and North winked at Mersfeld. “We’ll help you look.”

“Sure,” agreed the deposed pitcher, and the two hypocrites went
carefully over the ground, laughing to themselves as they thought of
the glasses in the muzzle of the cannon.

Darkness came and the search had to be given up. Puzzled as to what
could have happened to his glasses, uselessly and mechanically feeling
in pocket after pocket, Bill accompanied his brothers back to his room.
Mersfeld and North went off together.

“Well, what are you going to do?” asked Pete, as he looked at the
pitcher.

“I don’t know what to do,” and Bill’s tone was despondent.

“Maybe you can get along without them now, for the few remaining
games,” suggested Cap.

“No,” and Bill shook his head. “I’ll need them, for I tried to pitch
without them to-day, and my curves were away off. And as for the
remaining games—they’re the most important of the season. We’ve just
_got_ to win them to make good and keep the pennant. I don’t see what
could have happened to the glasses.”

“You might have lost them anywhere between the diamond and here,” said
Whistle-Breeches. “We’ll look again in the morning.”

“Say!” cried Pete. “Can’t you get some oculist in town to fix you up
a pair that will do? It can’t be that they were such peculiar glasses
that they can’t be duplicated.”

“Maybe not,” half-agreed Bill, “but the old rain-maker-astronomer said
the lenses had to be ground in a certain way, and I don’t know where he
had them made.”

“We’ll try some one in town,” went on Cap. “I believe they can fix you
up,” and they spent some time talking of that possibility.

Bill was worried, and with good reason. He wanted to maintain his
position as pitcher, and he knew he could not do so if he did not
“deliver the goods.” That he could pitch without the glasses he did
not believe, but he was anxious for morning to come that he might test
himself again.

Bright and early he and Cap went out to the diamond, not only to look
for the glasses but to do some work with the horsehide. It is needless
to say that the glasses were not recovered, and to Bill’s despair he
found that he was throwing wild.

“It won’t do,” spoke Cap despondently, as he tossed back the ball which
he had had to reach away outside of the plate to gather in.

“No, I guess not,” agreed his brother. “It’s either a new pair of specs
for me, or—some one else in the box.”

“We’ll try to get a new pair of glasses first,” suggested Cap, as
cheerfully as he could.

An oculist whom they consulted, but not the one to whom they had first
gone after the accident, looked grave when he had tested Bill’s eyes,
and heard the story of the blow.

“Of course I can fit you with glasses,” he said, “but it may take some
time to get them just right.”

“How long?” asked the pitcher anxiously.

“A week—perhaps two.”

“It won’t do!” declared Bill. “Why the last Sandrim game comes off in
three days, and a week later the final with the Tuckerton nine. I’ve
got to pitch in both.”

The oculist shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “The lenses will have to be specially
ground. If I knew where the others were made I could get them from
there.”

But the astronomer had failed to say where he had had Bill’s glasses
made, and there was nothing for it but to try some other lens-making
place. Meanwhile the oculist said he would temporarily fit Bill with a
pair of glasses.

But when the pitcher tried to use them, his curves were worse off than
before, and with despair in his heart he laid aside the spectacles.

“I’ll have to wait for the others,” he said.

“But what about the game with Sandrim?” asked Captain Graydon. “Can
you pitch for us?”

Bill shook his head, and said nothing. The captain and coach looked at
each other.

“We’ll have to put Mersfeld back in the box,” decided Mr. Windam
dubiously.

“Yes, and he’ll have to practice hard every spare minute, and even
then—” The captain did not finish, but they knew what he meant.

It was with wild and ill-concealed exultation in his heart that
Mersfeld received orders to take his old place.

“Now it’s up to you to make good!” said North to him.

“And I’ll do it, too!” was the fierce response. “Bill Smith shan’t get
his hands on the ball again.”

Mersfeld began hard and steady practice, and, whether it was that the
rest had done him good, or whether he had improved did not develop, but
there was a more hopeful look on the faces of the captain and coach.

“We may do Sandrim yet,” said Graydon, “and if Bill can get his glasses
in time for the Tuckerton game we may pull out ahead.”

“I hope so, but it’s going to be a hard row to hoe.”

Bill and his brothers and friends made strenuous efforts in the little
while that remained to get the glasses in time, but there was a delay,
the lenses were not ready, and when the day of the final game with
Sandrim arrived Mersfeld was in the box.

Bill sat on the bench, bitterness in his heart, his fingers fairly
aching to get hold of the ball. But he knew that his eyes were
practically useless.

It was a hard game, and Westfield won it only by the hardest kind of
work, and the narrow margin of one run. It was due more to the support
Mersfeld got than to his pitching that he pulled the contest out of
the fire, and at one time, when Sandrim had three men on bases, and
none out it looked like a walk-over for them.

But Cap, who was behind the bat, and Pete, at short, were towers of
strength, and once more the Smith boys, even though the trio was
broken, demonstrated their worth.

“Now, if we can take Tuckerton’s scalp we’ll be all right,” remarked
the coach to the captain, as they strolled off the diamond after the
game.

