Cap Smith was the first to reach his brother. As he lifted him up Bill
opened his eyes.
“I’m all right,” he murmured. “I can stand alone.”
He proved it by doing so. His hand went to his head, and when it came
away there was a little smear of blood on the palm.
“Must have hit on a stone and cut myself,” he said, a bit faintly. “But
I’m all right now.”
“Are you sure?” asked Pete, slipping his arm around his brother.
“Better come over here and sit down.”
He led Bill to the bench, and indeed the pitcher was a trifle dizzy,
and his head felt queer, for he had fallen harder than he had supposed.
The other players, finding that nothing serious was the matter went
back to their practice. In the grandstands the singing and cheering was
multiplied. Crowds of pretty girls, eager youths, demure chaperones,
old grads, young grads and mere spectators continued to arrive until
every seat was filled.
“It’s going to be a great game,” murmured Cap, who, finding that his
brother was apparently all right, resumed, his catching with Mersfeld.
“I never saw such a crowd!”
“It’s money in the treasury whether we win the pennant or not,”
declared J. Evans Green, the business-like manager.
“But we _are_ going to win!” declared Cap emphatically. “Keep ’em
guessing, Mersfeld, and you’ll do. Now when I put three fingers on my
mitt so, let me have a swift drop,” and he went on with his code of
signals.
The conferences between the respective captains had ended, and Burke,
head of the Tuckerton Varsity nine, signalled to his men to come in
from practice, as they were to bat first. Graydon assembled his team
for a few final instructions.
“Sorry you’re not playing with us to-day,” he said to poor Bill, who
was sitting on the bench. The cut in his head had stopped bleeding.
“You’re no more sorry than I am,” declared the pitcher ruefully. “But
it can’t be helped.”
“We may have to call on you yet,” said the coach, “if they knock
Mersfeld and Newton out of the box.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do much good,” was Bill’s doleful answer.
“Play ball!” howled the umpire, and the players took their places,
Mersfeld catching the new white horsehide sphere the official tossed to
him.
The first ball which Mersfeld delivered was cleanly hit away out in
centrefield, and when it came back the batter was on second base. There
was a wild riot of cheers at this auspicious opening for Tuckerton, and
a grim look on the faces of the Westfield players.
“That looks bad,” murmured Bill, as he watched Mersfeld wind up for his
next delivery. The pitcher was visibly nervous, and Cap, seeing it,
made an excuse to walk out to him.
“Keep cool!” he whispered, “or you won’t last.”
Mersfeld stiffened, and struck out the next man. But the third one got
a three bagger out of him, and the following one a single. When the
inning came to a close there were three runs chalked up for the rivals
of our friends, and there was only gloom for the home team. Nor was it
dissipated by the triumphant songs their opponents sang.
One run was the best that Graydon’s men could do on their first trial,
though captain and coach pleaded earnestly with them.
“I guess they’ve got our number,” murmured Pete to his brother as the
latter donned his protector and mask.
“Oh, don’t be so gloomy,” was the advice.
Mersfeld went from bad to worse, and at the beginning of the fourth
inning the captain and coach held a consultation.
“We’ve got to do something,” said Graydon.
“I agree with you. But what?”
“Newton will have to go in.”
“It looks so. We can’t chance Bill.”
“No. Well, tell Newton to pitch next inning.” Two more runs went to the
credit of Tuckerton, making the score eight to two in their favor.
By desperate playing and taking several chances our friends managed to
pull a brace of tallies out of the ruck that inning, so that there was
some hope. Mersfeld sulked when told to go to the bench, and pleaded
for another chance, but the coach and captain were firm.
“Get ready, Newton,” ordered Graydon.
The substitute Varsity twirler was not a wonder, and he knew it, but
he started off well, and there was some hope, until he began to go to
pieces after issuing passes to two men. Then it seemed all up with him,
though only one run went to Tuckerton’s credit that inning.
Cap shook his head dubiously when he took off his mask at the beginning
of the second half of the fifth inning. His apprehensive feeling was
shared by his teammates, by the coach, the manager and by thousands of
the Westfield supporters, who sat in gloomy silence while the cohorts
of Tuckerton yelled, shouted and sang themselves hoarse.
“I’m going to do something desperate,” declared the coach, to the
captain, when two runs had come in to sweeten the tally for Westfield,
thereby causing wild hope among her friends.
