“But could I pitch with them on?” asked Bill. “I don’t see why not,” was Cap’s opinion. “Wouldn’t the fellows laugh me off the diamond?” “I’d like to see them do it!” exclaimed Whistle-Breeches fiercely. “If you can’t play, after you show that you can still pitch as good as before, Cap and I won’t be on the team,” declared Pete with energy. “Oh, I’m not going to act that way about it,” spoke Bill, but there was a more hopeful look on his face. A little later he was again being put through the eyesight test. Mr. Somnus, as he preferred to be called, was in his element. He had a very good set of instruments, and he very soon demonstrated that he knew his business. “Ha! Hum!” he exclaimed from time to time, as he made test after test, and jotted down the results of some calculations on paper. “I find that you will have to have a very peculiar pair of lens,” he said. “I haven’t them, but I can get them for you.” “And will the defect in my eyes be corrected?” asked Bill eagerly. “You’ll never know you had it,” was the confident answer. “The injury was a peculiar one, involving, as the other doctor told you, one of the optic nerves. It may pass away at any time, but while it exists it must be corrected. Glasses will do it, and inside of a week I predict that you will pitch as well as before. Shall I make the glasses?” “Yes!” fairly shouted Bill. “I don’t care what they cost.” The details were soon arranged. Mr. Somnus knew of an establishment where lens for glasses were ground, and he undertook to procure them for Bill. He would return with them in a few days, he said, and adjust them in a proper frame—a frame that would admit of rough play. “Then we’ll see what happens,” said Professor Clatter. “I have to travel on in the morning, but I’m coming back to see the test. I’m interested in this,” and the honest, if somewhat eccentric character, clapped Bill heartily on the back. The pitcher’s spirits had come back to him, and on the way back to the school that night he laughed and joked with his brothers as before. It seemed as if the time would never pass. Baseball practice was the order of the day now, and every afternoon the Westfield diamond was thronged with prospective members of the Varsity nine. Cap was more than ever assured of a place as catcher, Pete, as I have said, was the regular Shortstop, but poor Bill had to wait, and see his rival, Mersfeld, filling the box. “But keep up your spunk,” Pete told his brother one afternoon, following a grueling practice. “They’re not half satisfied with Mersfeld, and if your glasses are any good at all you’ll have his place.” “I don’t want to put him out,” said Bill. “If I only get a chance to play in some of the big games I’ll be satisfied.” He refrained from pitching during the time he was waiting, and was excused from some of his studies until he had the reading glasses the town oculist made for him.