“Yes, but we need Bill. Oh, if his eyes would only get right again!”

“Yes, or if he can only get his glasses in time.”

It was three days later before the oculist had the special lenses, and
Bill tried them hopefully. At first they seemed to be all right, but
after he had pitched a few balls Cap called to him:

“Get ’em over a little better, Bill. That last one was quite a ways
out.”

“What’s the matter? Why it went right over the plate!”

Pete who was behind Cap, watching his brother’s curves started, and the
oldest Smith lad shook his head. Then Bill knew that the glasses were
not the same.

“I guess it’s all up,” he said despondently. “I’m out of it.”

“No!” cried Cap. “We’ll help you!”

“What can you do?” Bill wanted to know. “There’s no use having this
oculist try it again.”

“No, but we’ll find Professor Clatter and Tithonus Somnus and get him
to make a right pair of glasses. That’s our last chance!”

“And a mighty slim one, too!” murmured Bill, “with the final game only
a few days off!”




CHAPTER XXX

BILL’S FALL


When the oculist learned that the glasses he had made for Bill were
practically useless, he wanted to try again, and, as there could be
no harm in it, and as some good might result, the pitcher consented.
But he and his brothers at once began the task of trying to locate
Professor Clatter and his friend the astronomer.

And a task it was, for they had nothing by which to go. The Smith
boys knew the towns at which the medicine man usually stopped in his
travels, and telegrams were sent to the police of each one, asking them
to have Mr. Clatter at once get into communication with his former
friends. But the answers that came back stated that the professor had
not recently been in the town addressed or else had just left.

The time was getting woefully short. Preparations were completed for
the final and deciding game of the series, which as far as the pennant
went, was a tie between Tuckerton and Westfield.

With the exception of their pitcher Westfield had the best nine in many
years, and her rival was equally well provided for. It would be the
hottest game of the season, and indications pointed to record-breaking
attendance.

“Oh, if I only could pitch!” sighed poor Bill. “It’s the one game of
the year.”

“And Miss Morton will be there,” added Cap.

“Yes, hang it all. Oh, I’ve a good notion to get some surgeon to
operate on me, and see if he can’t straighten my eyes!”

“No time for that now,” said Pete sadly, for he and his brother, as
well as all their friends, sympathized deeply with Bill. “It’s hard
luck, old man, but it can’t be helped.”

Mersfeld was practicing early and late, and even Cap, who was to be
behind the bat, had to admit that the former twirler was in good form.

“He can’t touch you when you are at your best though, Bill,” he said to
his brother, “and I wish you were going to be in the box, but—”

It now seemed practically sure that no help could be had from Professor
Clatter or his odd friend. And the second pair of glasses made by the
oculist were worse than the first. Bill’s vision was away out of focus
when he used them.

“It’s me for the bench again,” he said the night before the big game,
and nothing that his brothers or friends could say consoled him.

A vigorous search was still kept up for the missing case of spectacles,
and notices were posted about the school regarding them, but they were
still in the cannon, and no one thought of looking there, save the two
conspirators, and of course they did not. There was unholy joy between
them.

“You got what you wanted,” said North to Mersfeld when the make-up of
the nine for the concluding championship game was announced the night
preceding it.

“That’s right, thanks to you.”

“Oh, well, I’ll depend upon you to help me out, sometime. I’ve got a
score to pay back to Cap Smith yet,” and there was a vindictive look on
the bully’s face.

The Westfield nine went out on the diamond for early practice on the
morning of the game, and Mersfeld seemed in good form. There was a
confident smile on his face as he threw the balls to Cap.

“Keep it up,” advised the catcher, who wished in vain that his big mitt
was receiving the swift balls his brother could send in, in place of
those from Mersfeld.

“Tuckerton is bringing along two extra pitchers I hear,” said the
captain to Coach Windam. “They must be looking for a hard game!”

“I hope we give it to ’em! As for box men, we’ll put Mersfeld in, of
course, and if worst comes to worst and he doesn’t last we’ll have to
rely on Newton.”

“I suppose so. Oh, if only Bill Smith—! But what’s the use, we’ll do
the best we can.”

It was the afternoon of the great game. Already the grandstands on the
Westfield grounds were beginning to fill up with the cohorts of the two
schools, and other spectators who came to look on, and cheer. There
were pretty girls galore, and a glance over the seats showed a riot of
colors from the hats and dresses of the maidens, to the gay banners and
ribbons on horns and canes.

The Tuckerton nine had arrived in a big coach, and their entrance on
the diamond was a signal for a burst of cheers and many songs.

Then out trotted the home team, and there was a wild burst of barbaric
voices in greeting, while rival singing bands, more or less in
harmony, chanted the praises of their respective teams.

The Smith boys were with their mates, and, even though he knew he was
not going to play, Bill had put on a uniform.

“I’ll feel better sitting on the bench than up in the stand,” he said
to his chums. He tried to smile, but it was a woeful imitation.

