For the first league game was to take place then, and it was unofficially announced that the players who made the best records in this, the final try-out would have the honor of representing Westfield on the diamond at the opening of the season. “Play ball!” called the umpire, and Bill watched his rival take his place in the box. How he longed to be there himself! But he knew his turn would come, and he felt in his pocket to see if his precious glasses were safe. Without them he would be lost, and he wished now that he had had two pairs made for emergencies. He decided he would try to locate the traveling astronomer and get another set. The game opened up with a snap, and this was maintained right along. Everyone was doing his best, for it was no small honor that was at stake. There was no denying that Mersfeld did well for the first three innings. There was only one hit off him, and in the fourth he struck out two men in quick succession. Then, whether it was a slump, whether he went stale, or whether it was nervousness due to the fact that he was under close observation did not manifest itself, but the fact remains that, after getting two men out, he grew wild, passed one of the poorest batters, was hit for a three bagger by the next, and when another got up, and knocked a home run, there was pandemonium among the members of the scrub nine. “What’s got into Mersfeld?” was the general inquiry. Nobody knew, and when the fifth inning opened, with Bill in the box, there was intense excitement. Bill adjusted his glasses and got ready to pitch. “Now watch Foureyes put ’em over!” sneered Bondy Guilder. “That’ll do!” called Mr. Windam sharply. “This isn’t a match game, and there’s no need of rattling one of our own men. Save your sarcasm, Guilder, for Tuckerton!” Bondy muttered something under his breath, and walked over to talk to Mersfeld, who was darkly regarding his rival from the coaching line. Bill was a bit nervous but as Cap had been sent in to catch the pitcher grew confident as he saw the friendly face of his brother, and caught the well-known signal for an out shoot. Bill nodded in confirmation, drew back his arm, hesitated a moment, wondered for one wild second whether he was still himself, and could see to make the curve, and then—he threw. “Strike one!” howled the umpire, and then Bill knew that he _was_ himself, and a fierce joy welled up in his heart. He caught the ball Cap tossed back to him, and sent it stinging in again. “Strike two!” was the reassuring call, and the batter pounded the plate in desperation, for he had not before moved his stick. He swung viciously at the next one, and—missed it clean. “That’s the boy!” “Go at ’em!” “Put some more over like that!” “Give the next one a teaser!” Thus Bill’s friends encouraged him.