_Swanson to the Rescue_
When Silent Swanson aroused himself from the effects of the blow on the
head from the beer mallet in the hands of the treacherous bartender, he
sat up feebly and found himself in semi-darkness.
"Someone crowned me with a crowbar," he muttered to himself as his
brain gradually began to work normally. "They must have kicked me
after I went down."
A faint groan from the heavy shadows near him startled him into a
realization of what had happened. He felt around for a moment and his
fingers touched the body of a man huddled against a wall.
"It must be Ken--and he's hurt," he muttered, and crept toward his
companion. Swanson worked over him, shaking and speaking to him and
presently Kennedy stirred and sat up against the wall.
"Where are we? What happened?" he inquired in a bewildered manner.
"Search me," replied Swanson mournfully. "I was just getting ready to
swing the haymaker on that big fellow when the house fell. I think
someone beaned me from behind with a brick and then kicked us around.
Ouch--my ribs feel stoved in."
"I'm sore all over," moaned Kennedy. "That fellow didn't do it all by
himself, did he?"
"I have a dim recollection of hearing someone tell him to fix us
right," replied Swanson. "I may have dreamed it."
"Let's get out of here," urged Swanson suddenly. "If some watchman
finds us here we'll be pinched, and it will make a nice story for the
reporters."
"Where do you think we are?" asked Kennedy, striving to get to his feet
and groaning with every move.
"In the alley back of the joint we were in," replied Swanson. "They
must have dragged us to the back door and dumped us."
He had managed to get upon his feet, assisted Kennedy to arise, and
slowly and with many groans they went toward the mouth of the alley.
"Let's go around to the front door and clean out that place," urged
Swanson, growing angry.
Both men were commencing to recover from the effects of the cruel
treatment they had endured, and, as their injured muscles loosened
their anger arose. They made their way painfully around the block and
to the entrance of the saloon. It was locked and the place was in
total darkness. Swanson shook the barred doors without result, then
stood gazing blankly against the glass.
"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 massage, 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 assist in performing an important operation, but that he
probably would return soon. Not until two o'clock had passed 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
bumped 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.