There was a sharp practice by both teams. Cap took Mersfeld to a
secluded spot, and gave him some final advice about signals, before
they started to warm-up. Bill, who wanted to see how his rival was
handling the horsehide strolled over to watch him and Cap.

“Pretty good,” he said to Mersfeld, who had pitched in some hot ones.

“Glad you think so,” was the somewhat ungracious answer. “I guess I’ll
do.” Mersfeld was anything but modest.

It was almost time for the game to be called. Just back of where Bill
was watching his brother and Mersfeld, Whistle-Breeches was knocking
grounders to Pete, who was to play shortstop. Some one threw in a ball
from the outfield to one of the fungle batters. The sphere went wild,
and came toward Whistle-Breeches.

“Look out!” yelled Pete, and Anderson raised his bat intending to stop
the wildly-thrown horsehide. He hit it harder than he intended, and it
was shunted off in the direction of Bill.

“Duck!” suddenly exclaimed Cap, who saw his brother’s danger, and
instinctively Bill dodged. He turned to one side so quickly that he
lost his balance, and the next moment he fell heavily, his head
striking the ground with considerable force, while the ball landed some
distance from him.

They all expected to see Bill jump to his feet with a laugh at his
awkwardness, but to the surprise of all he remained lying there, still
and quiet.

“Bill’s hurt!” cried Cap, making a dash toward him, while several other
players came hurrying forward to see what was the matter.




CHAPTER XXXI

“PLAY BALL!”


Cap Smith was the first to reach his brother. As he lifted him up Bill
opened his eyes.

“I’m all right,” he murmured. “I can stand alone.”

He proved it by doing so. His hand went to his head, and when it came
away there was a little smear of blood on the palm.

“Must have hit on a stone and cut myself,” he said, a bit faintly. “But
I’m all right now.”

“Are you sure?” asked Pete, slipping his arm around his brother.
“Better come over here and sit down.”

He led Bill to the bench, and indeed the pitcher was a trifle dizzy,
and his head felt queer, for he had fallen harder than he had supposed.

The other players, finding that nothing serious was the matter went
back to their practice. In the grandstands the singing and cheering was
multiplied. Crowds of pretty girls, eager youths, demure chaperones,
old grads, young grads and mere spectators continued to arrive until
every seat was filled.

“It’s going to be a great game,” murmured Cap, who, finding that his
brother was apparently all right, resumed, his catching with Mersfeld.
“I never saw such a crowd!”

“It’s money in the treasury whether we win the pennant or not,”
declared J. Evans Green, the business-like manager.

“But we _are_ going to win!” declared Cap emphatically. “Keep ’em
guessing, Mersfeld, and you’ll do. Now when I put three fingers on my
mitt so, let me have a swift drop,” and he went on with his code of
signals.

The conferences between the respective captains had ended, and Burke,
head of the Tuckerton Varsity nine, signalled to his men to come in
from practice, as they were to bat first. Graydon assembled his team
for a few final instructions.

“Sorry you’re not playing with us to-day,” he said to poor Bill, who
was sitting on the bench. The cut in his head had stopped bleeding.

“You’re no more sorry than I am,” declared the pitcher ruefully. “But
it can’t be helped.”

“We may have to call on you yet,” said the coach, “if they knock
Mersfeld and Newton out of the box.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t do much good,” was Bill’s doleful answer.

“Play ball!” howled the umpire, and the players took their places,
Mersfeld catching the new white horsehide sphere the official tossed to
him.

The first ball which Mersfeld delivered was cleanly hit away out in
centrefield, and when it came back the batter was on second base. There
was a wild riot of cheers at this auspicious opening for Tuckerton, and
a grim look on the faces of the Westfield players.

“That looks bad,” murmured Bill, as he watched Mersfeld wind up for his
next delivery. The pitcher was visibly nervous, and Cap, seeing it,
made an excuse to walk out to him.

“Keep cool!” he whispered, “or you won’t last.”

Mersfeld stiffened, and struck out the next man. But the third one got
a three bagger out of him, and the following one a single. When the
inning came to a close there were three runs chalked up for the rivals
of our friends, and there was only gloom for the home team. Nor was it
dissipated by the triumphant songs their opponents sang.

One run was the best that Graydon’s men could do on their first trial,
though captain and coach pleaded earnestly with them.

“I guess they’ve got our number,” murmured Pete to his brother as the
latter donned his protector and mask.

“Oh, don’t be so gloomy,” was the advice.

Mersfeld went from bad to worse, and at the beginning of the fourth
inning the captain and coach held a consultation.

“We’ve got to do something,” said Graydon.

“I agree with you. But what?”

“Newton will have to go in.”

“It looks so. We can’t chance Bill.”

“No. Well, tell Newton to pitch next inning.” Two more runs went to the
credit of Tuckerton, making the score eight to two in their favor.

By desperate playing and taking several chances our friends managed to
pull a brace of tallies out of the ruck that inning, so that there was
some hope. Mersfeld sulked when told to go to the bench, and pleaded
for another chance, but the coach and captain were firm.