“What are you going to do?” asked Graydon.
“I know we can beat these fellows, even now, if we could only hold them
down to no more runs,” went on Windam. “And to shut them out for the
rest of the game we need a good pitcher. Mersfeld can’t do it, Newton
doesn’t count, Bill is out of it, and I’m going to put in Morgan.”
“What! The Freshman sub?”
“It’s a last hope, I know,” admitted the coach, “but we’ve got to do
something. Morgan is good, and if he can last he’ll be all right.”
Rather listlessly, and almost hopelessly the captain consented to it.
He was crossing to tell Morgan of the decision arrived at, when he
noticed that Cap and Bill were having a little warm-up practice off to
one side, for it would not be Cap’s turn to bat in some time.
As Bill stung in a ball his brother uttered a cry of surprise.
“What’s the matter—hurt?” asked the captain quickly, fearing more bad
luck. With his best catcher laid off, as well as the star pitcher, the
game might as well be given up.
“Hurt! No, I’m not hurt,” answered Cap. “Here, Bill just throw a few
more that way,” he called eagerly to his brother.
Bill, wondering what was up, did so, fairly stinging them in with his
old-time force. The look of surprise on Cap’s face grew.
“Here!” he called to the captain, and he motioned for Bill to approach.
“Do you notice any difference in your eyes?” he asked his brother
eagerly.
“My eyes?” repeated Bill, slowly.
“His eyes,” murmured the captain.
“Yes,” went on the catcher. “Every ball you threw came in as straight
as a die, and the curve broke just at the right time. Say, maybe I’m
loony, or dreaming, but you pitch just as you used to, Bill, before you
got hurt! Do your eyes feel any differently?”
“Well, they don’t ache as they used to when I pitched without my
glasses, and there seems to be a queer feeling in my head.” He put his
hand back to where he had fallen on the stone a little while before.
“Bill, you’ve got your eyesight back!” cried Cap eagerly. “I’m sure of
it!”
“Do you really believe it?” asked the pitcher trembling with suppressed
hope.
“Sure. But we’ll try once more. Come over here.”
The game was going rather slow now, for the Tuckerton pitcher was
tiring, and was not sure of his man. He had decided to walk him, and
to kill time was playing with Whistle-Breeches, who was on second.
Consequently little attention needed to be given to the contest for the
moment by the captain. He could see what Cap and Bill were going to do.
Once more Bill threw in the balls. They came just as they had formerly
done, perfectly.
“You’ll do!” cried Cap in delight.
“Get ready to go to the box!” ordered the captain tensely.
“But I—I don’t understand,” stammered the pitcher.
“You’ve got your sight back!” went on his brother, “and I believe
what did it was the fall you just had. It did something to your
head—relieved the blood or nerve pressure or something. Anyhow you can
pitch once more!”
“That’s the stuff!” cried Graydon. “We need you!”
There was a wild yell from the grandstands, and out burst a chorus of a
Westfield song.
“Whistle-Breeches brought in a run,” cried Graydon. “Things are picking
up! Now we’ll wallop ’em!”
Three runs were the best Westfield could do that inning and when the
home team was ready to take the field there was a murmur of surprise as
it was announced that Bill Smith would pitch.
As Bill started toward the box there was some excitement at one of the
entrance gates near the grandstand back of the home plate.
“I must go in! I must go in!” a voice cried. “I tell you the Smith
boys need me!”
Something in the voice attracted the attention of Bill, Cap and Pete.
They looked, and saw Professor Clatter rush past a ticket-taker.
“Here I am!” cried the medicine man. “I came on as soon as I could. I
got your message in Langfield. And here are your glasses, Bill!”
He held up the case containing the missing spectacles, and fairly ran
across the diamond.
The game was halted. There were angry demands from several players as
to why a stranger was allowed to come on the field. Others, recognizing
the professor, clamored that it was all right.
“I came as soon as I could!” explained the medicine man to the Smith
boys, who gathered about him. “I knew something must be wrong. I can’t
locate Tithonus though. What is it? Bill’s glasses? Here they are,
found in the most opportune way! Talk about golden rivers!”
The professor was panting from his run and his rapid talk. He held the
glasses to Bill.
“Where did you find them?” gasped the pitcher.
