“And you must wake and call me early, Call me early, Peetie dear, For to-morrow is the opening Of the dear old baseball year.” Thus Cap misquoted the verse, and joined his brothers and chums in the laugh that followed. But if there were many hearts that rejoiced at the near prospect of the big opening contest, there were two lads whose souls were filled with bitterness. One was Mersfeld, the partially deposed pitcher, and the other Bondy Guilder, who, for no particular reason, had come to almost hate Bill and his brothers. “Do you think you can get the glasses?” asked Mersfeld of his crony, on the night before the big game. “Sure. I’ve been watching Bill—his room’s next to mine you know—and I know just how he goes and comes. I have some ordinary lenses all ready to slip in the place of the special ones I’m going to take out.” “How’d you get the right size?” “Oh, I made a pretence of wanting to see his glasses and while I had them I pressed a sheet of paper on them, got an impression of the size, and got the lenses in town. They are not an unusual size, only they’re ground differently to bring one eye in focus with the other. Bill won’t pitch more than one inning in the game to-morrow, and then you can go in.” “But he’ll know what’s wrong as soon as he has his eyes, and the glasses tested again.” “What of it? He won’t suspect us, and all you want is a chance to make good; isn’t it?” “Yes, for if I do make good in the opening game I’m sure they’ll have to let me stay through the season, and Bill won’t be in it. I’m glad you’re helping me.” “I’d do more than that to put one over on the Smith boys. I don’t like them. I wish they’d get out of Westfield.” Bondy had his plans all laid, and had, after considerable trouble secured a pair of lenses to replace those in Bill’s pitching glasses. Now, like some spider watching for his hapless prey, he sat in his room on the morning of the day of the big game, waiting for a chance to sneak in and make the substitution. He felt that he could do it, for no one ever locked his door at Westfield, and Bill had been in the habit lately of spending a lot of time in the apartment of Whistle-Breeches. But now Bill was in his room, and Bondy was impatiently waiting for him to go out. The sneak knew that if he could change the glasses the trick would not be discovered until after Bill was in the box, for he did not use the goggles in preliminary practice where there was no home plate over which to throw. “Hang it all! Why doesn’t he go?” thought the rich lad as he peered from the partly-opened door of his study, and saw Bill moving about in his room. The pitcher was taking a few stitches in his jacket, which had been ripped. “I haven’t much more time,” mused the conspirator, “for they’ll soon go out to practice, and he’ll take the goggles with him.” There was a call from down the corridor. It came from the room of Whistle-Breeches. “I say Bill, where are you?” “Here. What’s up?”