“Get ready, Newton,” ordered Graydon.

The substitute Varsity twirler was not a wonder, and he knew it, but
he started off well, and there was some hope, until he began to go to
pieces after issuing passes to two men. Then it seemed all up with him,
though only one run went to Tuckerton’s credit that inning.

Cap shook his head dubiously when he took off his mask at the beginning
of the second half of the fifth inning. His apprehensive feeling was
shared by his teammates, by the coach, the manager and by thousands of
the Westfield supporters, who sat in gloomy silence while the cohorts
of Tuckerton yelled, shouted and sang themselves hoarse.

“I’m going to do something desperate,” declared the coach, to the
captain, when two runs had come in to sweeten the tally for Westfield,
thereby causing wild hope among her friends.

“What are you going to do?” asked Graydon.

“I know we can beat these fellows, even now, if we could only hold them
down to no more runs,” went on Windam. “And to shut them out for the
rest of the game we need a good pitcher. Mersfeld can’t do it, Newton
doesn’t count, Bill is out of it, and I’m going to put in Morgan.”

“What! The Freshman sub?”

“It’s a last hope, I know,” admitted the coach, “but we’ve got to do
something. Morgan is good, and if he can last he’ll be all right.”

Rather listlessly, and almost hopelessly the captain consented to it.
He was crossing to tell Morgan of the decision arrived at, when he
noticed that Cap and Bill were having a little warm-up practice off to
one side, for it would not be Cap’s turn to bat in some time.

As Bill stung in a ball his brother uttered a cry of surprise.

“What’s the matter—hurt?” asked the captain quickly, fearing more bad
luck. With his best catcher laid off, as well as the star pitcher, the
game might as well be given up.

“Hurt! No, I’m not hurt,” answered Cap. “Here, Bill just throw a few
more that way,” he called eagerly to his brother.

Bill, wondering what was up, did so, fairly stinging them in with his
old-time force. The look of surprise on Cap’s face grew.

“Here!” he called to the captain, and he motioned for Bill to approach.
“Do you notice any difference in your eyes?” he asked his brother
eagerly.

“My eyes?” repeated Bill, slowly.

“His eyes,” murmured the captain.

“Yes,” went on the catcher. “Every ball you threw came in as straight
as a die, and the curve broke just at the right time. Say, maybe I’m
loony, or dreaming, but you pitch just as you used to, Bill, before you
got hurt! Do your eyes feel any differently?”

“Well, they don’t ache as they used to when I pitched without my
glasses, and there seems to be a queer feeling in my head.” He put his
hand back to where he had fallen on the stone a little while before.

“Bill, you’ve got your eyesight back!” cried Cap eagerly. “I’m sure of
it!”

“Do you really believe it?” asked the pitcher trembling with suppressed
hope.

“Sure. But we’ll try once more. Come over here.”

The game was going rather slow now, for the Tuckerton pitcher was
tiring, and was not sure of his man. He had decided to walk him, and
to kill time was playing with Whistle-Breeches, who was on second.
Consequently little attention needed to be given to the contest for the
moment by the captain. He could see what Cap and Bill were going to do.

Once more Bill threw in the balls. They came just as they had formerly
done, perfectly.

“You’ll do!” cried Cap in delight.

“Get ready to go to the box!” ordered the captain tensely.

“But I—I don’t understand,” stammered the pitcher.

“You’ve got your sight back!” went on his brother, “and I believe
what did it was the fall you just had. It did something to your
head—relieved the blood or nerve pressure or something. Anyhow you can
pitch once more!”

“That’s the stuff!” cried Graydon. “We need you!”

There was a wild yell from the grandstands, and out burst a chorus of a
Westfield song.

“Whistle-Breeches brought in a run,” cried Graydon. “Things are picking
up! Now we’ll wallop ’em!”

Three runs were the best Westfield could do that inning and when the
home team was ready to take the field there was a murmur of surprise as
it was announced that Bill Smith would pitch.

As Bill started toward the box there was some excitement at one of the
entrance gates near the grandstand back of the home plate.

“I must go in! I must go in!” a voice cried. “I tell you the Smith
boys need me!”

Something in the voice attracted the attention of Bill, Cap and Pete.
They looked, and saw Professor Clatter rush past a ticket-taker.

“Here I am!” cried the medicine man. “I came on as soon as I could. I
got your message in Langfield. And here are your glasses, Bill!”

He held up the case containing the missing spectacles, and fairly ran
across the diamond.




CHAPTER XXXII

NIP AND TUCK FOR VICTORY


The game was halted. There were angry demands from several players as
to why a stranger was allowed to come on the field. Others, recognizing
the professor, clamored that it was all right.

“I came as soon as I could!” explained the medicine man to the Smith
boys, who gathered about him. “I knew something must be wrong. I can’t
locate Tithonus though. What is it? Bill’s glasses? Here they are,
found in the most opportune way! Talk about golden rivers!”

The professor was panting from his run and his rapid talk. He held the
glasses to Bill.

“Where did you find them?” gasped the pitcher.

