The High School Pitcher Part 27

"That's almost a tragedy, I know," replied Mrs. Prescott bravely.

The physician directing, the boy was lifted from the car, while Mrs. Prescott went ahead to open the door.

Dave Darrin followed, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng. Dave had his own theory to account for this state of affairs.

Into his own room d.i.c.k was carried, and laid on the bed. Mrs.

Prescott remained outside while Dave helped undress his chum.

"Now, let us see just how bad this is," mused the physician aloud.

"It isn't so very bad," smiled d.i.c.k. "I wouldn't mind at all, if it weren't for the game to-morrow. I'll play, anyway."

"Huh!" muttered Dave, incredulously.

Dr. Bentley was running his fingers over the left knee, which looked rather red.

"Does this hurt? Does this? Or this" inquired the medical man, pressing on different parts of the knee.

"No," d.i.c.k answered, in each case.

"We don't want grit, my boy. We want the truth."

"Why, no; it doesn't hurt," d.i.c.k insisted. "I believe I could rub that knee a little, and then walk on it."

"I hope that's right," Dave muttered, half incredulously.

Dr. Bentley made some further examination before he stated:

"I knew there was nothing broken there, but I feared that the ligaments of the knee had been strained. That might have put you out of the game for the season, Prescott."

"I'll be able to sprint in the morning," declared the young pitcher, with spirit.

"You fell on your hands, as well, didn't you?" asked the physician.

"Yes, sir."

"That saved you from worse trouble, then. The ligaments are not torn at all. The worst you've met with, Prescott, is a wrench of the knee, and there's a little swelling. It hurt to stand on your foot when you first tried to do so, didn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"It would probably hurt a little less, now. No---don't try it,"

as d.i.c.k started to bolster himself up. "You want that knee in shape at the earliest moment, don't you?"

"Of course I do, doctor."

"Then lie very quiet, and do, in everything, just what you are told."

"I've got to pitch to-morrow afternoon, you know, doctor. And I've got to run bases."

Dr. Bentley pursed his lips.

"There's a chance in a thousand that you'll be able, Prescott.

The slight swelling is the worst thing we have to deal with, I'm glad to say. We'll have to keep the leg pretty quiet, and put cold compresses on frequently."

"I'll stay here and do it," volunteered Dave, promptly.

"You have to pitch to-morrow, Dave, if anything _should_ make the coach order me off the field," interposed d.i.c.k, anxiously. "And you ought to be home and in bed now."

"If Mrs. Prescott will put on the bandages up to one o'clock to-night that will be doing well enough," suggested Dr. Bentley. "I shall be in to look at the young man quite early in the morning. But don't attempt to get up for anything, do you understand, Prescott?

You know---" here Dr. Bentley a.s.sumed an air of authority---"

I'm more than the mere physician. I'm medical director to your nine.

So you're in duty bound to follow my orders to the letter."

"I will---if you'll promise me that I can pitch," promised the boy fervently.

"I can't promise, but I'll do my best."

"And, Dave," pressed d.i.c.k, "you'll skip home, now, and get a big night's rest, won't you? There's a bare chance that you _might_ have to throw the ball to-morrow. But I won't let you, if I can stop it," Prescott added wistfully.

So Dave departed, for he was accustomed to following the wishes of the head of d.i.c.k & Co. in such matters.

Mrs. Prescott had come in as soon as the lad had been placed between the sheets. Dr. Bentley gave some further directions, then left something that would quiet the pain without having the effect of an opiate.

"It all depends on keeping the leg quiet and keeping the cold compresses renewed," were the medical man's parting words.

Twenty minutes later Dave telephoned the store below. Darrin was in a state of great excitement.

"Tell d.i.c.k, when he's awake in the morning," begged Dave of Mr.

Prescott, who answered the call, "that Gridley pitchers seem to be in danger to-night. At least, _two_ of 'em are. I was right near home, and running a bit, when I pa.s.sed the head of the alley near our house. A bag of sand was thrown out right in front of my feet. How I did it I don't quite know yet, but I jumped over that bag, and came down on my feet beyond it. It was a fearfully close call, though. No; I guess you hadn't better tell d.i.c.k to-night.

But you can tell him in the morning."

Though "The Blade" somehow missed the matter, there were a good many in Gridley who had heard the news by Sat.u.r.day morning. It traveled especially among the High School boys. More than a dozen of them were at the book store as soon as that place was opened.

"How's d.i.c.k?" asked all the callers.

"Doing finely," replied the elder Prescott, cheerily.

"Great! Is he going to pitch this afternoon?"

"Um---I can't say about that."

"If he can't, Mr. Prescott, that'll be one of Gridley's chances gone over the fence."

Dave was on hand as early as he could be. d.i.c.k had already been told of the attempt on his chum the night before.

"You didn't see the fellow well enough to make out who he was?"

Prescott pressed eagerly.

"No," admitted Dave, sadly. "After a few seconds I got over my bewilderment enough to try to give chase. But the dastard had sneaked away, cat-foot. I know who it was, though, even if I didn't see him."