“Just now, as I was coming across the campus. I left my wagon over in
the road. As I was passing one of the cannon some of the janitors were
cleaning it. There was a lot of leaves and rubbish in it. Then out fell
the glasses just as I passed. I grabbed them up, and I knew the whole
story.”
“You knew the whole story?” cried Cap. “Who put them there?”
“No, no! I can’t tell that!” declared Mr. Clatter, while North and
Mersfeld looked at each other in relief. “I mean I understand it
all—about your messages to me,” went on the medicine man. “At first I
couldn’t imagine why you had telegraphed me. I knew you must be in some
kind of trouble though.”
“Yes, we generally are,” murmured Pete.
“And, as soon as I saw the glasses fall from the cannon I realized what
it was. Bill lost them, perhaps a bird took them for its nest. At any
rate here they are, and it’s very lucky, too, for I can’t get any trace
of Tithy. Here, Bill, put them on and play ball.”
“I don’t need them now,” answered the pitcher.
“Don’t need them! You don’t mean to say that the game is over—you
haven’t lost the championship; have you?” and the professor looked
pained, for he was a lover of base ball, and in his journeyings he
faithfully read the accounts of the games at Westfield, where his
friends the Smith boys attended. “Have you lost the pennant?” asked the
professor sadly.
“Not yet, but we’re in a fair way to if this keeps on,” murmured Cap,
for the score was seven to nine in favor of Tuckerton.
“But why doesn’t Bill need his glasses then?” asked Mr. Clatter.
“Because I can see to pitch without them,” answered our hero. “A funny
thing just happened, Professor,” and Bill told about his fall and the
odd effect it had had on his vision. The traveling medicine man looked
interested.
“Yes, that’s exactly how it may have taken place,” he declared, as Cap
stated his theory. “Here, let me have a look at you, Bill.”
“Say,” angrily cried Burke, captain of the Tuckerton nine, “if this
is a ball game let’s go on with it, and if it’s a hospital for injured
players we’ll get off the field.”
“That’s right,” added Hedden, the pitcher. “We’re here to win the
pennant, not to listen to fairy stories.”
“Play ball!” yelled Brower, the catcher.
“Easy now,” counseled Professor Clatter. “It won’t take me but a moment
to look at Bill’s head, and then the game can go on. You don’t seem to
realize that something extraordinary has taken place here.”
“It will be extraordinary if we ever play ball again,” remarked Burke,
sarcastically. But the professor did not heed him. He was looking at
the cut on Bill’s head.
“That accounts for your eyes getting right again,” he said. “It’s a bad
cut, but you’re in shape to play, in spite of it. Go in, and win!”
“That’s what we’re going to do!” declared Cap.
“Surest thing you know!” cried Pete.
“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!”
But it was to be no easy victory. Though by reason of Bill’s twirling a
momentary halt had been called on the winning streak of the visitors,
still Westfield must make more runs in order to win the game.
And this was not easy. Hedden was hit for two singles, but the
Westfield players were a bit careless on bases, and one was caught
napping. One run was brought in on Cap’s three bagger making the score
eight to nine, with a single leading tally in favor of the visitors.
From then on it was nip and tuck for victory. Bill kept up the good
twirling, and such box work as he exhibited was not seen for many a
long day on the Westfield diamond. Not a Tuckerton player got a hit off
him in the next three innings, goose eggs going up in the frames, that
up to the advent of Bill had contained at least one tally for each time
the visitors were at bat.
But, on the other hand Westfield, try as they did, could not score.
The captain and coach begged and pleaded, and the crowds by songs and
cheers urged their men to battle to the death. It seemed useless. The
two teams, now evenly matched, sea-sawed back and forth, with grim,
bulldog tenacity, but there the game hung in the balance.
Tuckerton was still one run ahead when they came to bat in the ninth
inning.
“Hold ’em down! Hold ’em down!” pleaded Cap to Bill.
“I will,” promised the pitcher, and he did, striking three men out in
quick succession amid the cheers of the crowd.
“Now’s our last chance,” murmured Captain Graydon as his men came in.
“It’s do or die for the pennant now!”
“One run to tie, two to win and three to make a good job of it,”
murmured Cap, as he walked to the bench with his brothers. “Can we do
it?”
“We’ve got to,” answered Bill.
“You make a home run, I’ll limp along after you, and Pete can follow,”
suggested Bill. “That will do the business.”
