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The Handbook of Portfolio Mathematics Formulas for
Optimal Allocation Leverage Wiley Trading Ralph Vince
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Ralph Vince
ISBN(s): 9780471757689, 0471757683
Edition: illustrated edition
File Details: PDF, 7.63 MB
Year: 2007
Language: english
JWDD035-FM JWDD035-Vince February 12, 2007 7:3 Char Count= 0

The
Handbook of
Portfolio
Mathematics

i
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Founded in 1807, John Wiley & Sons is the oldest independent publish-
ing company in the United States. With offices in North America, Europe,
Australia, and Asia, Wiley is globally committed to developing and marketing
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The Wiley Trading series features books by traders who have survived
the market’s ever-changing temperament and have prospered—some by
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advice and strategies needed to prosper today and well into the future.
For a list of available titles, visit our Web site at www.WileyFinance.com.

ii
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The
Handbook of
Portfolio
Mathematics
Formulas for Optimal
Allocation & Leverage

RALPH VINCE

iii
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Copyright 
C 2007 by Ralph Vince. All rights reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

Chapters 1–10 contain revised material from three of the author’s previous books, Portfolio
Management Formulas: Mathematical Trading Methods for the Futures, Options, and
Stock Markets (1990), The Mathematics of Money Management: Risk Analysis Techniques
for Traders (1992), and The New Money Management: A Framework for Asset Allocation
(1995), all published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Vince, Ralph, 1958–

The handbook of portfolio mathematics : formulas for optimal allocation & leverage /
Ralph Vince:
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-471-75768-9 (cloth)
ISBN-10: 0-471-75768-3 (cloth)
1. Portfolio management–Mathematical models. 2. Investments–Mathematical models.
I. Title.
HG4529.5.V555 2007
332.601 51 – dc22 2006052577

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

iv
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“You must not be extending your empire while you are at war or run
into unnecessary dangers. I am more afraid of our own mistakes
than our enemies’ designs.”

—Pericles, in a speech to the Athenians during the Peloponnesian

War, as represented by Thucydides

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vi
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Contents

Preface xiii

Introduction xvii

PART I Theory 1

CHAPTER 1 The Random Process and Gambling Theory 3

Independent versus Dependent Trials Processes 5

Mathematical Expectation 6
Exact Sequences, Possible Outcomes, and the
Normal Distribution 8
Possible Outcomes and Standard Deviations 11
The House Advantage 15
Mathematical Expectation Less than Zero Spells Disaster 18
Baccarat 19
Numbers 20
Pari-Mutuel Betting 21
Winning and Losing Streaks in the Random Process 24
Determining Dependency 25
The Runs Test, Z Scores, and Confidence Limits 27
The Linear Correlation Coefficient 32

CHAPTER 2 Probability Distributions 43

The Basics of Probability Distributions 43

Descriptive Measures of Distributions 45
Moments of a Distribution 47
The Normal Distribution 52

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viii THE HANDBOOK OF PORTFOLIO MATHEMATICS

The Central Limit Theorem 52

Working with the Normal Distribution 54
Normal Probabilities 59
Further Derivatives of the Normal 65
The Lognormal Distribution 67
The Uniform Distribution 69
The Bernoulli Distribution 71
The Binomial Distribution 72
The Geometric Distribution 78
The Hypergeometric Distribution 80
The Poisson Distribution 81
The Exponential Distribution 85
The Chi-Square Distribution 87
The Chi-Square “Test” 88
The Student’s Distribution 92
The Multinomial Distribution 95
The Stable Paretian Distribution 96

CHAPTER 3 Reinvestment of Returns and Geometric

Growth Concepts 99

To Reinvest Trading Profits or Not 99

Measuring a Good System for Reinvestment—The
Geometric Mean 103
Estimating the Geometric Mean 107
How Best to Reinvest 109

CHAPTER 4 Optimal f 117

Optimal Fixed Fraction 117

Asymmetrical Leverage 118
Kelly 120
Finding the Optimal f by the Geometric Mean 122
To Summarize Thus Far 125
How to Figure the Geometric Mean Using
Spreadsheet Logic 127
Geometric Average Trade 127
JWDD035-FM JWDD035-Vince February 12, 2007 7:3 Char Count= 0

CONTENTS ix

A Simpler Method for Finding the Optimal f 128

The Virtues of the Optimal f 130
Why You Must Know Your Optimal f 132
Drawdown and Largest Loss with f 141
Consequences of Straying Too Far
from the Optimal f 145
Equalizing Optimal f 151
Finding Optimal f via Parabolic Interpolation 157
The Next Step 161
Scenario Planning 162
Scenario Spectrums 173

CHAPTER 5 Characteristics of Optimal f 175

Optimal f for Small Traders Just Starting Out 175

Threshold to Geometric 177
One Combined Bankroll versus Separate Bankrolls 180
Treat Each Play as If Infinitely Repeated 182
Efficiency Loss in Simultaneous Wagering or
Portfolio Trading 185
Time Required to Reach a Specified Goal and the
Trouble with Fractional f 188
Comparing Trading Systems 192
Too Much Sensitivity to the Biggest Loss 193
The Arc Sine Laws and Random Walks 194
Time Spent in a Drawdown 197
The Estimated Geometric Mean (or How the Dispersion
of Outcomes Affects Geometric Growth) 198
The Fundamental Equation of Trading 202
Why Is f Optimal? 203

CHAPTER 6 Laws of Growth, Utility, and Finite

Streams 207

Maximizing Expected Average Compound Growth 209

Utility Theory 217
The Expected Utility Theorem 218
Characteristics of Utility Preference Functions 218
JWDD035-FM JWDD035-Vince February 12, 2007 7:3 Char Count= 0

x THE HANDBOOK OF PORTFOLIO MATHEMATICS

Alternate Arguments to Classical Utility Theory 221

Finding Your Utility Preference Curve 222
Utility and the New Framework 226

CHAPTER 7 Classical Portfolio Construction 231

Modern Portfolio Theory 231

The Markowitz Model 232
Definition of the Problem 235
Solutions of Linear Systems Using Row-Equivalent Matrices 246
Interpreting the Results 252

CHAPTER 8 The Geometry of Mean Variance Portfolios 261

The Capital Market Lines (CMLs) 261

The Geometric Efficient Frontier 266
Unconstrained Portfolios 273
How Optimal f Fits In 277
Completing the Loop 281

CHAPTER 9 The Leverage Space Model 287

Why This New Framework Is Better 288

Multiple Simultaneous Plays 299
A Comparison to the Old Frameworks 302
Mathematical Optimization 303
The Objective Function 305
Mathematical Optimization versus Root Finding 312
Optimization Techniques 313
The Genetic Algorithm 317
Important Notes 321

CHAPTER 10 The Geometry of Leverage

Space Portfolios 323

Dilution 323
Reallocation 333
Portfolio Insurance and Optimal f 335
Upside Limit on Active Equity and the Margin Constraint 341
JWDD035-FM JWDD035-Vince February 12, 2007 7:3 Char Count= 0

CONTENTS xi

f Shift and Constructing a Robust Portfolio 342

Tailoring a Trading Program through Reallocation 343
Gradient Trading and Continuous Dominance 345
Important Points to the Left of the Peak in the n + 1
Dimensional Landscape 351
Drawdown Management and the New Framework 359

