“We may do Sandrim yet,” said Graydon, “and if Bill can get his glasses in time for the Tuckerton game we may pull out ahead.”
“I hope so, but it’s going to be a hard row to hoe.”
Bill and his brothers and friends made strenuous efforts in the little while that remained to get the glasses in time, but there was a delay, the lenses were not ready, and when the day of the final game with Sandrim arrived Mersfeld was in the box.
Bill sat on the bench, bitterness in his heart, his fingers fairly aching to get hold of the ball. But he knew that his eyes were practically useless.
It was a hard game, and Westfield won it only by the hardest kind of work, and the narrow margin of one run. It was due more to the support Mersfeld got than to his pitching that he pulled the contest out of the fire, and at one time, when Sandrim had three men on bases, and none out it looked like a walk-over for them.
But Cap, who was behind the bat, and Pete, at short, were towers of strength, and once more the Smith boys, even though the trio was broken, demonstrated their worth.
“Now, if we can take Tuckerton’s scalp we’ll be all right,” remarked the coach to the captain, as they strolled off the diamond after the game.
“Yes, but we need Bill. Oh, if his eyes would only get right again!”
“Yes, or if he can only get his glasses in time.”
It was three days later before the oculist had the special lenses, and Bill tried them hopefully. At first they seemed to be all right, but after he had pitched a few balls Cap called to him: