THE HOUR OF TORMENTING DOUBT
"Oh, no! That mustn't be. I've got to pitch in to-morrow's game!"
Prescott ground out the words between his clenched teeth. The
consciousness of pain was again asserting itself.
"What's the matter, Prescott?" called the first passer-by to reach
him.
"Matter enough," grumbled Dick, pointing to the pole that lay
near him. "See that thing?"
"Yes. Trip over it?"
"I did. But some one thrust it between my legs as I was running
past here."
"Sho!" exclaimed another, curiously. "Now, who would want to
do that?"
"Anyone who didn't want me to pitch to-morrow's game, perhaps,"
flashed Dick, with sudden divination.
"What's this?" demanded a boy, breaking in through the small crowd
that was collecting. "Dick---you hurt?"
It didn't take Dave many seconds to understand the situation.
"I'll bet I know who did it!" he muttered, vengefully.
"Who?" spoke up one of the men.
But Dick gave a warning nudge. "Oh, well!" muttered Dave Darrin.
"We'll settle this thing all in our own good time."
"Let me have your arm, Dave," begged young Prescott. "I want
to see how well I can walk."
The young pitcher had already been experimenting, cautiously,
to see how much weight he could bear on his injured left leg.
"Take my arm on the other side," volunteered a sympathetic man
in the crowd.
Dick was about to do so, when the lights of an auto showed as
the machine came close to the curb.
"Here's a doctor," called some one.
"Which one?" asked Dick.
"Bentley."
"Good!" muttered Dave. "Dr. Bentley is medical examiner to the
High School athletic teams. Ask Dr. Bentley if he won't come
in here. Stand still, Dick, and put all the weight you can on
your sound leg."
Prescott was already doing this.
Dr. Bentley, a strong looking man of about fifty, rather short
though broad-shouldered, took a quick survey of the situation.
"One of you men help me put Prescott in the tonneau of my car,"
he directed, "and come along with me to Prescott's home. The
lad must not step on that leg until it has been looked at."
Dick found himself being lifted and placed in a comfortable seat
in the after part of the auto. Dave and the man who had helped
the physician got in with him.
Barely a minute later Dr. Bentley stopped his car before the Prescott
book store.
"You stay in the car a minute," directed the physician. "I want
to speak to your mother, so she won't be scared to death."
Mrs. Prescott, from whom Dick had inherited much of his own pluck,
was not the kind of woman to faint. She quickly followed Dr.
Bentley from the store.
"I'm hurt only in my feelings, mother," said Dick cheerfully.
"I'm afraid I have a little wrench that will keep me out of the
game tomorrow."
"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 flashing. Dave had his own theory
to account for this state of affairs.
Into his own room Dick 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 Dick. "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," Dick answered, in each case.
"We don't want grit, my boy. We want the truth."
"Why, no; it doesn't hurt," Dick 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 Dick 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 Dick, 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 assumed 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 Dick, "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 Dick & 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 Dick, 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 passed 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 Dick 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 Saturday 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 Dick?" 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. Dick 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."
"Tip Scammon?"
"Surely," nodded Darrin. "He's Ripley's right hand at nasty work,
isn't he?"
"I'd hate to think that Fred had a hand in such mean business,"
muttered Dick, flushing.
"Don't be simple," muttered Dave. "Who wanted to be crack pitcher
for the nine? Who pitches to-day, if neither of us can? That
would be a mean hint to throw out, if Ripley's past conduct didn't
warrant the suspicion."
Later in the morning there was another phase of the sensation,
and Dave came back with it. He was just in time to find Dick
walking out into the little parlor of the flat, Dr. Bentley watching.
"Fine!" cheered Dave. "How is he, doctor?"
"Doing nicely," nodded Dr. Bentley.
"But how about the big problem---can he pitch to-day?"
"That's what we're trying to guess," replied the physician. "Now,
see here, Prescott, you're to sit over there by the window, in
the sunlight. During the first hour you will get up once in every
five minutes and walk around the room once, then seating yourself
again. In the second hour, you'll walk around twice, every five
minutes. After that you may move about as much as you like,
but don't go out of the room. I think you can, by this gentle
exercise, work out all the little stiffness that's left there."
"And now for my news," cried Dave, as soon as the medical man
had gone. "Fred Ripley ran into trouble, too."
"Got hurt, you mean?" asked Dick quickly.
"Not quite," went on Darrin, making a face. "When Fred was going
into the house last night he tripped slightly---against a rope
that had been stretched across the garden path between two stakes."
"But Fred wasn't hurt?"
"No; he says he tripped, but he recovered himself."
"I'm afraid you don't believe that, Dave?"
"I ought to, anyway," retorted Darrin dryly. "Fred is showing
the rope."
"A piece of rope is easy enough to get," mused Dick.
"Yep; and a lie is easy enough for some fellows to tell. But
some of the fellows are inclined to believe Rip, so they've started
a yarn that Gardiner High School is up to tricks, and that some
fellows have been sent over in advance to cripple our box men
for to-day."
"That's vile!" flushed Prescott indignantly, as he got up to make
the circuit of the room. "The Gardiner fellows have always been
good, fair sportsmen. They wouldn't be back of any tricks of
that sort."
"Well, Fred has managed to cover himself, anyway," returned Dave
rather disgustedly. "He called his father and mother out to see
the rope before he cut it away from the stakes. Oh, I guess a
good many fellows will believe Ripley's yarn!"
"I'm afraid you don't, Dave;"
"Oh, yes; I'm easy," grinned Darrin.
"Can you see two young ladies, Richard?" asked Mrs. Prescott,
looking into the room.
"Certainly, mother, if I get a chance. My vision is not impaired
in the least," laughed Dick.
Mrs. Prescott stood aside to admit Laura and Belle, then followed
them into the room.
"We came to make sure that Gridley is not to lose its great pitcher
to-day," announced Laura.
"Then your father must have told you that I'd do," cried Dick,
eagerly.
"Father?" pouted Miss Bentley. "You don't know him then. One
can never get a word out of father about any of his patients.
But he said we might call."
The visit of the girls brightened up twenty minutes of the morning.
"Of course," said Laura, as they rose to go, "you mustn't attempt
to pitch if you really can't do it, or if it would hurt you for
future games."
"I'm afraid the coach won't let me pitch, unless your father says
I can," murmured Dick, with a wry face.
Few in Gridley who knew the state of affairs had any idea that
Dick Prescott would be able to stand in the box against Gardiner.
But the young pitcher boarded a trolley car, accompanied by Dave
Darrin, and both reached the Athletic Field before two o'clock.
Dr. Bentley was there soon after. In the Gridley dressing room,
Dick's left leg was bared, while Coach Luce drew off his coat
and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Under the physician's direction
the coach administered a very thorough massage, following this
with an alcohol rubbing.
When it was all over Dick rose to exhibit the motions of that
leg before the eyes of the doubtful physician.