PART II Practice 365

CHAPTER 11 What the Professionals Have Done 367

Commonalities 368
Differences 368
Further Characteristics of Long-Term Trend Followers 369

CHAPTER 12 The Leverage Space Portfolio Model in

the Real World 377

Postscript 415

Index 417
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xii
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Preface

I
t’s always back there, bubbling away. It seems I cannot shut off my
mind from it. Every conversation I ever have, with programmers and
traders, engineers and gamblers, Northfield Park Railbirds and War-
rensville Workhouse jailbirds—those equations that describe these very
things are cast in this book.
Let me say I am averse to gambling. I am averse to the notion of creating
risk where none need exist, averse to the idea of attempting to be rewarded
in the absence of creating or contributing something (or worse yet, taxing a
man’s labor!). Additionally, I find amorality in charging or collecting interest,
and the absence of this innate sense in others riles me.
This book starts out as a compilation, cleanup, and in some cases,
reformulation of the previous books I have written on this subject. I’m
standing on big shoulders here. The germ of the idea of those previous books
can trace its lineage to my good friend and past employer, Larry Williams. In
the dust cloud of his voracious research, was the study of the Kelly Criterion,
and how that might be applied to trading. What followed over the coming
years then was something of an explosion in that vein, culminating in a
better portfolio model than the one which is still currently practiced.
For years now I have been away from the markets—intentionally. In a
peculiar irony, it has sharpened my bird’s-eye view on the entire industry.
People still constantly seek me out, bend my ears, try to pick my hollow,
rancid pumpkin about the markets. It has all given me a truly gigantic field
of view, a dizzying phantasmagoria, on who is doing what, and how.
I’d like to share some of that with you here.
We are not going to violate anyone’s secrets here, realizing that most of
these folks work very hard to obtain what they know. What I will speak of
is generalizations and commonalities in what people are doing, so that we
can analyze, distinguish, compare, and, I hope, arrive at some well-founded
conclusions.
But I am not in the markets’ trenches anymore. My time has been spent
on software for parametric geometry generation of industrial componentry
and “smart” robots that understand natural language and can go out and do

xiii
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xiv THE HANDBOOK OF PORTFOLIO MATHEMATICS

things like perform research for me, come back, draw inferences, and dis-
cuss their findings with me. These are wonderful endeavors for me, allowing
me to extend my litany of failures.
Speaking of which, in the final section of this text, we step into the near-
silent, blue-lit morgue of failure itself, dissecting it both in a mathematical
and abstract sense, as well as the real-world one. In this final chapter, the
two are indistinguishable.
When we speak of the real world, some may get the mistaken impression
that the material is easy. It is not. That has not been a criterion of mine here.
What has been a criterion is to address the real-world application of the
previous three books that this book incorporates. That means looking at the
previous material with regard to failure, with regard to drawdown. Money
managers and personal traders alike tend to have utility preference curves
that are incongruent with maximizing their returns. Further, I am aware of no
one, nor have I ever encountered any trader, fund manager, or institution,
who could even tell you what his or her utility preference function was.
This is a prime example of the chasm—the disconnect—between theory
and real-world application.
Historically, risk has been defined in theoretical terms as the variance
(or semivariance) in returns. This, too, is rarely (though in certain situations)
a desired proxy for risk. Risk is the chance of getting your head handed to
you. It is not, except in rare cases, variance in returns. It is not semivariance
in returns; it is not determined by a utility preference function. Risk is
the probability of being ruined. Ruin is touching or penetrating a lower
barrier on your equity. So we can say to most traders, fund managers, and
institutions that risk is the probability of touching a lower barrier on equity,
such that it would constitute ruin to someone. Even in the rare cases where
variance in returns is a concern, risk is still primarily a drawdown to a lower
absorbing barrier.
So what has been needed, and something I have had bubbling away for
the past decade or so, is a way to apply the optimal f framework within the
real-world constraints of this universally regarded definition of risk. That is,
how do we apply optimal f with regard to risk of ruin and its more familiar
and real-world-applicable-cousin, risk of drawdown?
Of course, the concepts are seemingly complicated—we’re seeking to
maximize return for a given level of drawdown, not merely juxtapose returns
and variance in returns. Do you want to maximize growth for a given level
of drawdown, or do you want to do something easier?
So this book is more than just a repackaging of previous books on
this subject. It incorporates new material, including a study of correlations
between pairwise components in a portfolio (and why that is such a bad
idea). Chapter 11 examines what portfolio managers have (not) been doing
with regards to the concepts presented in this book, and Chapter 12 takes
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
And as Westfield was an institution where the school spirit was
especially strong this was all the more marked.
“I’m sorry there’s a feeling between the two pitchers,” said Captain
Graydon to Mr. Windam as they walked to their dormitories together
after the informal little visit. “For both Smith and Mersfeld are fine
fellows. We may need them both before the season is over.”
“I expect we will. But we couldn’t pass over Mersfeld’s poor work to-
day. By putting Smith ahead of him it may spur him up a bit.”
“I hope it doesn’t spur him up to any mischief,” murmured the
captain dubiously.
“Mischief; how?”
“Well, he has a very ugly temper, and once he gets aroused—well,
the worst he can do is to withdraw from the team, I suppose.”
“I’d be sorry for that,” went on the coach. “But we really have a find
in Smith. He’s better than before his injury, or else those glasses
help him.”
“I guess it’s the glasses. No one’s vision is perfect the doctors say,
and perhaps we’d all be better for spectacles. I was just thinking
what would happen if they became broken in a critical game. Bill
couldn’t pitch.”
“That’s so. He ought to have a pair in reserve. I’ll speak to him
about it.”
Then the coach and captain fell to talking about other baseball
matters, including the coming game on Saturday, and the chances
for winning.
Bill and his brothers rejoiced among themselves, and with their
friends, and a letter telling about the honor that had come to the
Smith boys was sent to their father, all three joining in making it a
sort of composite epistle.
“Two days more and we’ll see what we can do on the diamond in a
league game,” said Cap, as he got ready to do some neglected
studying. “Now don’t mention ball again for an hour. I nearly
slumped in Latin to-day, and if any of us fall behind we’ll be hauled
up and put out even if we knock a home run. So buckle down,
fellows.”
It was hard work to apply oneself to lessons after the events of the
day, but they did it—somehow.
Meanwhile, strolling along a dark and infrequented road that led
back of the school buildings, were two figures deep in conversation.
“It’s too risky a game to play,” objected Mersfeld, as he strode
moodily along.
“But you don’t want him to knock you out of your place, do you?”
demanded his companion, Bondy Guilder.
“No, of course not. But suppose I’m found out?”
“You won’t be. I can get the glasses easily enough, for his room is
right next to mine. I was going to change, for I don’t fancy the
crowd he and his brothers trail in with—they’re regular clod-hoppers.
I’m glad now I didn’t, for it will give us just the chance we want.”
“What have you got against him?” asked the pitcher.
“Oh, he’s a regular muff, and he thinks he’s as good as I am,” was
the illogical answer. “I’d be glad to see him off the nine. It ought to
be composed of more representative school fellows, anyhow than a
lot of ‘Smiths.’”
“I haven’t anything against the name, but I have against Bill,” said
Mersfeld. “He shoved himself in, and pushed me out—and I’d like to
get even.”
“You can, I tell you. If I get hold of his glasses he can’t pitch in the
game Saturday.”
“Can’t he get another pair?”
“Not the way I’ll work it.”
“Why not? Suppose you do manage to sneak in his room and get his
goggles. He’ll miss them sure as fate, and send for another pair.”
“No he won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t take them until Saturday morning, or just before
the game, and it will be too late to get another pair. Or, better still, I
can take out the special lenses that are in the frames, and substitute
others. Then he won’t suspect anything, he’ll go to the box, pitch so
rotten that Graydon will have to take him out, and you’ll go in. Bill
won’t know whether it’s the glasses, or whether his eyes have gone
back on him again. How’s that for a trick?”
“It’s all right I guess,” was the hesitating answer. “I rather hate to be
a party to it,” went on the pitcher, who was not a bad chap at heart.
“But—”
“But he had no right to come here and supplant you,” put in Bondy.
“No, that’s right. Well, can you get the glasses from his room?”
“Sure, and I’ll arrange to have other lenses to slip in them. I’ll get
the size, and they’re easy to change. I was close to him to-day, and
I saw how the rubber frames were made. I guess Bill won’t be such
a wonderful pitcher when I get through with him,” and Bondy
chuckled as he and his fellow conspirator turned around and walked
back toward school.
 CHAPTER XVI
CAUGHT

