“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. “That’s the way to do it! Make him fan, Bill!” cried Whistle-Breeches. “He’s done,” called Bob Chapin. “Make him give you a nice one,” was the advice the batter got from his friends. The man with the stick tapped the plate and smiled confidently. He was still smiling when the next ball came. He struck at it—missed it clean, and threw his bat to the ground with such force as to splinter it. “Batter’s out!” said the umpire quietly. “That’s the way to do it!” “There’s more where those came from!” “We’ve got their Angora!” These were the cries that greeted Bill’s initial effort in the box at that championship game. Matters were looking brighter for Westfield, and every man on the team, and every supporter who wanted to see the pennant stay where it was, felt hope coming back to him. There was a little apprehension in Tuckerton’s ranks. The game had seemed so sure to them, but now the tide was turning. Still Bill might not be able to keep it up. As for our hero, however, he knew that his eye was as true as it had ever been, and he felt able to go on for nine innings if necessary. But only four remained in which to turn the trick. Could he do it? Others beside himself asked that question. The next man stepped to the plate. Two fouls and a miss on the last strike was the best he could do, and he went back to the bench. The third man Bill struck out cleanly. “Wow! Wow!” howled the Westfield crowd. “We’ve got ’em going!”