“It might happen,” said Cap. “Whistle-Breeches is up first, then I
follow, and, after Graydon has a whack, you and Pete come along, Bill.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it!” exclaimed the pitcher. “It makes me
nervous,” but he did not show any signs of it.
“How are your eyes?” asked Pete.
“All right. I feel fine. But I’d like to know who hid my glasses.”
“Batter up!” called the umpire, and Whistle-Breeches, a little pale
because of what depended on his work, walked to the plate.
“Now line out a good one!” counseled the coach. “You can do it. Wait
for a nice one.”
It was good advice, and well meant, but alas! Whistle-Breeches fanned
the air.
“One down!” exulted the captain of the Tuckerton nine. “We only need
two more!”
“Well, you don’t get me!” murmured Cap, with a grim tightening of his
mouth. And he made good. A pretty two-bagger was his contribution, and
he got to third on a little fly which Graydon knocked, but the captain
was out at first.
“Two down, play for the batter!” called Burke. “They’ve only got one
chance, and they can’t make good. The pennant comes to Tuckerton!”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” murmured Bill, as he went to the plate.
Hedden, his rival pitcher, regarded him with a mocking smile. Bill was
not especially strong in stick work, but somehow he felt that he was
going to make good to-day.
He saw a ball coming, and sized it up for a slow out. Knowing the
peculiarity of the curve which Hedden pitched Bill stepped right into
it. His bat met the horsehide squarely, and with a “Ping!” that sent a
thrill of joy not only to his heart but to the hearts of his brothers
and friends.
“Right on the nose! Oh, what a poke!” cried Whistle-Breeches who
rejoiced for Bill over what he himself could not do.
Away sailed the ball, well over the centre fielder’s head, away sped
Bill legging it for first with all the speed of which he was capable.
“Run! Run! Run!”
“Come on in, Cap!”
“Oh what a poke!”
“Pretty! Pretty!”
The crowd on the stands was yelling and jumping up and down. Old men
were tossing their hats into the air, clapping each other on the back,
making friends with strangers, and telling each other that it reminded
them of the time when they were boys.
Bill swung around second, as Cap fairly leaped over home plate,
bringing in the tying run. The Tuckerton players were wild with
chagrin. The game was being pulled out of the fire—snatched from them
at the moment when they thought they saw a safe victory. The centre
fielder nearly had the ball now, and Bill was heading for third base.
“Go on! Go on!”
“Home! Home!”
This and other advice was shouted at him. He gave a quick glance
around, and decided that he would risk it by going on to the last bag.
It was a narrow chance, almost too narrow, and Bill had to slide so
far that his uniform took on a new shade, and his mouth and eyes were
filled with dust and gravel, for the ball whizzed into the hands of the
eager baseman.
“Safe!” decided the umpire after a breathless run to third that he
might see the outcome.
The score was now tied!
There was a howl of disgust from the Tuckerton crowd but the decision
stood, and there was wild rejoicing on the part of the Westfield throng.
“Now then, Pete, it’s up to you,” said the coach solemnly as the third
member of the Smith boys trio stepped to the bat. “If you don’t bring
Bill in at least, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I’ll do my best,” declared the doughty little shortstop. He was one of
the best men who could have been up in an emergency of this kind, with
two out, a man on third and the winning run still needed. For Pete was
as cool as the proverbial cucumber.
He smiled in a tantalizing fashion at the Tuckerton pitcher, who was on
the verge of a nervous breakdown because of the many epithets hurled at
him, in an endeavor to “get his goat.” He had to watch Bill carefully,
for that worthy was playing off as far as he dared, hoping to slip in
with the needed winning run. The catcher, too, was fearful lest some
ball get by him, and had told the pitcher to be on the alert to run in
instantly in the event of a passed ball.
“Ball one!” howled the umpire, as Hedden threw.
“Oh wow! He’s going to walk you, Pete!” called Graydon.
“You’ve got a pass!” shouted Bob Chapin.
Pete smiled cheerfully. He thought the next ball looked good, and swung
at it, but he had been fooled by a neat trick.
“Strike one!” said the umpire, and a breathless silence followed.
“Two more like that and we’ve got ’em!” called the catcher to Hedden.
“You can do it.”
The pitcher nodded. He threw the swiftest ball of which he was capable.
It came almost before Pete was ready for it, but with the quickness of
light he swung on it.
