A BRUTAL ACT
There was a shout from the men and a scream of terror from Mabel.
“Oh, hurry, hurry!” she urged. “Perhaps they’ve killed him!”
Reggie needed no urging, and in a moment more they had come within a few
feet of the figure that still lay without motion or any sign of life.
Joe and Jim were out of the car like a flash and ran to the side of the
victim.
Reggie turned the car into a piece of open woodland at the side of the
road, and then he and Mabel descended and joined the others.
The man who had been hit seemed to be nearly seventy years old. His hair
was silvery white, except where it was dabbled with blood that flowed
from a wound in his head near the left temple. His clothing was shabby
and covered with dust. A G. A. R. button was on the lapel of his coat.
As Joe knelt down and lifted the man’s head to his knee, the latter
opened his eyes and gave utterance to a groan.
Jim, who had a rough knowledge of surgery from his experience with the
accidents that are constantly happening on the ball field, ran his hands
deftly over the prostrate form.
“Don’t seem to be any bones broken,” he announced after a moment. “And
that cut on the head seems to have come when he struck the road. But
let’s carry him over to this patch of grass and bind up his head to stop
that bleeding.”
The handkerchiefs of the party were called into requisition and torn
into strips from which a bandage was improvised. There was a small brook
near by, and Mabel hurried to this for water, with which she bathed the
man’s head and face.
“We’d better get him into the car and carry him on to Bay Shore,” said
Joe, when they had done all they could. “I don’t imagine he’s fatally
hurt, although at his age the shock may make it serious.”
Just then the man stirred feebly and his eyes opened. There was a
puzzled expression as he gazed into the faces surrounding him, and then
a look of comprehension as he recalled the fact of the accident.
“Was it your car that hit me?” he asked. “But no, I know it wasn’t,”
he added, as he caught sight of Mabel. “There wasn’t any woman in that
machine.”
“Don’t try to talk,” admonished Joe gently. “You’ve had a bad shake-up,
but there are no bones broken and you’ll be as good as ever in a little
while.”
“They didn’t give me a dog’s chance,” the old man murmured wearily.
“They must have seen me coming, but they didn’t honk their horn or
give me any warning. They were fooling and laughing, and the car was
zigzagging as though the driver was half drunk. An old man like me
doesn’t count, I guess, with a bunch of joy riders. Did they stop
afterwards?”
“Not a second,” declared Jim angrily. “They rushed on without even
looking behind. They’re not much better than a bunch of murderers.”
“I wish we’d got their number,” Joe gritted savagely between his teeth.
“I tried to, but they were raising such a cloud of dust that I only
caught the numbers seven and four as part of their license number. And
that isn’t enough to go by.”
“They ought to be made to pay handsomely for the outrage,” declared
Mabel indignantly.
“We’ll telephone to the towns ahead when we get to Bay Shore, describing
them as well as we can, and try to have them arrested,” said Joe. “But
now we must get to a doctor or a hospital. This man ought to be attended
to at once.”
Joe and Jim lifted the old man carefully and placed him, half sitting,
half lying, in the tonneau of the car. The others crowded in as they
were able, and Reggie threw in his clutch and started on the way to Bay
Shore.
Here on making inquiries they found that there was a large hospital at
Islip, not far away, and in a few minutes they were at the doors of the
big institution.
A preliminary examination showed that the wound on the head was a
superficial one and that the old man was suffering chiefly from
shock. He was put to bed in a cool private room that Joe made himself
responsible for, and the doctor predicted that in a few days he would be
on his feet again and able to return to his home.
This, they had learned from him, was Boston. His name was Louis
Anderson. He was in poor circumstances and his visit to Long Island
had been for the purpose of disposing of a tiny bit of property which
represented his last earthly possession.
“I can’t thank you boys enough,” he said, as they at last prepared to
leave. “I only wish there was something I could do for you in return. I
don’t suppose you often get to Boston.”
“We expect to get there several times within the next week or two,”
remarked Joe, as he looked at Jim with an amused twinkle in his eye.
“Then you must be traveling men,” suggested Anderson. “What line are you
in?”
“The baseball line,” grinned Jim.
“And you’re going to Boston?” repeated Anderson. “Why, then you must be
members of the Giants and going to play in the World Series.”
“Guessed it right,” Jim responded.
“If I didn’t hate to root against Boston, I’d almost wish you’d win,
after all you’ve done for me,” Louis Anderson smiled feebly.
“We’re going to try mighty hard,” Joe assured him.
“They say that fellow Matson of yours is the king of them all,” the old
man went on.
“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Joe gravely. “I’ve known him to pitch some
rotten ball.”
They shook hands and went away, promising to keep in touch with him and
do all they could to find the reckless automobilists who had caused his
injuries.
But although they gave the facts to the village authorities and had a
notice sent out to other towns in the car’s path, they had little hope
that anything would come of it.
“I guess they’ve made a clean getaway of it,” judged Jim, as they once
more headed toward the city.
“It’s a burning shame,” commented Mabel. “He seems to be such a nice old
man, too. The idea of those men not even stopping to see what they could
do for him.”
“He might have died in the road for all they cared,” declared Reggie
indignantly. “A good long jail sentence would teach those bounders a
little decency, by Jove!”
“I’d like to have them soaked heavily for damages,” observed Joe. “I
don’t think the old man would have much trouble in getting a heavy
verdict in his favor from a jury. And I guess the poor old fellow needs
all he can get.”
The knowledge, however, that the accident would not prove fatal and
the consciousness that they had done all they could to help, served to
dissipate the shock caused by the affair, and before long they were
chatting as merrily as ever. So that when at last they parted at the
doors of the Marlborough their only feeling of regret was that the day
was ended. As for Joe and Mabel, snugly ensconced in the tonneau, they
would have been willing to ride on forever. Joe said as much, and Mabel
had acquiesced with her eyes if not in words.
It was a discordant note, therefore, when as the chums were going toward
their rooms they almost ran into “Bugs” Hartley, the former pitcher of
the Giants, who had been released earlier in the season for dissipation.
That erratic individual, whose venom against Joe had once led him to
drug his coffee so that our hero might be unable to pitch, had rapidly
gone from bad to worse. He had exceptional ability when he kept sober,
and even after his release by McRae he could have found some other
manager willing to give him a chance if he had kept away from drink.
But he had gone steadily downhill until he was now a saloon lounger and
hanger-on.
He had been drinking heavily now, as was evident by a glance at his
bleared face, and had reached the ugly stage of intoxication. His former
team mates stepped back as he lurched against them.
“Hello, Hartley,” said Joe not unkindly, for despite his just cause for
resentment, he was shocked and sorry to see how low “Bugs” had fallen.
“Don’t you talk to me!” snarled Hartley viciously. “You got me off the
team and knocked me out of my chance of World Series money.”
“You’re wrong there, Bugs,” returned Joe, keeping his temper. “I did
everything I could to help you. When you were drunk in St. Louis, Jim
and I smuggled you off to bed so that McRae wouldn’t find it out. You’re
your own worst enemy, Bugs.”
“Why don’t you brace up, Bugs, and cut out the booze?” broke in Jim.
“You’ve got lots of good pitching left in you yet.”
“Quit your preaching, you guys,” growled Hartley thickly. “It doesn’t
work with me. You’ve done me dirt and I’m going to get even with you yet
and don’t you forget it.”
He moved away unsteadily, and the chums watched him with a sentiment of
pity.
“Poor old Bugs,” remarked Jim. “He can’t bat successfully against the
Demon Rum.”
“No,” assented Joe. “I’m afraid he’ll be struck out.”