“Just now, as I was coming across the campus. I left my wagon over in
the road. As I was passing one of the cannon some of the janitors were
cleaning it. There was a lot of leaves and rubbish in it. Then out fell
the glasses just as I passed. I grabbed them up, and I knew the whole
story.”

“You knew the whole story?” cried Cap. “Who put them there?”

“No, no! I can’t tell that!” declared Mr. Clatter, while North and
Mersfeld looked at each other in relief. “I mean I understand it
all—about your messages to me,” went on the medicine man. “At first I
couldn’t imagine why you had telegraphed me. I knew you must be in some
kind of trouble though.”

“Yes, we generally are,” murmured Pete.

“And, as soon as I saw the glasses fall from the cannon I realized what
it was. Bill lost them, perhaps a bird took them for its nest. At any
rate here they are, and it’s very lucky, too, for I can’t get any trace
of Tithy. Here, Bill, put them on and play ball.”

“I don’t need them now,” answered the pitcher.

“Don’t need them! You don’t mean to say that the game is over—you
haven’t lost the championship; have you?” and the professor looked
pained, for he was a lover of base ball, and in his journeyings he
faithfully read the accounts of the games at Westfield, where his
friends the Smith boys attended. “Have you lost the pennant?” asked the
professor sadly.

“Not yet, but we’re in a fair way to if this keeps on,” murmured Cap,
for the score was seven to nine in favor of Tuckerton.

“But why doesn’t Bill need his glasses then?” asked Mr. Clatter.

“Because I can see to pitch without them,” answered our hero. “A funny
thing just happened, Professor,” and Bill told about his fall and the
odd effect it had had on his vision. The traveling medicine man looked
interested.

“Yes, that’s exactly how it may have taken place,” he declared, as Cap
stated his theory. “Here, let me have a look at you, Bill.”

“Say,” angrily cried Burke, captain of the Tuckerton nine, “if this
is a ball game let’s go on with it, and if it’s a hospital for injured
players we’ll get off the field.”

“That’s right,” added Hedden, the pitcher. “We’re here to win the
pennant, not to listen to fairy stories.”

“Play ball!” yelled Brower, the catcher.

“Easy now,” counseled Professor Clatter. “It won’t take me but a moment
to look at Bill’s head, and then the game can go on. You don’t seem to
realize that something extraordinary has taken place here.”

“It will be extraordinary if we ever play ball again,” remarked Burke,
sarcastically. But the professor did not heed him. He was looking at
the cut on Bill’s head.

“That accounts for your eyes getting right again,” he said. “It’s a bad
cut, but you’re in shape to play, in spite of it. Go in, and win!”

“That’s what we’re going to do!” declared Cap.

“Surest thing you know!” cried Pete.

“I’d like to find out how my glasses got in that cannon,” spoke Bill,
but no one enlightened him, though Professor Clatter, as he looked at
the guilty, flushed face of Mersfeld had a suspicion of the truth.

“Play ball!” called the umpire, and the Westfield nine went to their
places in the field. Mersfeld, with a bitter look on his face, watched
Bill go to the box.

And the pitcher did not need his glasses, though he took them with
him as a matter of precaution. With his eyes right once more, and
feeling full of confidence Bill exchanged a few preliminary balls with
Cap. Then he signified that he was ready for the batter. Cap, with a
gratified smile, had noticed that the horsehide cut the plate cleanly
and yet the curves broke just at the right time.

“Strike one!” called the umpire suddenly, following the first ball Bill
delivered. The batter started. He had not moved his stick. He gave the
umpire an indignant glance, opened his mouth as if to say something,
and then thought better of it.

There was a long-drawn sigh of relief from the grandstands and
bleachers where the Westfield supporters sat, and Bob Chapin ventured
to start the song, “We’ve Got Their Scalp Locks Now!”

Bill smiled at his brother behind the plate. Pete picked up a handful
of gravel and tossed it into the air before settling back ready for
whatever might come his way.

“Strike two!” came sharply from the umpire.

“That’s the way to do it! Make him fan, Bill!” cried Whistle-Breeches.

“He’s done,” called Bob Chapin.

“Make him give you a nice one,” was the advice the batter got from his
friends.

The man with the stick tapped the plate and smiled confidently. He
was still smiling when the next ball came. He struck at it—missed it
clean, and threw his bat to the ground with such force as to splinter
it.

“Batter’s out!” said the umpire quietly.

“That’s the way to do it!”

“There’s more where those came from!”

“We’ve got their Angora!”

These were the cries that greeted Bill’s initial effort in the box at
that championship game. Matters were looking brighter for Westfield,
and every man on the team, and every supporter who wanted to see the
pennant stay where it was, felt hope coming back to him.

There was a little apprehension in Tuckerton’s ranks. The game had
seemed so sure to them, but now the tide was turning. Still Bill might
not be able to keep it up.

As for our hero, however, he knew that his eye was as true as it had
ever been, and he felt able to go on for nine innings if necessary. But
only four remained in which to turn the trick. Could he do it? Others
beside himself asked that question.