Oh what a “Ping!” followed, and he knew that he had made good. Once
more, amid the frenzied howls of the crowd, the ball sailed outward and
upward.
“Bill, Oh Bill! Where are you? Come in! Come in!” pleaded scores to
him. But the pitcher did not need these entreaties. On he came running
as he had never run before. The catcher, to disconcert him, stood as
though to catch the ball. Bill dared not look around to make sure that
it had not been caught and thrown home. Brower was right in his path.
“Slide!” some one called to him, and for the second time that day Bill
dropped and shot forward on the ground. His hand touched the plate, and
he knew that he was safe, for he had not heard the thud of the ball in
the catcher’s mitt. Then, he felt some heavy body fall on him, and for
the moment the breath was knocked from him, and he lost consciousness.
He had knocked the catcher’s feet from under him, and toppled that
player in the dust.
Cap ran to pick up his brother.
“Hurt?” he cried anxiously. “Oh Bill, you did it! We win.”
“No—n-not much hurt!” gasped Bill. “Just—just a little—little
short—of wind—that’s all.”
They gave him water and he felt better, and then he looked out over the
diamond. Pete had reached third, and was still running. Around the last
bag he swung, but the right fielder far on amid the daisies had the
ball now.
“Go back! Go back!” howled Graydon, for, though the game was won he
wanted to pile up another run against Tuckerton if he could.
But Pete did not heed. The ball had been thrown, but the fielder had to
run so far back for it, that he could not get it far enough in. There
was just a chance for Pete to make a home run, and he took that chance.
The horsehide fell short of the second baseman, who ran to get it. By
this time Pete was half way home, and running well.
“Come on! Come on!” pleaded hundreds to him, and Pete came.
“Slide!” cried the coach, and, as Bill had done, so did Pete, but with
more cause.
On came the ball, thrown swiftly by the second baseman. Pete was
hurtling forward through a cloud of dust, his hand eagerly stretched
out to feel the plate. His fingers touched it, and a welcome thrill ran
through him, just as he heard the thud of the ball in the catcher’s
glove. Down came the horsehide on his shoulder with vicious force.
“How’s it?” excitedly yelled the catcher to the umpire.
There was a moment’s silence, and the players and crowd hardly
breathed. It seemed as if the weight of kingdoms hung on the decision,
and Pete lay there waiting.
“Safe!” decided the umpire, and yells of delight mingled with those
of chagrin. Westfield had the game now by two runs and the pennant
remained with them.
Oh what rejoicing there was! No need to play the game out farther.
Indeed it could scarcely have been done had the coach or captain
desired it, so wild with delight were the members of the nine.
“Oh you Smith boys!” was the gladsome cry, and around our heroes there
danced a wild and enthusiastic mob of players of the game. Horns
tooted, rattles added their din, old men, youths and maidens swelled
the riot with their voices, the shrill tones of the girls sounding high
above the hoarser notes of triumph.
“We win! We win!” cried Graydon, hugging the rather grave and sedate
coach, and whirling him about in a dance.
“Yes, and at the last minute,” added Mr. Windam. “That was a lucky fall
of Bill Smith’s.”
“There was crooked work somewhere,” said the captain in a low voice.
“Those glasses never fell into the cannon, and I know whom to suspect.”
“Then keep it to yourself,” advised the coach, and Graydon did so.
It seemed impossible that it was all over, that the school baseball
season was at an end, and that Westfield still had the pennant, yet
such was the case. Already the crowds were leaving the grandstands.
Students were gathering in groups to cheer over, or sing about, the
victory. The team was hugged and hustled here and there. The Smith
boys and their mates were lifted to the shoulders of their fellows and
paraded about the diamond. The Tuckertons had given a cheer for the
victors, and, in turn, had been cheered for their plucky fight.
“And to think that this is the end of the season,” remarked Bill
regretfully to his brothers, as they walked over toward the gymnasium.
“Oh, but it will soon be fall, and then for the good old pigskin
punts!” exclaimed Pete.
“That’s so. I wonder if we can make the eleven?” said Cap. “I hope we
can.”
“We’ll try, anyhow,” declared Bill.
How they tried, and with what success they had will be told of in the
third volume of this series to be called “Those Smith Boys on the
Gridiron; or A Touchdown in Time.” In that book we will meet with our
school friends again, and learn how they played several great games.
