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?”