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.