“By Jinks! I believe I did!” cried Bill, and he made a mad dash for the place. The others followed and soon the lads were scanning the grass, going about on their hands and knees. From a vantage point Mersfeld and North watched. “He’s missed ’em all right,” exulted the deposed pitcher. “Sure, and he’ll look a good while for ’em, too.” “Think he’ll suspect us?” “Not a bit of it,” replied North. He started toward the group of searching lads. “Here! Where are you going?” cried his companion in alarm. “Going over to help ’em hunt.” “Come back! Do you want to give the whole thing away, just when I’ve got a last chance to get back on the nine?” “Give it away, you chump! Why the best way to throw ’em off the track, and make ’em feel sure that we had nothing to do with it is to help Bill look for his glasses. Come on. It’ll be a joke, but they can’t appreciate it.” Somewhat dubious of the plan, Mersfeld followed North, who strolled up to Bill. The Varsity pitcher’s face wore a worried look. “Lose something?” asked North innocently. “Yes, my glasses. They must have dropped out of my pocket when we were skylarking here.” “That’s too bad!” and North winked at Mersfeld. “We’ll help you look.” “Sure,” agreed the deposed pitcher, and the two hypocrites went carefully over the ground, laughing to themselves as they thought of the glasses in the muzzle of the cannon. Darkness came and the search had to be given up. Puzzled as to what could have happened to his glasses, uselessly and mechanically feeling in pocket after pocket, Bill accompanied his brothers back to his room. Mersfeld and North went off together. “Well, what are you going to do?” asked Pete, as he looked at the pitcher. “I don’t know what to do,” and Bill’s tone was despondent. “Maybe you can get along without them now, for the few remaining games,” suggested Cap. “No,” and Bill shook his head. “I’ll need them, for I tried to pitch without them to-day, and my curves were away off. And as for the remaining games—they’re the most important of the season. We’ve just _got_ to win them to make good and keep the pennant. I don’t see what could have happened to the glasses.” “You might have lost them anywhere between the diamond and here,” said Whistle-Breeches. “We’ll look again in the morning.” “Say!” cried Pete. “Can’t you get some oculist in town to fix you up a pair that will do? It can’t be that they were such peculiar glasses that they can’t be duplicated.” “Maybe not,” half-agreed Bill, “but the old rain-maker-astronomer said the lenses had to be ground in a certain way, and I don’t know where he had them made.” “We’ll try some one in town,” went on Cap. “I believe they can fix you up,” and they spent some time talking of that possibility.