“Give us a hand, will you? I can’t get this needle threaded and there’s a hole in my stocking as big as your fist. I wouldn’t mind, only it’s opening game and we want to look decent. I caught it on a nail.”
“Wait a minute. I’ll be with you,” sung out Bill, and dropping his own work he darted for the room of his chum.
“Just my chance!” whispered Bondy. “But I haven’t much time!” He had the substitute lenses ready, and a small screw driver with which to open the frame and make the change.
Into Bill’s room the sneak darted when he saw the pitcher enter the study of Whistle-Breeches. A rapid glance around showed him where the goggles were—in their usual place on top of a shelf of books.
It was the work of a minute to secure them, and begin to loosen the screws. Bondy worked feverishly, but his very haste and nervousness were against him. His hands trembled, and he was in a sweat of fear. One glass was almost loose, when, with a suddenness that was as startling as a clap of thunder would have been, the door leading from Bill’s to Pete’s room opened, and the shortstop entered. He did not notice Bondy at first, as the latter stood in the shadow of the book shelves, and this fact gave the conspirator time to shove the screw driver and extra lenses into his pocket.
“Caught!” he murmured under his breath.
The tinkle of glass caught Pete’s ears, and he wheeled around.
“Oh! Hello, Bondy!” he exclaimed, and then catching sight of his brother’s goggles in the other’s hands he quickly asked:
“What are you doing with those glasses?”