CHAPTER XXVIII
THE GLASSES ARE GONE
“Hereget 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 theirstruggles 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 theseason 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 youwouldbe 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 pocketsof 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.