Bill was worried, and with good reason. He wanted to maintain his position as pitcher, and he knew he could not do so if he did not “deliver the goods.” That he could pitch without the glasses he did not believe, but he was anxious for morning to come that he might test himself again. Bright and early he and Cap went out to the diamond, not only to look for the glasses but to do some work with the horsehide. It is needless to say that the glasses were not recovered, and to Bill’s despair he found that he was throwing wild. “It won’t do,” spoke Cap despondently, as he tossed back the ball which he had had to reach away outside of the plate to gather in. “No, I guess not,” agreed his brother. “It’s either a new pair of specs for me, or—some one else in the box.” “We’ll try to get a new pair of glasses first,” suggested Cap, as cheerfully as he could. An oculist whom they consulted, but not the one to whom they had first gone after the accident, looked grave when he had tested Bill’s eyes, and heard the story of the blow. “Of course I can fit you with glasses,” he said, “but it may take some time to get them just right.” “How long?” asked the pitcher anxiously. “A week—perhaps two.” “It won’t do!” declared Bill. “Why the last Sandrim game comes off in three days, and a week later the final with the Tuckerton nine. I’ve got to pitch in both.” The oculist shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “The lenses will have to be specially ground. If I knew where the others were made I could get them from there.” But the astronomer had failed to say where he had had Bill’s glasses made, and there was nothing for it but to try some other lens-making place. Meanwhile the oculist said he would temporarily fit Bill with a pair of glasses. But when the pitcher tried to use them, his curves were worse off than before, and with despair in his heart he laid aside the spectacles. “I’ll have to wait for the others,” he said. “But what about the game with Sandrim?” asked Captain Graydon. “Can you pitch for us?” Bill shook his head, and said nothing. The captain and coach looked at each other. “We’ll have to put Mersfeld back in the box,” decided Mr. Windam dubiously. “Yes, and he’ll have to practice hard every spare minute, and even then—” The captain did not finish, but they knew what he meant. It was with wild and ill-concealed exultation in his heart that Mersfeld received orders to take his old place. “Now it’s up to you to make good!” said North to him. “And I’ll do it, too!” was the fierce response. “Bill Smith shan’t get his hands on the ball again.” Mersfeld began hard and steady practice, and, whether it was that the rest had done him good, or whether he had improved did not develop, but there was a more hopeful look on the faces of the captain and coach. “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.”