“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. “Oh, if I could only get square with him!” he muttered to North. “There’s only one way to put him out of the running,” declared that worthy. “And that is—?” “To get his special glasses. He can’t get another pair made in time now, for that old codger of an astronomer has been arrested I hear, and the other professor hasn’t been around lately. There’s only a week more before the close of the season, and if you get the specks Bill couldn’t pitch. You might have a chance then.” “I wish we could get ’em, but we risked it once, and—” “We’ll have to do it differently this time. No more trying to sneak into his room. We’ve got to take the glasses away from him personally.” “How? Hold him up some dark night? That won’t do, for he only carries them with him going to and from the games.” “And that’s just when I mean to take them. If we could get him into what would look like a friendly scrimmage say, one of us could frisk the glasses out of his pocket, and he’d be left when he tried to pitch next time.” “Can it be done?” “Sure. If you’re with me just hang around the next time Bill comes off the diamond. I’ll start something, you come back at me, we’ll run around Bill and his brothers—maybe upset ’em, and in the confusion if I can’t get the glasses I’m no good. I know where he carries ’em.” “All right, North. If I can only get back on the team I’d do anything!” “Then it’s settled,” was the reply, and the two cronies walked away together, talking of their mean plot.