There was an air of subdued excitement all about Westfield, that

extended even to good old Dr. Burton. He even found it rather
difficult to apply himself to translating some early Assyrian tablets
into modern Hebrew as a preliminary to rendering them into ancient
Chinese.
The various members of the faculty found their students paying
rather less than the usual attention to the lectures, and in one quiz,
when Cap Smith was asked concerning the raising of an unknown
quantity to the nth power his answer was:
“He’s out on first!”
“Doubtless true, but unfortunately Westfield has no chair for the
science of applied baseball,” answered the professor as the laugh
went rippling around the room.
But the spirit of the game was in the air, it hung about the school
buildings, lingered in the dormitories, and the very smell of
chemicals in the laboratory seemed replaced by the odor of crushed
green grass, the whiff of leather and the sound of the explosions of
the miniature Prince Rupert’s drops, as the science teacher
demonstrated the effect of a sudden change in the strain of a
congealed body seemed to the lads to be the blows of the bat on a
ball.
Over on the diamond, which had been as carefully groomed as a
horse before he is led out to try for the blue ribbon, were any
number of eager enthusiasts practicing. There were talks between
the coach and captain, anxious conferences with the manager, and
on every side could be seen lads in their uniforms carefully looking
after balls, bats, masks or chest protectors. Some were tightening
the laces of their shoes, others mending ripped gloves, while Bill
Smith had indulged in the luxury of a new toe plate.
For the next day would mark the opening of the Interscholastic
league, and the first big game—that with Tuckerton—was to be
played.
“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?”
“Give us a hand, will you? I can’t get this needle threaded and
there’s a hole in my stocking as big as your fist. I wouldn’t mind,
only it’s opening game and we want to look decent. I caught it on a
nail.”
“Wait a minute. I’ll be with you,” sung out Bill, and dropping his own
work he darted for the room of his chum.
“Just my chance!” whispered Bondy. “But I haven’t much time!” He
had the substitute lenses ready, and a small screw driver with which
to open the frame and make the change.
Into Bill’s room the sneak darted when he saw the pitcher enter the
study of Whistle-Breeches. A rapid glance around showed him where
the goggles were—in their usual place on top of a shelf of books.
It was the work of a minute to secure them, and begin to loosen the
screws. Bondy worked feverishly, but his very haste and nervousness
were against him. His hands trembled, and he was in a sweat of
fear. One glass was almost loose, when, with a suddenness that was
as startling as a clap of thunder would have been, the door leading
from Bill’s to Pete’s room opened, and the shortstop entered. He did
not notice Bondy at first, as the latter stood in the shadow of the
book shelves, and this fact gave the conspirator time to shove the
screw driver and extra lenses into his pocket.
“Caught!” he murmured under his breath.
The tinkle of glass caught Pete’s ears, and he wheeled around.
“Oh! Hello, Bondy!” he exclaimed, and then catching sight of his
brother’s goggles in the other’s hands he quickly asked:
“What are you doing with those glasses?”
 CHAPTER XVII
BILL’S PITCHING

