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.