“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.