For a moment Bondy did not answer. On his face there was a sickly
grin, and he seemed to turn a sort of greenish white.
“What are you doing with those glasses?” repeated Pete as he took a
step forward.
“I—er—I just came in to see Bill,” stammered the rich lad. “He was
out, and I—I—er I was looking at them. Queer lenses; aren’t they?
One seems to be loose. I was going to tell Bill he ought to tighten
it.”
No wonder it was loose, for the sneak had partly taken out the
screw. The expression on Pete’s face changed. He had had a quick
suspicion that all was not right, but he began to feel now that
perhaps he was mistaken.
“See, here is the loose glass!” went on Bondy eagerly, for he was
quick to notice the altered expression on the other’s countenance.
“It ought to be tightened, or it might drop out during the game, and
become broken. You can tighten it with a knife.”
He dared not offer his own screw driver.
“That’s right; it does need fixing,” admitted Pete. “Much obliged for
noticing it, old man. Bill might not have seen it.”
“Yes, I just came in—er—to ask Bill how his arm was, and I noticed
the glasses,” went on the visitor lamely.
“Why, what’s the matter with his arm?” asked Pete quickly, and in
some alarm.
“Oh, nothing, I—I just wondered if it would hold out.”
“Oh, I guess it will. There, the glass is tight now,” and Pete, who had
used his knife to set the screw, tapped the rubber frame to listen for
any vibration. There was none.
“Well, I’ll be going,” announced Guilder, with an air of relief. “See
you at the game. It’s most time to start,” and he slipped from the
room, just before Bill returned.
“I wonder what he wanted?” mused Pete, looking after the
retreating figure of the rich lad. “Mighty funny his getting friendly all
of a sudden. I wonder what he wanted?”
Pete looked at his brother’s glasses. He glanced toward Bondy’s
room, and pondered again. Just then Bill came in.
“Say, son, you ought to keep these locked up,” remarked Pete,
handing the glasses to him.
“Why?”
“They might get broken if you leave them around so promiscuous. I
just tightened a screw.”
“Thanks. Crimps! but I’ve got to hustle. I was showing Whistle-
Breeches how to mend a rip in his stocking. He was for tying a string
around it as if it was a bag he was closing up. Well, we’ll soon be
slaughtering—or slaughtered; eh?”
“Yes, how about you?”
“Fit as a fiddle. I wish I had to pitch the whole game.”
“Maybe you won’t after you see the way they knock you out.
They’ve got some hard hitters.”
“I’m not worrying. Is Cap on the job?”
“Yes, we’re all ready. What are you waiting for?”
“Just got to put a few more stitches in this jacket. I’ll be right over.
Go ahead.”
“No, we’ll wait for you,” and Pete took a chair in his brother’s room.
He was thinking of Bondy’s visit but he made up his mind to say
nothing about it at present. After all he might be wrong in his
suspicion, but he resolved to keep a sharp lookout.
Soon Bill had finished his sewing task, and went out with his brother.
Cap joined them, and a little later they were on the diamond,
indulging in some light practice.
Down the road came the sound of songs and cheers, mingled with
indiscriminate yells. Then came the blast of horns.
“The cohorts of Tuckerton!” cried Cap. “Here they come!”
Several big stages swung into view, laden down with students and
girls, for the boys had brought a lot of their young lady friends to
see the game.
The vehicles were gay with colors—flags and banners waved from
canes and long staffs. Horns adorned with the hues of Tuckerton
were waved and blown. Then came more songs, more cheers, more
wild yells, and more rioting of colors, as the banners, flags, ribbons
and streamers were shaken at the crowds of Westfield students who
poured out and greeted their rivals.
As the stage loads of spectators drew up and were emptied, another
carryall swept along the road. It contained the opposing nine, and in
grim silence, like gladiators coming to the battle, they alighted.
“Three cheers for the best nine in the league!” called the leader of
the Tuckerton cohorts, and the yells came in quick response.
“Now three cheers for the second beet nine—the one we’re going to
wallop—Westfield!” called the same youth who was almost hidden
behind a big bow of his school colors.
Westfield was appropriately serenaded, and then they returned the
compliment. The grand stands and bleachers were now beginning to
fill, for a game of baseball between these two schools was worth
coming a long distance to see.
“Gee! what a lot of pretty girls!” exclaimed Pete as he stood with his
brothers near home plate after some sharp warm-up practice.
“You let the girls alone—until after the game,” advised Cap.
“There is a big crowd,” remarked Bill.
“Don’t let it fuss you,” suggested his older brother, for Bill was likely
to get a bit nervous, and he had never played in such a big and
important game before. “Come over here and we’ll try a few balls.
Better wear your glasses to get more used to them.”
“Gee! maybe it’s a good thing I got caught as I did,” mused Bondy
as he saw Bill putting on the goggles before the game had started,
as he was practicing with Cap. “He’d have found it out by now, and
the game would have been all up. But I’ll get him yet! I wonder why
Mersfeld doesn’t come around. He acts afraid.”
The other pitcher was afraid—horribly so. His heart misgave him for
consenting to the trick, and yet he let it be carried out. At least he
supposed it had been, for he took pains to keep out of the way of
Bondy. And when he saw Bill in the goggles pitching a few
preliminary balls to his brother, he wondered what sort of balls they
were.
“How long will he last—how long?” he murmured, for he thought the
plot had been carried out.
The crowds increased. The Tuckerton nine and substitutes trotted
out for practice, and good snappy practice it was. Captain Graydon
shook his head as he watched.
“They’ll come pretty near having our numbers,” he remarked.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the coach. “They play fast and snappy, that’s
a fact, but we can do the same.”
“No, that’s just where our men fall down,” went on Graydon.
“They’re good stickers, and can pull a game out of the fire in the last
few innings, but they don’t wake up quickly enough. That’s what I’m
afraid of. I wish we had decided to let Smith pitch the last half
instead of the first innings.”
“Say, that’s what we’ll do!” suddenly exclaimed the coach. “This is
the first chance I’ve had to get a line on the Tuckerton boys, and I
believe it will be policy to put Mersfeld in at the opening. He’s feeling
sore, and he hasn’t as good lasting qualities as I’d like. We’ll put him
up first, and if he can’t hold ’em down we can change at any time.
I’ll tell Smith.”
Bill felt a sense of disappointment that he was not to open the
game, but he knew better than to dispute with the coach. Cap
looked as though he could not quite understand it, and he wondered
if it was a sample of what would happen in other games.
“We’ve got to save you two for a pinch,” explained Graydon to the
catcher, just before the game was called. “Begin to warm-up again
after the third inning.”
The preliminaries were over, and the Tuckerton men took their
places on the bench, the home team having last chance at the bat.
The Westfield nine walked to the field, and Bill and Cap took their
places with the other substitutes.
“I wonder what’s up?” mused Mersfeld as he was told to go to the
box. “He must have the changed glasses and Mindam and Graydon
have seen how punk he is even in practice. Here’s where I get my
chance!”
The game began, and the first crack out of the box netted a two-
bagger for the initial hitter of the Tuckerton nine. Mersfeld smiled a
sickly smile as the ball came back to him.
“It’s all right,” called Denby reassuringly from behind the bat. “We’ll
get this fellow.”
Mersfeld did strike him out, after the man had made two foul strikes,
and, feeling a trifle nervous the twirler issued walking papers to the
next hitter, who had a high average for stick work.
“Work for this man,” signalled the catcher to the pitcher, but
Mersfeld, as he was about to throw was aware that the first hitter
was stealing to third. He shot to the baseman quickly—but wildly. It
went over his head, in among a crowd of spectators, and before the
ball could be fielded in the man was home with the first run of the
game, and with only one out.
What a wild burst of songs and cries of gladness came from the
stands where the visitors were! Flags and banners waved, and the
shrill voices of the girls seemed to mock the Westfield players.
“Starting in bad,” murmured Bill to Cap.
“Oh, well, all our fellows are a trifle nervous. I guess we’ll make
good.”
Mersfeld redeemed himself a few seconds later by striking out the
next man up, and with two down, the last man knocked a little pop
fly. It looked good but Pete got under it, and had it safely in his
hands when the runner was ten feet from first.
“Well, now to see what we can do,” remarked Graydon as he came
