“Well, I don’t know,” was the somewhat dubious answer. “Alex Mersfeld pitched all last season, and naturally he’s entitled to it again. He’s our star man, but of course if your brother is better—well, we’ve got to have the best—that’s all. I don’t play any favorites.” And with this Cap had to be content. Spring came with a rush, the ground dried up, and two weeks after the applications for the team were all in out-of-door practice was ordered. Then the ranks were further thinned, but our heroes and Whistle-Breeches still held their own. Cap was slated as first substitute catcher, and Pete was honored with a firm place on the Varsity as shortstop. But with Bill it was different. Mersfeld held his old position, and there was no denying that he had a good arm. Still, when Bill got a chance to show what he could do he opened the eyes of the coach and captain. “If we ever need to take Mersfeld out there’s a chap who can fill the box to perfection,” declared Mr. Windam. “I almost wish we could play him regularly.” “But he’s only a Fresh,” objected the captain, “and if we put the three Smith boys on the team, it’ll be said we are trying to make a family affair of it.” “Can’t help it—we want to win.” And, as the days went on the Smith boys further demonstrated their abilities. Practice was now held regularly and there were games between the Varsity and scrub nines, Bill pitching on the latter team. His curves were a source of wonder and delight to his team mates, and chagrin to his opponents, and on one occasion, when they did not get a hit off him in five innings, the coach shook his head in doubt. “I don’t know about it,” he murmured. “If he keeps on improving as he has he’ll displace Mersfeld.” “Nonsense!” said the captain easily. It was one afternoon toward the close of a practice game, when the scrub was one run ahead, and the coach was exhorting the Varsity lads to “perk up,” and put some ginger into the contest. Bill was in the box, and had been doing some excellent work for the scrub when Graydon, of the Varsity, came up to the bat. “Now’s a chance to strike me out!” he called good-naturedly. “If you don’t I’m going to make a home run.” “Then you’d better go sit down now,” replied Bill, as he wound up for a swift out. It went from his hand with a speedy whizz, and the batter caught it squarely on his stick. There was a resounding whack, and the ball came straight for Bill, at about the level of his head. He put up his hands for it, instinctively, but so swift was the horsehide sphere traveling that it broke through and hit him on the head, just over the left eye. He dropped like a stone, and Graydon, tossing aside his bat, raced for the fallen lad. “By Jove old man!” he cried contritely, all thoughts of the game forgotten. “I’m sorry for that. Wow! But that’s a nasty bump!” Poor Bill was lying in Graydon’s arms, unconscious, while a big lump was swelling up on the pitcher’s head.