“Sorry. Did I hurt you?” asked the bully with elaborate politeness as he helped Bill to his feet.
“No, but I don’t want my nose rubbed in the dirt. It might spoil the shape.”
“That’s right. Wait until I get hold of Mersfeld. It was his fault.”
North scurried off, pretending to be in pursuit of his crony, while Cap, Pete and Whistle-Breeches, who had gone down in the melee were fighting off several of their chums who, seeing the prostrate group, had, boy fashion, thrown themselves on top, a-la-football practice.
“Oh, say, this is too much!” gasped Cap, as he tossed Bob Chapin to one side.
“Yes, who started this, anyhow?” demanded Pete, digging some grass out of his left ear.
The skirmishing and fun were general now, and no one seemed to remember that Mersfeld and North had been the storm centre. The two were far enough away, over the campus by this time.
“Well, did you get ’em?” asked Mersfeld nervously, as he looked back at the throng of lads who had ceased their struggles and were brushing what they could of the dirt off their clothes.
“I sure did,” was the answer. “Look,” and he showed him a small black case, which, on being opened, disclosed the peculiar glasses that Bill wore when he pitched.
“Good!” exclaimed the deposed pitcher. “Now what’ll we do with ’em?”