in from first with his men eager to get a chance at the sticks.
They did not do so much, for there was an excellent battery against
them, and one run was all they could tally. But it tied the score, and
gave the home rooters something to shout for.
Whether it was nervousness or whether his conscience troubled him
was not made known, but Mersfeld seemed to get worse as the
game progressed. His throws to the basemen were wild, and he
practically lost control of the ball, while his curves broke too late,
and the opposing team readily got on to them.
“Oh, we’ve got the pitcher’s ‘Angora’ all right!” chanted the visiting
rooters, that being the classical term for “goat” or nerve.
“And I believe they have,” admitted the coach, when the fourth
inning opened with the score eight to one in favor of Tuckerton.
They had garnered two in the second frame, three in the third, and
a brace in their half of the fourth. The one lone tally was all
Westfield had when they came to bat in the ending of the fourth,
and though they worked fiercely not a man got over the rubber.
“Smith and Smith is the new battery for the Westfield team!”
announced the umpire as Graydon’s men went out to the field at the
opening of the fifth. Mersfeld had not said a word when ordered
from the box. He knew he had been doing poor work, but with a
bitter feeling in his heart he watched to see how Bill would make out
with, as he supposed, the changed glasses.
“Now watch the celebrated Smith brothers work!” cried a Tuckerton
wag, as Cap and Bill took their places.
“Yes, and they will work, too!” murmured Pete.
“At least if we can’t get any more runs, I hope we can keep the
score down,” thought the coach, to whom the game, thus far was a
bitter disappointment. All his work so far that season seemed to
have gone for naught.
Bill was smiling confidently, as he took his place in the box. The
crowd which had not before had a good look at him, caught sight of
the goggles, and instantly there was a chorus of cries.
“Foureyes! Foureyes!”
It was what Cap and Pete had feared would happen. Would it bother
their brother?
Bill showed no signs of it. He did not appear to resent the name, but
smiled back at his tormentors in an easy fashion.
“I wear these so I can strike out more men!” he called.
“I guess he’ll do,” murmured the anxious captain on first base, and
the embittered coach took heart.
Cap and Bill exchanged a few preliminaries, and then signalled for
the batter to take his place. The man up was a terrific hitter and Bill
used all his wiles on him. First he purposely gave him a ball, and
then sent in a slow teaser which the man did not strike at, but which
the umpire counted.
“Here’s where he fans!” thought Bill, as he tried an up shoot. It
made good, and the bat passed under it cleanly. There was a
murmur of chagrin from the stick-wielder’s fellows and he resolved
to knock the cover off the next ball.
But alas for hopes! Once more he swung wildly—and missed.
“Out!” howled the umpire gleefully, for his sympathy was with
Westfield, as much as he dared show it.
And when the next two men never even touched the ball there was
joy unbounded in the ranks of the home team, for now they saw a
chance for victory.
“I don’t see that you did anything,” whispered Mersfeld to Bondy as
the change was made for the ending of the fifth.
“Didn’t get the chance,” whispered back the plotter. “I was nearly
caught. But this isn’t the only game. There’ll be other opportunities.”
Westfield was at the bat, and it must have been the effect of Bill’s
pitching for every man up made a hit, and the bases were soon
filled. But only two runs came in, for the opposing team took a brace
at an opportune time for themselves, and in season to prevent too
heavy scoring by the Westfield lads.
“Now only six runs to beat ’em!” called Captain Graydon cheerfully,
as though that was a mere trifle. “Keep up the good work, Bill, and
we’ll dedicate a chapel window to you.”
Bill did. He surpassed even his own previous pitching records, and
did not allow a hit in that inning, while in their half of it Westfield got
one, making the score four to eight in their opponents’ favor.
“Now for the lucky seventh!” called the coach, when that inning
started. “Don’t let them get a run, Bill, and help our fellows to pull in
about a dozen.”
Bill smiled, and—struck out the first two men. Then one of the heavy
hitters managed to get under a neat little up shoot, and sent it far
out over the left fielder’s head. It was good for two bags, and the
next man brought the runner in, to the anguish of Bill, who feared
he was slumping, as there had been two hits off him in succession.
But with a gritting of his teeth he held his nerves in check, and that
ended the scoring for the first half of the seventh.
“Now, boys, eat ’em up!” pleaded coach and captain as Bill and his
teammates came in. They did, to the extent of three runs, which
seemed wonderful in view of what had previously been done, and
there was a chance for wild yelling and cheering on the part of the
home rooters.
With the score seven to nine, when the eighth opened, it looked
better for Westfield’s chances, and when she further sweetened her
tallies with another run, brought in by Pete, there was more joyful
rioting.
“They mustn’t get another mark!” stipulated the captain when the
final inning opened. “Not a run, Bill.”
“Not if I can help it!” the pitcher promised. From a corner Mersfeld
watched his successful rival—watched him with envious eyes.
From the grandstand Bondy also watched, and muttered:
“I won’t fail next time. I’ll spoil your record if it’s possible!”
Amid a wild chorus of songs and school cries Bill faced his next
opponent. He proved an easy victim, as did the lad following, but
from the manner in which the third man began hitting fouls it
seemed to argue that he would eventually make a hit. And a hit at
this stage might mean anything. For Westfield needed two runs to
beat, and they were going to be hard enough to secure—every
member of the team knew that.
It was the fourth foul the batter had knocked. The others had been
impossible to get, though Cap had tried for them. Now, as he tossed
off his mask, and stared wildly up into the air to gage the ball he
heard cries of:
“Can’t get it! Can’t get it!”
“I’m going to!” he thought fiercely. He ran for it, and was aware that
he would have to almost run into the grand stand to reach it. The
crowd made way for him. Into the stand he crashed, with a shock
that jarred him considerably, but—he had the ball in his hands!
“Wow! Wow! Wow!” cheered the crowd, even some of the
Tuckertons themselves. The side had been retired without a run, and
they cheered Cap’s fine catch.
“Now for our last chance!” said Captain Graydon when his men came
in. “We’ve just got to get two runs. No tenth inning—do it in this!”
“Sure!” they all agreed.
Whistle-Breeches came up first, and when he had fanned out he
went off by himself and thought bitter thoughts. For he had
narrowed the team’s chances.
“Don’t worry, we may do it yet,” said the coach kindly but he hardly
believed it.
Graydon made good in a two bagger, and got to third when Paul
Armitage made a magnificent try, but was out at first. And that was
the situation when Cap Smith came up. There were two out, a man
on third, and two runs were needed. Only a home run it seemed
could do the trick.
“And a home run it shall be!” declared Cap to himself.
But when he missed the first ball, and when, after two wild throws a
strike was called on him, it looked as if the chances were all gone.
“He’ll walk you!” shouted some sympathizers, but the Tuckerton
pitcher had no such intentions. He was going to strike Cap out, he
felt.
“Whizz!” went the ball toward the catcher. Cap drew back his bat,
and by some streak of luck managed to get it under squarely. He put
all the force of his broad shoulders into the blow, and when he saw
the ball sailing far and low, he knew it would go over the centre
fielder’s head and into the deep grass beyond.
“It’s a home run or a broken leg!” murmured Cap, as he dashed
away toward first.
“Oh you Cap!”
“Pretty! Pretty!”
“A lalapalooza!”
“Run! Run!”
“Keep on going!”
“Come on in, Graydon! Come home! Come home!”
Thus the frantic cries.
Graydon was speeding in from third, and desperate fielders were
racing after the ball. It could not be located in the tall grass, and
Cap was legging it for all he was worth.
“Run! Run! Run!” Thus they besought him. Graydon crossed the
rubber with the tying run, and still the ball was not found. Then, as
Cap passed second, a shout announced that a fielder had it. But he
was far out, and the second baseman knew his teammate could
never field it in from where he was. He ran out to intercept the ball,
as Cap was legging it for home.
“Thud!” The second baseman had the horsehide. He turned to throw
it home, and the catcher spread out his hands for it. But Cap
dropped and slid over the plate in a cloud of dust, and was safe just
a second before the ball arrived.
Westfield had won! And on the last chance!
 CHAPTER XVIII
A PLOT AGAINST BILL