As Bill and his brothers strolled across the campus they saw a group of
girls coming toward them.
“Oh cats!” exclaimed Bill. “I look like sin; don’t I?”
“I’ve seen you cleaner,” answered Whistle-Breeches, as he noted Bill’s
torn jacket and dusty trousers. “But what’s the odds?”
“There’s Miss Morton,” murmured the pitcher.
“Oh!” cried the girl, with whom he had once rode at such top speed to
play in the Freshman game. “Oh, I want to shake hands with all you
boys! Wasn’t it perfectly splendid?”
“Glad you think so!” mumbled Bill, trying to hide behind Cap. But
Miss Morton would have none of that. She held out her hand to Bill
especially.
“I’ll spoil your gloves!” he protested.
“As if I cared for them!” and she only laughed at the grimy stains
which Bill made on the white kids. Then, in turn she and the other
young ladies greeted our friends, and repeated, over and over again, in
more or less emphatic words, what they thought of the victory.
“And may I add a word,” spoke a voice, as the girls moved off. The boys
turned to behold Professor Clatter.
“It was fine!” he declared. “Not even by the use if my Rapid Robust
Resolute Resolvent, my Peerless, Permanent Pain Preventive or my
Spotless Saponifier could a more noble victory have been won. I
congratulate you. Pactolus congratulates you, and when we find the
golden river we’ll make a crown of victory for you. But what I want to
add most especially is, that our mutual friend Tithonus Somnus has just
arrived. His wagon is over near mine, and he and I entreat you to come
and see us, and partake of such humble fare as we may afford.”
“Do you mean all of us?” asked Cap.
“The entire nine!” cried the medicine man warmly. “We will dine out of
doors, and Mercurio will serve the viands.”
“What say, fellows; shall we go?” asked Cap, for the members of the
Varsity team were gathered about the Smith boys.
“Go? Of course,” answered Graydon. “We can break training now, and
we’ll eat golden rivers or Resolute Resolvent or even Spotless
Saponifiers! Lead on!”
“You say Tithy has arrived?” asked Bill, as the little throng moved
over the campus, it having been arranged that as soon as they got off
their uniforms they would go to the professor’s wagon.
“Yes, he heard that I was headed here, and followed.”
“What business is he in now?” inquired Pete.
“Oh, he is selling a wonderful instrument. It is a pocket knife, a
glass cutter, a can opener, hammer, screw driver, and twenty-six other
tools, more or less, combined into one. Tithy is enthusiastic over it.
Well, I’ll go to tell him you are coming, and then I will bid Mercurio
set the table.”
The professor, with a low bow, turned away, and hastened off.
“Queer chap,” commented Graydon.
“But as good as gold,” added Bill, and his brothers agreed with him.
“To think of him finding my glasses. I wonder how they got there?”
No one answered him, and Mersfeld and North did not hear the question.
Perhaps they would not have replied had they listened to it.
A little later the members of the nine were seated in the shade of the
two queer wagons, on the long, green grass, beside the road, partaking
of the hospitality of Professor Clatter and Tithonus Somnus, who
gravely announced that he had changed his name, as well as his trade
and that thenceforth he would be known as Cornelius Cutaby.
Proudly he showed the new implement for which he was traveling agent.
“It will do anything from cutting glass to taking an automobile apart,”
he declared.
“Well, if it will open some more of that ginger ale, I’ll be glad of
it,” remarked Bill. “These olives and ham sandwiches make me thirsty.”
“What ho! Mercurio!” called Professor Clatter. “Pass the ginger ale,”
and, having executed his own command he opened the bottles with the
combined glass cutter and screw driver, and served to his friends the
frothing beverage.
“Now fellows, for the baseball song—‘Strike ’em Out and Run ’em Down!’
and then we’ll go back to school and get ready for the celebration
to-night!” suggested Cap, after a pause.
The improvised banquet was over. In the twilight the boys stood up, and
softly sang the time-honored song of Westfield, sung whenever there
was a victory. Professor Clatter brought out a guitar and played the
accompaniment, and Tithy—I beg his pardon, Cornelius Cutaby—joined in
the chorus.
And now, for a time, we will take leave of Those Smith Boys, though
if the fates are kind, they may be met with again, as well as the
professor and the traveling agent for the combined glass cutter and
monkey wrench.
