The time was getting woefully short. Preparations were completed for the final and deciding game of the series, which as far as the pennant went, was a tie between Tuckerton and Westfield. With the exception of their pitcher Westfield had the best nine in many years, and her rival was equally well provided for. It would be the hottest game of the season, and indications pointed to record-breaking attendance. “Oh, if I only could pitch!” sighed poor Bill. “It’s the one game of the year.” “And Miss Morton will be there,” added Cap. “Yes, hang it all. Oh, I’ve a good notion to get some surgeon to operate on me, and see if he can’t straighten my eyes!” “No time for that now,” said Pete sadly, for he and his brother, as well as all their friends, sympathized deeply with Bill. “It’s hard luck, old man, but it can’t be helped.” Mersfeld was practicing early and late, and even Cap, who was to be behind the bat, had to admit that the former twirler was in good form. “He can’t touch you when you are at your best though, Bill,” he said to his brother, “and I wish you were going to be in the box, but—” It now seemed practically sure that no help could be had from Professor Clatter or his odd friend. And the second pair of glasses made by the oculist were worse than the first. Bill’s vision was away out of focus when he used them. “It’s me for the bench again,” he said the night before the big game, and nothing that his brothers or friends could say consoled him. A vigorous search was still kept up for the missing case of spectacles, and notices were posted about the school regarding them, but they were still in the cannon, and no one thought of looking there, save the two conspirators, and of course they did not. There was unholy joy between them. “You got what you wanted,” said North to Mersfeld when the make-up of the nine for the concluding championship game was announced the night preceding it. “That’s right, thanks to you.” “Oh, well, I’ll depend upon you to help me out, sometime. I’ve got a score to pay back to Cap Smith yet,” and there was a vindictive look on the bully’s face. The Westfield nine went out on the diamond for early practice on the morning of the game, and Mersfeld seemed in good form. There was a confident smile on his face as he threw the balls to Cap. “Keep it up,” advised the catcher, who wished in vain that his big mitt was receiving the swift balls his brother could send in, in place of those from Mersfeld. “Tuckerton is bringing along two extra pitchers I hear,” said the captain to Coach Windam. “They must be looking for a hard game!” “I hope we give it to ’em! As for box men, we’ll put Mersfeld in, of course, and if worst comes to worst and he doesn’t last we’ll have to rely on Newton.” “I suppose so. Oh, if only Bill Smith—! But what’s the use, we’ll do the best we can.”