FRED HARRISON
The driver of the omnibus gave his reins a sharp tug that brought
his horses up on their haunches. They became frightened, and kicked
viciously in their traces. This added to the general feeling of alarm.
There was an awful hush for a moment as we thought of the possible
fate our unfortunate companion might meet from the cruel hoofs of the
startled animals. Then several of us sprang hastily to the ground.
Between two of the spokes of the front wheel protruded a leg, clad in
the dark blue of our ball suits, while, huddled up under the omnibus,
lay the body of Fred Harrison. How he could have got into such an
entangled position it is impossible to say, but it was only by a
miracle that he had escaped being crushed and mangled. One more turn of
the wheel would have doubtless proven fatal.
Without an instant’s delay two of us crept under the body of the
omnibus, and, carefully avoiding the blows of the horses’ hoofs, drew
Fred gently out, and laid him upon his side on the grass. He seemed
scarcely to breathe; his face was pale and still. Ray dropped on his
knees, and put his hand upon the poor fellow’s breast.
“Run, get some water quick,” he said.
We turned in consternation and looked about us. Where should we go? We
were on a deserted country road. There were no houses in sight to which
we could apply for assistance, no stream near by from which we could
procure water. We were utterly helpless and alone. The other omnibuses
containing our companions had disappeared in the distance ahead of us.
“Oh! what shall we do?” I exclaimed. “Is there no way we can help the
poor fellow?”
“I think he has only fainted,” said Ray, with his face close to Fred’s.
“We must find something to bring him to.”
Suddenly Tony Larcom uttered a quick exclamation of relief, and leaped
back into the omnibus, where he began searching under the seat for
something.
“I have it,” he cried, as he joined us again, carrying in his hand a
large bottle full of the raw whisky which we used to bathe bruises and
sprains. “Here, use this. It is pretty bad stuff to swallow, but it
will help him.”
Ray seized the bottle, and placing it to Fred’s mouth, forced his lips
open. A few swallows produced an almost immediate change. Fred took a
long breath, moaned once or twice, then opened his eyes.
For a moment he seemed surprised, but this expression quickly gave way
to one of pain. He uttered a sharp cry and again closed his eyes. The
color had entirely forsaken his lips. Evidently he had sustained some
injury of which we knew nothing. We attempted to raise him up in order
to make his position more comfortable, when he gave vent to another cry.
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Tony Larcom. “No wonder the poor fellow
suffers! Look at his right arm. It must be broken.”
For the first time we noticed that Fred’s arm hung limp and distorted.
The shirt at the elbow was torn, and disclosed an ugly looking bruise
from which the blood was slowly oozing.
“He must have been kicked by the horses,” said Ray. “Here, fellows, we
ought not to delay a minute, but get him into the hands of a doctor as
soon as possible.”
Accordingly, we lifted him as gently as the circumstances permitted,
and laid him upon one of the cushioned seats of the omnibus. He made
little noise while we handled him. He seemed to have fainted again with
pain. We rested him upon his left side so that his right arm should
lie quietly and without contact. Then Ray sat at his head, bathing his
face, while I sat at his feet to hold him still and to prevent the
rolling of the omnibus from jarring him.
Fortunately the road was smooth, so we were able to make good time on
the way home.
The episode had driven everything else from our mind. Even the game
and our humiliating defeat were forgotten in our solicitude for the
unfortunate student who lay groaning on the seat beside us.
“How did it all come about?” asked Ray. “What made him fall in that
way?”
“It is a perfect mystery,” answered George Ives, who had been sitting
just beside Harrison. “He was sitting there quietly on the front seat,
with his head in his hand. I thought he had a headache, or perhaps
was feeling badly broken up over the game, but I didn’t suppose for a
moment that there was anything else the matter with him. Suddenly I saw
him sway from side to side unsteadily, and before I or the driver could
catch him, he fell head foremost down upon the traces, and rolled under
the omnibus. How he caught in that wheel I can’t imagine, but he must
have been dragged several feet before we stopped.”
“Has Fred been complaining of being unwell?” I asked.
“Not to me,” said George. “I must say I can’t understand him to-day at
all.”
“I think he simply lost his head,” I answered. “It was his first game
of ball. He was very anxious to do well, and became nervous. Of course
this grew worse as he found himself playing badly.”
“Yes; but how do you explain his tumbling over in this strange way?”
asked Tony.
“I suppose the fatigue of the game, and its discouraging results, may
have reacted on his nerves and produced vertigo,” I answered.
“I hardly believe that,” said Ray. “There must be some reason. I don’t
know what to think. I thought I had judged Harrison correctly when we
chose him for the nine. I counted on some little nervousness, for he
is a Freshman, and has had no experience on the ball field, but I did
not look for such a complete demoralization as this to-day. Did any of
you speak much to him during the game? Did you notice how confused his
ideas seemed to be? Why, in the fourth inning, when we took the field,
he started to go to third base instead of first, and only stopped when
I spoke to him. Were such a thing possible, I could almost believe the
fellow had been drugged.”
I had reached out at this moment to place Fred’s right arm in a
more comfortable position, when my hand struck something hard which
protruded partly from his inside coat pocket.
“Why, what is this?” I exclaimed, drawing it out to view.
It was a small brandy flask, half emptied.
“Jerusalem, the boy has been drinking!” cried Tony Larcom, as the whole
truth of the affair suddenly dawned on him.
“Not a doubt of it,” said Frank Holland, who was a classmate of
Harrison’s. “It was only last night that Fred told me that he was going
to be nervous to-day, and said that he wished he could take something
to strengthen him. I told him that he would be only the worse for it,
and so he said no more about it.”
Ray had taken the bottle from me.
“I am afraid it is true,” he said.
“No wonder he was upset,” said Tony. “He must have been fairly
stupefied. What on earth possessed him to do such a thing? He knew the
rule that no member of the nine should touch stimulants.”
“He has certainly made a bad mistake,” said Ray. “I wish I could have
advised him in time.”
Little more was to be said. The matter seemed clear enough now, and
foolish as Fred Harrison had been, we could only pity him in his
present helpless condition.
We reached Belmont about six o’clock, and drove immediately to the
dormitory where Fred roomed. One of our number was despatched for a
doctor, while others carried the still partially unconscious student up
to his room.
The doctor arrived in a few minutes, and made a hasty examination.
“The arm is not broken,” he said. “It is slightly dislocated. Two or
three of you hold him tightly a moment.”
We followed his directions at once. Then the doctor planted his foot
firmly against the bed, grasped the arm with both hands, bent and
twisted it until we thought he would sever it from the body, and then
suddenly turned it skilfully back into its proper position.
During the operation Fred had cried incessantly with pain, but when the
bone had resumed its place, his muscles relaxed, and his head sank back
with a long sigh of relief.
The doctor was now examining his wrist.
“There is a sprain here that will probably give him trouble for two or
three weeks,” he said.
“Is there anything else to do?” I asked.
“Nothing but to make him easy,” he answered. “I will treat his arm and
wrist and bind them up. Then one of you had better remain with him to
attend to his wants.”
Tony Larcom, being the only one of us in his ordinary clothes,
consented to stay, while Ray and I agreed to change our suits and
return immediately after dinner to relieve Tony. Dick Palmer had
already gone over to the telegraph office to send word to Fred’s
parents, who lived at Springfield. Feeling that everything had been
done to contribute to the invalid’s comfort, the rest of us took our
departure, leaving Fred in the hands of Tony and the doctor.