What rejoicing there was among the members of the nine and the
supporters of the team! How the lads howled, their hoarse voices
mingling with the shrill cries of the girls! Sober men danced around
with their gray-haired seat-mates, and several “old grads” who had
witnessed the contest jumped up and down pounding with their
canes on the grandstand until it seemed as if the structure would
collapse.
“Good boy, Cap!” cried Bill, clapping his brother on the back. “Good
boy!”
“All to the horse radish,” added Pete.
“Oh, you fellows didn’t do so worse yourselves,” remarked John, as
he tried to fight off a crowd that wanted to carry him on their
shoulders.
He was unsuccessful, and a moment later was hoisted up, while a
shouting, yelling, cheering procession marched around the grounds,
singing some of the old school songs of triumph. It was a glorious
victory.
It was fought all over again in the rooms of the boys that night, and
the team was praised on all sides.
“Still it was a narrow squeak,” declared the coach to the captain,
“and we’ve got to do better if we want to keep the championship.”
“Oh, I guess we’ll do it,” answered Graydon. “Those Smith boys are
a big find.”
“I should say so! I don’t know what to do about the battery, though.
We can’t let Mersfeld and Denby slide altogether.”
“No, we’ll have to play them occasionally. And Mersfeld isn’t so bad
sometimes. He gets rattled too easily, and Bill Smith doesn’t. Well,
come on out and I’ll blow you to some chocolate soda.”
Meanwhile the Smith boys were having a jollification of their own in
their rooms, whither many of their friends had gone. Bill brought out
some packages of cakes, and bottles of ginger ale and other soft
stuff, on which the visitors were regaled.
“Here’s more power to you!” toasted Billie Bunce, a little fat junior,
who was not above making friends with the freshmen.
Mersfeld did not attend the little gathering in the rooms of our
heroes. And had they seen him, in close conversation with Jonas
North, a little later, and had they heard, what the two were saying,
they would not have wondered at his absence. Mersfeld met North
as the latter was strolling about the campus.
“What’s going on up there?” asked North, as he motioned to where
lights gleamed in the rooms of our friends, for it was not yet locking-
up time.
“Oh, Smith Brothers and Company are having some sort of an
improvised blow-out,” replied the temporarily deposed pitcher.
“Those fellows make me tired. Just because they helped pull one
game out of the fire they think they’re the whole cheese. I’d like to
get square with Four-eyes somehow or other.”
“Why don’t you?” proposed North, with a grin. “Seems to me you
ought to be able to ‘do’ him.”
“I am, if it came to a fight, but I wouldn’t dare mix it up with him.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’d be a howl, and everyone would say I did it because
I was jealous. I’d have to have some mighty good excuse to warrant
wading into him.”
“Well, can’t you think of one?”
“No, I can’t. I’d like to get square with him, though.”
“Put him out of business you mean—so he couldn’t pitch for a
while?” asked the bully.
“That would do, yes.”
“You might put up a job to burn his hands with acid in chemistry
class some day. Just a little burn would do. You could say it was an
accident.”
“No, that’s too risky,” remarked Mersfeld, after thinking it over. “I’d
like to have it come about naturally. Now if he or his brothers would
try some trick, and get caught—suspended by the faculty for a
month—or laid off from athletics, that would do. But the Smith
fellows seem to have given up pranks lately, and have buckled down
to lessons. I guess they’re afraid.”
North did not answer for a few moments. He walked along,
apparently deeply thinking. Suddenly he exclaimed:
“I believe I have it! Get them caught while doing some fool cut-up
thing, such as is always going on around here. That would do it, if
we can get them into something desperate enough so they’ll be
suspended. Fine!”
“Yes, it’s all very well enough to say ‘fine!’ But how are you going to
work it? Haven’t I told you that they’ve cut out jokes?”
“That’s all right. We can get ’em into the game again.”
“How?”
“Easy enough. All they need is to have some one to make a
suggestion. They’ll fall into line quickly enough, and then—have
McNibb catch ’em in the act, and it’s all off with their baseball. I
haven’t any love for ’em, either, and I’d like to see ’em out of the
game. They don’t belong in our class here.”
“Oh, they’re all right, but they think they’re the whole show,”
complained the pitcher bitterly. “All I ask is for Bill Smith to get out
of the box, and let me in. I can do as good as he!”
“Of course you can,” agreed North, though if Mersfeld could have
seen the covert sneer in the bully’s smile perhaps he would not have
been so friendly with him. “Well, if you’ll help, I’ll work it. We’ll have
’em caught in the act—say painting the Weston statue red or green
—that ought to fetch ’em.”
“Yes, but how are you going to arrange to have ’em caught?” asked
Mersfeld.
“Easy enough. Here’s my game,” went on North. “First we’ll propose
to Bill or Cap, or to the other brother, that as things around the
school are a little dull, they ought to be livened up. They’ll bite at
the bait, for they like fun, and when they hear that it would be a
good stunt to decorate the big bronze statue of old man Weston, in
front of the main building with green or red paint, they’ll fall for it.”
“Yes, but they know enough not to get caught, even if they go into
the trick.”
“They can’t help being caught the way we’ll work it,” was the crafty
reply.
“Why not?”
“Because the night they select for the joke—and we’ll know when it
is—there’ll be an anonymous letter dropped at Proctor McNibb’s
door, telling him what is going to be pulled off. He’ll get on the job,
and catch the Smith boys at the game. How’s that?”
Mersfeld meditated a moment.
“I guess it will do,” he said slowly—“only,—”
“Well, what’s the matter with my plan?” demanded the bully half
angrily.
“If you or I propose such a game to Bill or his brothers they’ll smell
a rat right away.”
“Of course they will, but you don’t s’pose I’m such a ninnie as to
propose it ourselves; do you?”
“What then?”
“Why I’ll have some one who is friendly to them do it. Oh, don’t
worry, they’ll fall for it all right enough. Now come on over to my
room, and we’ll fix it up,” and the two cronies, one a rather unwilling
participator in the plot, walked along the campus, casting back a
look at the gaily lighted windows of the apartments of the Smith
boys.
“Hang it all!” mused Mersfeld as he tried to quiet an uneasy
conscience, “I don’t want to get those fellows into trouble, but I
want to be back in my rightful place as pitcher on the Varsity.”
And then he and North went into the details of the plot against our
heroes, against Bill more particularly, for it was he whom Mersfeld
wanted to displace.
 CHAPTER XIX
THE PROFESSOR’S WARNING

