Jimmy Kirkland and the Plot for a Pennant Part 20

"Say, Ken, we must have been knocked out for quite a while," he remarked thoughtfully. "No one is here. They probably closed up as soon as they threw us out--and we haven't a bit of proof against anyone."

"Wonder what time it is?" groaned Kennedy. "We've got to get to bed if we want to play."

"Holy Mackerel," exclaimed Swanson, using his favorite form of swearing. "I forgot! That's it! Ken, after we were knocked out they beat us to keep us from playing. Come on. We've got to forget about fighting and get ready to play. I'll get even with someone for this."

Swanson was thinking rapidly as they limped slowly along the darkened streets in search of a night prowling cabman or taxi-cab, keeping a sharp lookout for policemen, fearing they might be arrested because of their battered condition.

"We've got to get to somewhere we can be patched up and get some sleep," he repeated, urging Kennedy, whose sufferings made their progress slow. "We've got to keep those crooks from finding out where we are. Let them think they've finished us and then show up in time to play."

"I don't think I can play, Silent," moaned Kennedy. "I can't drag myself much farther."

He was making a brave effort to keep on, and for another block Swanson half supported him. Then he gave up and sat down upon the curbing.

"Sit here," said Swanson quickly. "There is an all-night drug store a couple of blocks down; I'll find a cab there."

He limped away as rapidly as possible, and, almost before Kennedy realized it, he returned in a taxicab.

"Caught him just starting home," explained Swanson, as he half lifted Kennedy into the tonneau. "He says there is a hospital less than a mile from here where we can get treatment."

The bruised and battered players groaned and swore under their breath, while the cab made a rapid trip to the hospital, and half an hour later they were resting easily in a private room, their wounds were being washed and dressed and a young doctor was working hard to relieve their sufferings.

"We've got to play ball this afternoon, Doc," said Swanson, watching the surgeon cut and wash the hair from the wound on his scalp. "Fix us up right."

"You'll not play ball this week," said the surgeon cheerfully. "Your friend over there will be all right in a couple of days. He's badly bruised and his hand is sprained, but not seriously. He's sorer than you are, but by morning you'll be a cripple."

"But, Doc, we've got to play," pleaded Swanson. "You've got to fix us up."

"I'll do all I can," remarked the surgeon. "But your right arm is badly wrenched and bruised. The cuts won't hurt, but one of your eyes will be out of commission for three or four days. Whose mule kicked you?"

Swanson, pledging the doctor to secrecy, revealed part of the truth.

"You won't be able to play," he advised his patients, "and Kennedy must take two days off at least."

"I've got to play, Doc," responded Swanson, "if it's on one leg; I've got to."

It was a few minutes past noon when Swanson awoke with a start. The nurse was in the room, moving about quietly, and Kennedy still slept, moving and muttering in his sleep, as if dreaming of the battle. He remained quiet for a few moments, and then said:

"Nurse, please bring me my clothes."

"You must wait until after breakfast," she said, coming to the bedside.

"Dr. Anderson was here a short time ago, and said I was to give you your breakfast when you awoke, then call him."

"But I'm in a hurry," protested the player. "I can't wait. They'll be anxious about us."

"The doctor said he would give you treatment and ma.s.sage, so that you could get out more quickly," she responded. "I'll bring breakfast and then call him."

Kennedy, feeling much refreshed, but too sore and stiff to move without suffering, was awakened for breakfast, and he and Swanson discussed the situation in low tones as they ate.

It was past one o'clock before Swanson commenced to worry about the failure of the doctor to come. After fuming and fretting for more than half an hour he rang for the nurse and sent her in quest of Dr.

Anderson. She returned soon and reported that he had been summoned suddenly to a.s.sist in performing an important operation, but that he probably would return soon. Not until two o'clock had pa.s.sed did Swanson commence to become seriously disturbed at the failure of the doctor to appear. A short nap had refreshed him somewhat, and when Kennedy announced that it was past two o'clock he waited a few moments, then commenced ringing the call bell by his bedside to summon the nurse. There was no response, and growing angry and impatient, he rang again and again.

"If I only had a pair of pants," wailed the helpless giant, "I'd break out."

He climbed out of bed and searched the room. In his impatience he b.u.mped his wounded head, and blood flowed afresh from under the bandages, and with a movement of his arm he smeared it over his face.

The giant Swede was working himself into a fury. Every few moments he rang the bell, and a few moments before three o'clock the nurse, calm and appearing as if nothing unusual was happening, came in.

"Did you ring?" she inquired.

Swanson started to explode, but stood looking at her in helpless fury.

"Get me my clothes," he ordered in tones that frightened the girl, trained as she was to the outbursts of patients.

"Get me my clothes," he repeated.

"It is against orders," she said hesitatingly. "You cannot go until the doctor"----

"Get me my clothes," he half screamed. "If my clothes aren't here in five minutes I'm going this way."

The nurse, thoroughly alarmed by the fury of the big man, ran from the room, and, within five minutes she returned with another nurse to support her.

"Where are my clothes?" he demanded in an awful voice.

"It's against orders," said the older nurse firmly. "You cannot leave without permission from the doctor in charge."

For an instant it seemed as if Swanson would forget himself and become violent. With an effort he controlled his anger and sank back upon the pillows.

"All right," he said resignedly, "let me telephone to the boss and explain."

"You are not going to quit, Silent?" demanded Kennedy, starting up in bed. "I'll go myself"----

The quick wink that Swanson gave him stopped the catcher's angry expostulation.

"That's a good boy!" said the nurse pleasantly. "There isn't any use to fret. I'll bring you the telephone."

The telephone was brought, and, when the nurse left the room Swanson called up the hotel at which they lived.

"That you, Joe?" he said rapidly. "This is Silent--yes, in hospital.

Send a taxi to the corner as fast as you can get it here. I'll be watching."

He cut off the carriage clerk's curious questions by hanging up the receiver.

"What are you going to do?" whispered Kennedy from his bed.

"I'm going out of here," said Swanson. He crept out of bed, and with his face pressed against the window, watched the corner four floors below until a taxicab stopped there and waited. Then, drawing a sheet over his night gown, he opened the door cautiously.

The receiving clerk had a glimpse of a ferocious looking ghost, garbed in a white sheet, and with face smeared with blood, racing down the hallway, and before her screams could bring help, Swanson had run limpingly across the street, leaped into the taxi and was shouting orders to the driver to get him to the ball park.