“You’ll either have to get a new pair of glasses,” grimly remarked the coach, “or you’ll have to cut out your midnight suppers, Smith.”
“All right,” agreed the pitcher, for the word of Mr. Windam was law. The scrub, on which Mersfeld was pitching was close to beating the Varsity, over which fact the deposed twirler was gloating.
“If things go on this way,” he said to his crony North, as they left the field, the two again being friendly, “I’ll be back in the box once more.”
“I’d be glad to help you,” was the answer, for though North did not exactly care for Mersfeld, whom he felt was not in his “class,” yet the bully had formed an unreasoning hate toward our heroes, and would have been glad to see them run out of the school. “If anything turns up by which we can get back at those fellows, count me in.”
“All right,” replied Mersfeld, duly grateful.
The two strolled across the campus, and, as they got behind a clump of bushes, North saw a small, timid boy, one of the students at a preparatory school connected with Westfield, passing along. He called to the lad, whom he knew slightly:
“Here, Harvey, carry my glove and bat, I’m tired,” for North had been playing on the scrub.
“Oh, please, I can’t,” replied Harvey. “I’m in a hurry. I—I will next time.”
“I said now!” exclaimed North putting out a hand, and catching the small chap roughly by the shoulder. “Now, do you hear! Not next week, but now. What’s getting into you fellows from the prep, anyhow? Take that bat!” and the bully brought it down with considerable force on Harvey’s shoulder.
The little lad gave a cry of pain, and started to run, breaking from North’s hold. With a coarse expression the larger student threw his heavy glove at the little boy, catching him on the back of the head. Then, with a quick jump North was at his side again, and had the little fellow’s arm in a cruel grip.