“Say, Cap, don’t you think things are rather slow, not to say dreary
around here?” asked Bob Chapin a few days after the ball game, as
he strolled into the elder Smith lad’s room, and appropriated the
easiest chair. “It’s the spring fever or the summer sleeping sickness
coming on, I’m sure.”
“What’s up now, Bob?” asked Bill, as he tossed aside his chemistry,
glad of an excuse to stop studying.
“What Bob needs is to train for the eleven or get into a baseball
uniform,” added Pete. “He’s getting fat and lazy, and he hasn’t any
interest in life.”
“Get out!” cried the visitor, who did not go in for athletics, and who
preferred to be considered a “Sport,” with a capital “S,” wearing
good clothes and spending all his spare time in a town billiard parlor.
“You get out, Pete. Didn’t I try for the glee club?”
“Yes, but you were too lazy to practice,” remarked Cap frankly.
“How brutal of you!” cried Chapin, with a mock theatrical air. “Didn’t
I even forgive my enemies and beg them to take me into the banjo
club?”
“Which, for the good of the service, they refused to do,” went on the
elder Smith.
“Oh, have you no mercy?” asked the visitor in a high falsetto voice,
striking an attitude.
“We’re all out of it—expect a fresh lot in next week,” answered Bill.
Then after a pause he added: “Now there’s a thing you could do,
Bob.”
“What’s that?”
“Go in for theatricals. Why don’t you join the Paint and Powder
club?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Afraid of spoiling my complexion with burnt cork
and grease preparations, I guess,” was the indolent reply. “But I
don’t want to discuss myself. I was asking if you fellows didn’t find it
dull here? Why, there hasn’t been a thing pulled off since we
brought the calf into the ancient history class two weeks ago. It is
frightfully dull at Westfield. Don’t you think so, really?”
“Hadn’t noticed it,” replied Cap. “What with baseball practice, and
digging and boning and lectures and writing home occasionally for
money we manage to exist; eh fellows?”
“Sure!” chorused his brothers.
“Well, I say it’s dull,” went on Chapin. “Now you fellows used to cut
up some, when you first came, but you’d think you had all reformed
the way you’ve been keeping quiet lately.”
“There’s nothing to do,” complained Bill, in whom the spirit of
mischief burned more strongly than in his brothers. “Show us a good
lively time and we’ll be in on it.”
“I can’t show it to you,” replied Chapin. “You’ve got to make it for
yourselves.”
“Well, I’ll do my share,” went on Bill eagerly. “Why, is there
something up?”
“Now, Bill, you haven’t any time to undertake any pranks you know,”
admonished Cap, but his voice was not at all commanding, and
there was a gleam of interest in his eyes.
“Yes, cut out the funny business,” added Bill. “But what is it,
anyhow, Bob? No harm in telling; is there?”
“Sure not. I was just wishing a racket would break loose, and I
happened to think of something a while ago. It would take some
nerve to do it though, and maybe you fellows—”
He paused significantly—temptingly.
“Say, who says we haven’t got the nerve?” demanded Bill quickly.
“Now, Bill go easy,” advised his older brother, but he, too, looked
interested.
“Oh, well, certainly you have the nerve,” admitted Chapin. “But it’s
risky.”
“Are you willing to go in on it?” asked Pete quickly.
“Of course,” was the instant rejoinder.
“Then name your game!” came from Bill, “and you’ll find us right
behind you up to the muzzle of the cannon. Out with it!”
“Oh, I wish you’d stayed away,” spoke Cap. “I’m back in my
trigonometry, and if I flunk—Well, I suppose we may as well hear
what you’ve got up your sleeve,” and he laid aside his book, with a
laugh and a half-protesting shake of his head.
Bob’s first act was to go over to the door of Cap’s room, in which the
gathering took place, and see that the portal was tightly closed.
Then he listened at the keyhole.
“Is it perfectly safe?” he asked in a whisper. “Can anyone hear us?”
“Say, what are we up against?” asked Cap with a laugh. “Is this a
gunpowder plot, or merely a scheme to burn the old school.”
“Listen, and I will a tale unfold,” went on Chapin. “Gather ’round, my
children, gather ’round the camp-fire and Anthony shall tell us one of
his famous stories. So they gathered ’round—”
“Oh, get along with it—we’ve got to do some boning to-night, Bob,”
complained Pete. “We’ve heard that camp-fire joke before.”
“Do you know the bronze statue of ‘Pop’ Weston in front of the
school?” asked the visitor in a stage whisper.
“Do we know it? The statue of the founder of Westfield? Well I
should bust a bat but we do,” answered Bill.
“What do you think of the color of it?” asked Chapin.
“What do you mean?” Cap wanted to know.
“I mean wouldn’t it look prettier red or blue or pink, than the shade
it is now?”
He paused to look at the three brothers. They did not answer for a
moment. Then Bill exclaimed:
“Say, is that what you mean—to paint the statue?”
Chapin nodded slowly.
“It’s—sacrilege,” whispered Cap.
“Only an iconoclast would dare think of such a thing,” declared Bill.
“But—” there was an eager light in his eyes.
“It was done once, years ago,” proceeded the tempter, “and the
whole Freshman class was suspended for a week, as the faculty
couldn’t find out who did it. It has been many, many, weary years
since such an honor fell upon us Freshmen,” and he sighed deeply,
as though in pain.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Cap softly. The daring plot appealed to him,
conservative as he was.
“How did they get the paint off?” asked Pete.
“It had to wear off,” replied Chapin. “But I don’t want to do anything
like that. We can use water colors, and they won’t spoil the bronze,
and really it would be a little too rotten to make such a mess of it.
Just tint it a light Alice blue, or a dainty Helen pink—it will wash off,
but it will look pretty for a while, and the freshmen class will have
made a name for itself that it can be proud of. Are you with me? It
can easily be done, and the chances are we won’t be caught. How
about it?”
“I’ll do it!” exclaimed Bill quickly.
“I don’t know,” began Cap.
“Oh, come on,” urged Pete. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had
any fun.”
“If we’re caught, it means good-bye to balls and bats,” went on the
eldest brother.
“But we won’t be caught,” declared Chapin eagerly. “Besides, what if
we are—that’s half the fun.”
“All right, go ahead,” agreed Cap. “Might as well be killed for a sheep
as a lamb, I guess. I’m in on it.”
“Now about the paint,” went on the tempter, as he again listened at
the door. “We’ll have to be careful where we get it, as McNibb is a
regular detective for following a clue. It ought to be bought out of
town.”
“That’s so,” agreed Pete.
“Hold on, I have it!” cried Bill, after a moment’s thought. “Professor
Clatter.”
“Professor Clatter?” inquired Chapin. “You mean that medicine man
with his queer wagon?”
“Exactly,” went on the pitcher. “I saw him in town the other day, and
he said he was coming back to play a return engagement near here.
He’s got some new kind of stomach dope or something like that.
Besides, he has some patent face powder that he says he got at a
bargain, and he’s going to try and work it off on the ladies in the
crowd. It’s a beautiful pink, and it’s harmless. I was looking at a box
of it, and it got on my hands. Say, for a few minutes I had the nicest
baby complexion you’d want to see. But it all washed off as easily as
soap.”
“Well, what’s the answer?” asked Chapin, as Bill paused.
“Why we’ll get some of that powder from the professor, mix it up,
and use it on the statute. It will come off easily and I defy Proctor
McNibb to trace where it came from. The professor is a friend of
ours, and he’ll keep mum.”
“The very thing!” cried the visitor. “When can you get it?”
“To-morrow, or next day,” answered Bill, who had now entered heart
and soul into the piece of mischief. “I’ll get enough to give Pop
Weston a liberal coating.”
“Night after to-morrow,” mused Chapin, looking at a calendar over
Cap’s table. “That will do. There’s no moon. What about brushes?”
“I guess a whitewash one will do. Maybe the professor has one—or
a big sponge, such as he uses for cleaning his wagon.”
“Fine!” cried Chapin. “Oh, I can just see the faculty when they file
past the bronze statue, done to a beautiful baby pink! Great! No
more will the lordly Seniors boast of having once run a dump cart
into the class room. The Sophs with their little trick of putting tar on
the bell tower will take a back seat, and the Juniors, whose
stronghold, so far, has been the horrible task of burning red fire
under Prexy’s windows, will be green with envy. Oh, what a lucky
day this has been!”
“It isn’t over yet,” remarked Cap significantly.
“Well, I’ll see Clatter and get the stuff,” promised Bill. “Then we’ll
meet and do the decorating. How many are in on it?” asked the
pitcher, pausing in his planning.
“We don’t want too many,” spoke Chapin cautiously. “Us four
perhaps, Bondy and Whistle-Breeches if you like, as they’re on this
corridor.”
“Not Bondy,” said Pete quickly. “We’ll let Whistle-Breeches in, but
Guilder isn’t in our set. He wouldn’t come if we asked him, and we’re
not going to. Besides, he might squeal.”
“Well, five are enough,” said Chapin. “Now I’ll depend on you to get
the paint, Bill.”
“And I’ll get it.”
“Fare thee well, then,” and with another cautious listening at the
door, Chapin took himself out.
“Well?” asked Cap, of his brothers a little later, when they had sat in
silence pondering over the plan.
“It’s all to the red-pepper,” declared Bill. “We need something to
wake us up.”
“I guess this will prevent dreams for some time,” observed the eldest
Smith.
“It’ll be a scream of a nightmare when the faculty sees it,” came
from Pete, “but there’s no harm in it as long as the paint washes off.”
With many nods and winks Chapin recalled to the three brothers,
and to Whistle-Breeches, next morning the plot they had made.
Whistle-Breeches had been let into it early in the day, and had
eagerly agreed to do his share. They would need ropes with which
to mount to the top of the big statue, and Anderson had agreed to
procure them.
“I can climb, too,” he said, “and I’ll decorate the top part.”
“Good for you, Whistle-Breeches!” exclaimed Pete.
It was that same afternoon that Bill saw Bob Chapin in close
conversation with Mersfeld and Jonas North. It was the first time he
had noticed that Chapin was chummy with the Varsity regular
pitcher, and with the lad who, because of his bullying tactics was
generally shunned, except by his own crowd.
“I hope Bob doesn’t talk too much about the statue business,”
reflected Bill. “Too many cooks make the hash taste burned. It might
leak out.”
Then, as he was summoned to practice he gave the matter no more
thought until that evening, when he set off alone to see Professor
Clatter, and get the pink paint.
Pete and Cap wanted to accompany him, but Bill declared that there
was safety in small numbers, and that he preferred to go alone.
He found his old friend getting ready for an evening performance,
filling his gasoline torches, looking over his stock of supplies, and
tuning the banjo with which, and his not unmelodious voice, he drew
a throng about the gaily painted wagon.
“Ha, my young friend, back again!” cried the professor. “Greetings to
you. And where are the brothers?”
“Studying, I expect, or making a pretense to.”
“Good again! Ah, the lamp of learning burns brightly when one is
young. What ho! Mercurio! Some more gasoline for this torch! We
must have light!” Then the professor having ordered about an
imaginary slave, proceeded to fill the torch himself.
“Speaking of lamps of learning,” broke in Bill, thinking this was a
good time to announce his errand, “we’re going to do a little
illumination over at Westfield on our own account. How much of that
pink paint have you, Professor?”
“Pink paint—you mean my Matchless Complexion Tinting Residuum?”
“I guess that’s it. We need some.”
“For a masked ball?”
“For a bronze statue,” replied Bill, and he proceeded to relate the
details of the plot. The professor listened carefully. Bill told
everything, and at length the traveling vendor asked:
“Did you and your brothers think of this scheme, Bill?”
“No, as a matter of fact Bob Chapin proposed it.”
“Ah, I suppose he is one of the leading spirits when it comes to
these plots of—er—innocent mischief?”
“No, I never knew him to get up anything of the kind before. And
that’s the funny part of it. He never takes a hand in ’em. But now he
comes to us with the idea, and he’s going to help carry it out. I
never knew he had gumption enough to break out this way. It’s a
good one, though.”
“And doesn’t it strike you as odd that he suddenly breaks out now?”
asked the professor in rather a curious voice.
“Odd? Dow do you mean?”
“I mean do you think he had any object in it?”
“Object in it?”
“Yes, to get you boys interested and—”
“Why, he’s interested himself. He’s going to help decorate Pop
Weston.”
“I know, but you say he never did anything of the kind before,”
objected Mr. Clatter, looking sharply at Bill.
“No.”
“And isn’t it rather late in the college year for him to begin?”
“It is—say, look here, Professor Clatter! Do you know anything about
this?” demanded Bill.
“No, only what my common sense tells me. But I gather that there is
some feeling against you because of baseball matters.”
“A little—yes, Mersfeld is sore, but—”
“Wait a minute. Now, if some of your enemies could get you into a
game like this, and then desert you, and let the whole blame fall on
you, or, even, we’ll say, tip off the college authorities, to use a slang
term—wouldn’t they make trouble for you.”
“Yes, they would, but—”
“Is this Bob Chapin a particular friend of yours?”
“Not particularly.”
“Is he in with this Mersfeld?”
“No, not any more than—By Jove!” Bill checked himself suddenly.
The remembrance of Chapin talking earnestly to Mersfeld and North
came back to him.
“Ah!” exclaimed the professor knowingly, as he rubbed his hands. “I
fancy we are getting at something. Now if our friend Tithonus
Somnus were here we would get him to read the stars for us, but, in
his absence I’ll venture to give you a bit of advice, Bill.”
“What is it, Mr. Clatter.”
“You may consider this in the light of a warning,” went on the
medicine vendor earnestly. “Don’t have anything to do with the trick
of painting the statue, Bill; or if you do—”
He paused significantly.
“Well, if we do?” repeated Bill.
“If you do, then play the double cross, and catch your enemies in
the net they have spread for you,” was the reply in a low voice.
Bill started, and, as he did so there came a cautious knock at the
door of the wagon.
“Who’s there?” asked the professor quickly.
“It’s me—Tithonus,” was the answer in a hoarse whisper. “Let me in
—quick! The police are after me!”
 CHAPTER XX
THE PLOTTERS CAUGHT

