“It’s true,” said Whistle-Breeches. “Swain was in great form to-day.”
“But Bill was better,” added Pete.
“You could make a story out of what you went through,” drawled Bob Chapin. “Ring in Miss Morton as the heroine.”
“Only for her I’d never have made it,” agreed Bill, as he went over to shake hands with the pretty, blushing girl.
“Oh, it was fine! Fine!” cried Miss Morton, as she greeted Bill and his companions who surrounded her and Miss Dunning.
“Perfectly wonderful the way you struck out the last three men,” went on the other girl.
Bill blushed behind his ears. He was too tanned to have the color show elsewhere.
And so the Tuckerton-Westfield Freshmen game passed into school history, and Bill never really found out who had kidnapped him. In fact he never tried, for he concluded that his suspicions were good enough, and he did not want revenge.
The summer crept on, and the close of the term was near at hand. More games were played, and Westfield was doing well. She did not have, as yet by any means, a clear title to the pennant. In fact the loss of a few games would mean that Tuckerton or Sandrim would get it, but the Smith boys and their chums were working hard.
As for Mersfeld he was still under the ban, for when he was allowed to resume athletics he had gone so stale that after a try-out he was relegated to the ranks of the subs for the Varsity, and Bill’s place as first pitcher was undisputed. And there was bitterness in the heart of the former twirler.