The next man stepped to the plate. Two fouls and a miss on the last
strike was the best he could do, and he went back to the bench. The
third man Bill struck out cleanly.

“Wow! Wow!” howled the Westfield crowd. “We’ve got ’em going!”

But it was to be no easy victory. Though by reason of Bill’s twirling a
momentary halt had been called on the winning streak of the visitors,
still Westfield must make more runs in order to win the game.

And this was not easy. Hedden was hit for two singles, but the
Westfield players were a bit careless on bases, and one was caught
napping. One run was brought in on Cap’s three bagger making the score
eight to nine, with a single leading tally in favor of the visitors.

From then on it was nip and tuck for victory. Bill kept up the good
twirling, and such box work as he exhibited was not seen for many a
long day on the Westfield diamond. Not a Tuckerton player got a hit off
him in the next three innings, goose eggs going up in the frames, that
up to the advent of Bill had contained at least one tally for each time
the visitors were at bat.

But, on the other hand Westfield, try as they did, could not score.
The captain and coach begged and pleaded, and the crowds by songs and
cheers urged their men to battle to the death. It seemed useless. The
two teams, now evenly matched, sea-sawed back and forth, with grim,
bulldog tenacity, but there the game hung in the balance.

Tuckerton was still one run ahead when they came to bat in the ninth
inning.

“Hold ’em down! Hold ’em down!” pleaded Cap to Bill.

“I will,” promised the pitcher, and he did, striking three men out in
quick succession amid the cheers of the crowd.

“Now’s our last chance,” murmured Captain Graydon as his men came in.
“It’s do or die for the pennant now!”




CHAPTER XXXIII

WINNING THE PENNANT


“One run to tie, two to win and three to make a good job of it,”
murmured Cap, as he walked to the bench with his brothers. “Can we do
it?”

“We’ve got to,” answered Bill.

“You make a home run, I’ll limp along after you, and Pete can follow,”
suggested Bill. “That will do the business.”

“It might happen,” said Cap. “Whistle-Breeches is up first, then I
follow, and, after Graydon has a whack, you and Pete come along, Bill.”

“Oh, don’t talk about it!” exclaimed the pitcher. “It makes me
nervous,” but he did not show any signs of it.

“How are your eyes?” asked Pete.

“All right. I feel fine. But I’d like to know who hid my glasses.”

“Batter up!” called the umpire, and Whistle-Breeches, a little pale
because of what depended on his work, walked to the plate.

“Now line out a good one!” counseled the coach. “You can do it. Wait
for a nice one.”

It was good advice, and well meant, but alas! Whistle-Breeches fanned
the air.

“One down!” exulted the captain of the Tuckerton nine. “We only need
two more!”

“Well, you don’t get me!” murmured Cap, with a grim tightening of his
mouth. And he made good. A pretty two-bagger was his contribution, and
he got to third on a little fly which Graydon knocked, but the captain
was out at first.

“Two down, play for the batter!” called Burke. “They’ve only got one
chance, and they can’t make good. The pennant comes to Tuckerton!”

“Don’t you fool yourself,” murmured Bill, as he went to the plate.
Hedden, his rival pitcher, regarded him with a mocking smile. Bill was
not especially strong in stick work, but somehow he felt that he was
going to make good to-day.

He saw a ball coming, and sized it up for a slow out. Knowing the
peculiarity of the curve which Hedden pitched Bill stepped right into
it. His bat met the horsehide squarely, and with a “Ping!” that sent a
thrill of joy not only to his heart but to the hearts of his brothers
and friends.

“Right on the nose! Oh, what a poke!” cried Whistle-Breeches who
rejoiced for Bill over what he himself could not do.

Away sailed the ball, well over the centre fielder’s head, away sped
Bill legging it for first with all the speed of which he was capable.

“Run! Run! Run!”

“Come on in, Cap!”

“Oh what a poke!”

“Pretty! Pretty!”

The crowd on the stands was yelling and jumping up and down. Old men
were tossing their hats into the air, clapping each other on the back,
making friends with strangers, and telling each other that it reminded
them of the time when they were boys.

Bill swung around second, as Cap fairly leaped over home plate,
bringing in the tying run. The Tuckerton players were wild with
chagrin. The game was being pulled out of the fire—snatched from them
at the moment when they thought they saw a safe victory. The centre
fielder nearly had the ball now, and Bill was heading for third base.

“Go on! Go on!”

“Home! Home!”

This and other advice was shouted at him. He gave a quick glance
around, and decided that he would risk it by going on to the last bag.
It was a narrow chance, almost too narrow, and Bill had to slide so
far that his uniform took on a new shade, and his mouth and eyes were
filled with dust and gravel, for the ball whizzed into the hands of the
eager baseman.

“Safe!” decided the umpire after a breathless run to third that he
might see the outcome.

The score was now tied!

There was a howl of disgust from the Tuckerton crowd but the decision
stood, and there was wild rejoicing on the part of the Westfield throng.

