“That accounts for your eyes getting right again,” he said. “It’s a bad cut, but you’re in shape to play, in spite of it. Go in, and win!”
“That’s what we’re going to do!” declared Cap.
“Surest thing you know!” cried Pete.
“I’d like to find out how my glasses got in that cannon,” spoke Bill, but no one enlightened him, though Professor Clatter, as he looked at the guilty, flushed face of Mersfeld had a suspicion of the truth.
“Play ball!” called the umpire, and the Westfield nine went to their places in the field. Mersfeld, with a bitter look on his face, watched Bill go to the box.
And the pitcher did not need his glasses, though he took them with him as a matter of precaution. With his eyes right once more, and feeling full of confidence Bill exchanged a few preliminary balls with Cap. Then he signified that he was ready for the batter. Cap, with a gratified smile, had noticed that the horsehide cut the plate cleanly and yet the curves broke just at the right time.
“Strike one!” called the umpire suddenly, following the first ball Bill delivered. The batter started. He had not moved his stick. He gave the umpire an indignant glance, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then thought better of it.
There was a long-drawn sigh of relief from the grandstands and bleachers where the Westfield supporters sat, and Bob Chapin ventured to start the song, “We’ve Got Their Scalp Locks Now!”
Bill smiled at his brother behind the plate. Pete picked up a handful of gravel and tossed it into the air before settling back ready for whatever might come his way.
“Strike two!” came sharply from the umpire.