Professor Clatter swung wide the door, and the figure of the rain-
maker toppled in, rather than walked.
“Quick! Shut it and lock it!” he cried, and he assisted in the
operation. Then he passed beyond the small room in the rear of the
wagon—a room that served as dining hall, living apartment, sitting
room and parlor, and in a few seconds Mr. Somnus could be heard
crawling into one of the bunks.
“If they come for me—you haven’t seen me, of course,” came his
voice in muffled tones, indicating that his head was under the bed
clothes.
“Of course not, my dear Tithy,” replied the professor. “And, in fact, so
quick was your passage through, like a half back making a
touchdown, to use a phrase doubtless familiar to my friend Bill Smith
—to use that phrase, I have scarcely seen you. But what is the
matter? Why this haste? There doesn’t seem to be any one following
you—at least not at your heels.”
“Are you sure?” asked the muffled voice.
“Sure, yes, Tithy,” replied the medicine man, after a moment of
listening. “No one is coming. But what in the world is the matter?”
“Oh, it’s an unfortunate mistake I made,” was the answer. “If you’ll
wait a while, to make sure the police and sheriffs officers are not
after me, I’ll come out and explain.”
“I wish you would, Tithy, for Bill and I are much in the dark.”
After a wait of several minutes, during which Bill wondered what in
the world could have caused the rain-maker to flee in such terror,
the individual in question came out of the compartment devoted to
the sleeping bunks.
“Well?” asked the professor.
“Not well—bad,” was the despondent reply. “You see I found the
star-gazing trade poor lately, on account of so many cloudy nights,
so, in order to make a living I ventured to proclaim that I would read
the stars and reveal the future—for a consideration. It was risky, I
know, but I did it, and did it well—for a time.
“All was prosperous and happy, until to-night, just before supper I
was visited by a man who wanted to know whether he would be
successful in a certain undertaking. I consulted my charts and said
that he would.”
“What was the undertaking?” asked Bill.
“He was going to collect a long overdue bill from a man who owed
him some money,” went on the astronomer. “I told him to be firm,
and he would succeed.
“A little later he came back, all tattered and torn, with one eye
blackened, his collar a rag, and his clothes covered with dirt. He
entered my wagon without knocking, and presented himself before
me.
“‘I was firm!’ he shouted at me, ‘but I did not succeed. This is what
the other man did to me!’ Oh, it was terrible. He accused me of
deceiving him, and he sprang at me, and would doubtless have
made me suffer, but I escaped through the front door, leaving my
beloved cat, Scratch, behind, and I fled here.
“As I ran on I could hear the terrible threats the man uttered against
me, of causing my arrest. Even now I fear—hark! What’s that?”
Mr. Somnus paused in alarm, and seemed about to dart for the
bunks again.
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