“Now then, Pete, it’s up to you,” said the coach solemnly as the third
member of the Smith boys trio stepped to the bat. “If you don’t bring
Bill in at least, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“I’ll do my best,” declared the doughty little shortstop. He was one of
the best men who could have been up in an emergency of this kind, with
two out, a man on third and the winning run still needed. For Pete was
as cool as the proverbial cucumber.

He smiled in a tantalizing fashion at the Tuckerton pitcher, who was on
the verge of a nervous breakdown because of the many epithets hurled at
him, in an endeavor to “get his goat.” He had to watch Bill carefully,
for that worthy was playing off as far as he dared, hoping to slip in
with the needed winning run. The catcher, too, was fearful lest some
ball get by him, and had told the pitcher to be on the alert to run in
instantly in the event of a passed ball.

“Ball one!” howled the umpire, as Hedden threw.

“Oh wow! He’s going to walk you, Pete!” called Graydon.

“You’ve got a pass!” shouted Bob Chapin.

Pete smiled cheerfully. He thought the next ball looked good, and swung
at it, but he had been fooled by a neat trick.

“Strike one!” said the umpire, and a breathless silence followed.

“Two more like that and we’ve got ’em!” called the catcher to Hedden.
“You can do it.”

The pitcher nodded. He threw the swiftest ball of which he was capable.
It came almost before Pete was ready for it, but with the quickness of
light he swung on it.

Oh what a “Ping!” followed, and he knew that he had made good. Once
more, amid the frenzied howls of the crowd, the ball sailed outward and
upward.

“Bill, Oh Bill! Where are you? Come in! Come in!” pleaded scores to
him. But the pitcher did not need these entreaties. On he came running
as he had never run before. The catcher, to disconcert him, stood as
though to catch the ball. Bill dared not look around to make sure that
it had not been caught and thrown home. Brower was right in his path.

“Slide!” some one called to him, and for the second time that day Bill
dropped and shot forward on the ground. His hand touched the plate, and
he knew that he was safe, for he had not heard the thud of the ball in
the catcher’s mitt. Then, he felt some heavy body fall on him, and for
the moment the breath was knocked from him, and he lost consciousness.
He had knocked the catcher’s feet from under him, and toppled that
player in the dust.

Cap ran to pick up his brother.

“Hurt?” he cried anxiously. “Oh Bill, you did it! We win.”

“No—n-not much hurt!” gasped Bill. “Just—just a little—little
short—of wind—that’s all.”

They gave him water and he felt better, and then he looked out over the
diamond. Pete had reached third, and was still running. Around the last
bag he swung, but the right fielder far on amid the daisies had the
ball now.

“Go back! Go back!” howled Graydon, for, though the game was won he
wanted to pile up another run against Tuckerton if he could.

But Pete did not heed. The ball had been thrown, but the fielder had to
run so far back for it, that he could not get it far enough in. There
was just a chance for Pete to make a home run, and he took that chance.

The horsehide fell short of the second baseman, who ran to get it. By
this time Pete was half way home, and running well.

“Come on! Come on!” pleaded hundreds to him, and Pete came.

“Slide!” cried the coach, and, as Bill had done, so did Pete, but with
more cause.

On came the ball, thrown swiftly by the second baseman. Pete was
hurtling forward through a cloud of dust, his hand eagerly stretched
out to feel the plate. His fingers touched it, and a welcome thrill ran
through him, just as he heard the thud of the ball in the catcher’s
glove. Down came the horsehide on his shoulder with vicious force.

“How’s it?” excitedly yelled the catcher to the umpire.

There was a moment’s silence, and the players and crowd hardly
breathed. It seemed as if the weight of kingdoms hung on the decision,
and Pete lay there waiting.

“Safe!” decided the umpire, and yells of delight mingled with those
of chagrin. Westfield had the game now by two runs and the pennant
remained with them.

Oh what rejoicing there was! No need to play the game out farther.
Indeed it could scarcely have been done had the coach or captain
desired it, so wild with delight were the members of the nine.

“Oh you Smith boys!” was the gladsome cry, and around our heroes there
danced a wild and enthusiastic mob of players of the game. Horns
tooted, rattles added their din, old men, youths and maidens swelled
the riot with their voices, the shrill tones of the girls sounding high
above the hoarser notes of triumph.

“We win! We win!” cried Graydon, hugging the rather grave and sedate
coach, and whirling him about in a dance.

“Yes, and at the last minute,” added Mr. Windam. “That was a lucky fall
of Bill Smith’s.”

“There was crooked work somewhere,” said the captain in a low voice.
“Those glasses never fell into the cannon, and I know whom to suspect.”

“Then keep it to yourself,” advised the coach, and Graydon did so.

It seemed impossible that it was all over, that the school baseball
season was at an end, and that Westfield still had the pennant, yet
such was the case. Already the crowds were leaving the grandstands.
Students were gathering in groups to cheer over, or sing about, the
victory. The team was hugged and hustled here and there. The Smith
boys and their mates were lifted to the shoulders of their fellows and
paraded about the diamond. The Tuckertons had given a cheer for the
victors, and, in turn, had been cheered for their plucky fight.

