“But he’ll know what’s wrong as soon as he has his eyes, and the glasses tested again.”
“What of it? He won’t suspect us, and all you want is a chance to make good; isn’t it?”
“Yes, for if I do make good in the opening game I’m sure they’ll have to let me stay through the season, and Bill won’t be in it. I’m glad you’re helping me.”
“I’d do more than that to put one over on the Smith boys. I don’t like them. I wish they’d get out of Westfield.”
Bondy had his plans all laid, and had, after considerable trouble secured a pair of lenses to replace those in Bill’s pitching glasses. Now, like some spider watching for his hapless prey, he sat in his room on the morning of the day of the big game, waiting for a chance to sneak in and make the substitution. He felt that he could do it, for no one ever locked his door at Westfield, and Bill had been in the habit lately of spending a lot of time in the apartment of Whistle-Breeches.
But now Bill was in his room, and Bondy was impatiently waiting for him to go out. The sneak knew that if he could change the glasses the trick would not be discovered until after Bill was in the box, for he did not use the goggles in preliminary practice where there was no home plate over which to throw.
“Hang it all! Why doesn’t he go?” thought the rich lad as he peered from the partly-opened door of his study, and saw Bill moving about in his room. The pitcher was taking a few stitches in his jacket, which had been ripped. “I haven’t much more time,” mused the conspirator, “for they’ll soon go out to practice, and he’ll take the goggles with him.”
There was a call from down the corridor. It came from the room of Whistle-Breeches.
“I say Bill, where are you?”
“Here. What’s up?”