“And to think that this is the end of the season,” remarked Bill
regretfully to his brothers, as they walked over toward the gymnasium.

“Oh, but it will soon be fall, and then for the good old pigskin
punts!” exclaimed Pete.

“That’s so. I wonder if we can make the eleven?” said Cap. “I hope we
can.”

“We’ll try, anyhow,” declared Bill.

How they tried, and with what success they had will be told of in the
third volume of this series to be called “Those Smith Boys on the
Gridiron; or A Touchdown in Time.” In that book we will meet with our
school friends again, and learn how they played several great games.

As Bill and his brothers strolled across the campus they saw a group of
girls coming toward them.

“Oh cats!” exclaimed Bill. “I look like sin; don’t I?”

“I’ve seen you cleaner,” answered Whistle-Breeches, as he noted Bill’s
torn jacket and dusty trousers. “But what’s the odds?”

“There’s Miss Morton,” murmured the pitcher.

“Oh!” cried the girl, with whom he had once rode at such top speed to
play in the Freshman game. “Oh, I want to shake hands with all you
boys! Wasn’t it perfectly splendid?”

“Glad you think so!” mumbled Bill, trying to hide behind Cap. But
Miss Morton would have none of that. She held out her hand to Bill
especially.

“I’ll spoil your gloves!” he protested.

“As if I cared for them!” and she only laughed at the grimy stains
which Bill made on the white kids. Then, in turn she and the other
young ladies greeted our friends, and repeated, over and over again, in
more or less emphatic words, what they thought of the victory.

“And may I add a word,” spoke a voice, as the girls moved off. The boys
turned to behold Professor Clatter.

“It was fine!” he declared. “Not even by the use if my Rapid Robust
Resolute Resolvent, my Peerless, Permanent Pain Preventive or my
Spotless Saponifier could a more noble victory have been won. I
congratulate you. Pactolus congratulates you, and when we find the
golden river we’ll make a crown of victory for you. But what I want to
add most especially is, that our mutual friend Tithonus Somnus has just
arrived. His wagon is over near mine, and he and I entreat you to come
and see us, and partake of such humble fare as we may afford.”

“Do you mean all of us?” asked Cap.

“The entire nine!” cried the medicine man warmly. “We will dine out of
doors, and Mercurio will serve the viands.”

“What say, fellows; shall we go?” asked Cap, for the members of the
Varsity team were gathered about the Smith boys.

“Go? Of course,” answered Graydon. “We can break training now, and
we’ll eat golden rivers or Resolute Resolvent or even Spotless
Saponifiers! Lead on!”

“You say Tithy has arrived?” asked Bill, as the little throng moved
over the campus, it having been arranged that as soon as they got off
their uniforms they would go to the professor’s wagon.

“Yes, he heard that I was headed here, and followed.”

“What business is he in now?” inquired Pete.

“Oh, he is selling a wonderful instrument. It is a pocket knife, a
glass cutter, a can opener, hammer, screw driver, and twenty-six other
tools, more or less, combined into one. Tithy is enthusiastic over it.
Well, I’ll go to tell him you are coming, and then I will bid Mercurio
set the table.”

The professor, with a low bow, turned away, and hastened off.

“Queer chap,” commented Graydon.

“But as good as gold,” added Bill, and his brothers agreed with him.
“To think of him finding my glasses. I wonder how they got there?”

No one answered him, and Mersfeld and North did not hear the question.
Perhaps they would not have replied had they listened to it.

A little later the members of the nine were seated in the shade of the
two queer wagons, on the long, green grass, beside the road, partaking
of the hospitality of Professor Clatter and Tithonus Somnus, who
gravely announced that he had changed his name, as well as his trade
and that thenceforth he would be known as Cornelius Cutaby.

Proudly he showed the new implement for which he was traveling agent.

“It will do anything from cutting glass to taking an automobile apart,”
he declared.

“Well, if it will open some more of that ginger ale, I’ll be glad of
it,” remarked Bill. “These olives and ham sandwiches make me thirsty.”

“What ho! Mercurio!” called Professor Clatter. “Pass the ginger ale,”
and, having executed his own command he opened the bottles with the
combined glass cutter and screw driver, and served to his friends the
frothing beverage.

“Now fellows, for the baseball song—‘Strike ’em Out and Run ’em Down!’
and then we’ll go back to school and get ready for the celebration
to-night!” suggested Cap, after a pause.

The improvised banquet was over. In the twilight the boys stood up, and
softly sang the time-honored song of Westfield, sung whenever there
was a victory. Professor Clatter brought out a guitar and played the
accompaniment, and Tithy—I beg his pardon, Cornelius Cutaby—joined in
the chorus.

And now, for a time, we will take leave of Those Smith Boys, though
if the fates are kind, they may be met with again, as well as the
professor and the traveling agent for the combined glass cutter and
monkey wrench.


THE END




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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

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End of Project Gutenberg's Those Smith Boys on the Diamond, by Howard R. Garis