A TIGHT GAME
Rad gave a look at his chum, and then, sliding out of bed, ran to the
window.
"No luck!" he exclaimed.
"What do you mean?" asked Joe.
"I mean it isn't raining."
"What has that got to do with it?" the young pitcher wanted to know, as
he moved his sore arm back and forth, a little frown of pain showing on
his face at each flexing movement.
"Why, if it rained we wouldn't have any game, and you'd get a chance to
rest and get in shape. It's a dead cinch that you or Barter will be
called on to-day. Willard has 'Charlie-horse,' and he can't pitch. So
it's you or Barter."
"Then I guess it will have to be Barter," said Joe with a grimace. "I'm
afraid I can't go in. And yet I hate to give up and say I can't pitch.
It's tough luck!"
"Does it hurt much?" Rad wanted to know.
"Enough, yes. I could stand it, ordinarily, but every time I move it
will make it worse."
"Is it where that fellow pinched you, in getting off the car last
night?"
"He didn't pinch me," said Joe, "it was a deliberate twist."
"Deliberate?" questioned Rad in surprise.
"It sure was!" exclaimed the young pitcher decidedly. "The more I think
of it the more I'm certain that he did it deliberately."
"But why should he?" went on Rad. "You didn't prevent him from getting
out of the car. There was plenty of room for him to pass. Why should he
try to hurt you?"
"I don't know," answered Joe, "unless he was put up to it by----"
"By Jove! Shalleg! Yes!" cried Rad. "I believe you're right. Shalleg is
jealous of you, and he wants to see you kept out of the game, just
because he didn't make the nine. And I guess, too, he'd be glad to see
the Cardinals lose just to make Manager Watson feel sore. That's it,
Joe, as sure as you're a foot high!"
"Oh, I don't know as he thought the Cardinals would lose because I
didn't pitch," said Joe, slowly, "but he may have been set on me by
Shalleg, out of spite. Well, there's no use thinking about that now.
I've got to do something about this arm. I think I'll send word that I
won't be in shape to-day."
"No, don't you do it!" cried Rad. "Maybe we can fix up your arm. I know
how to make a dandy liniment that my mother used on me when I was a
small chap."
"Liniment sounds good," said Joe with a smile. "But I guess I'd better
have Boswell look at it. He's got some of his own----"
"Yes, and then you'd have to admit that you're lame, and give the whole
thing away!" interrupted Rad. "Don't do it. Leave it to me. There's some
time before the game and I can give you a good rubbing, meanwhile. I'll
send out to the drug store, get the stuff made up, and doctor you here.
"There'll be no need to tell 'em anything about it if I can get you into
shape, and then, if you're called on, you can go in and pitch. If they
think you're crippled they won't give you a chance."
"That's so," admitted Joe.
"Still, you wouldn't go in if you didn't think you could do good work,"
went on his chum.
"Certainly I would not," agreed Joe. "That would be too much like
throwing the game. Well, see what you can do, Rad. I'd like to get a
good whack at the fellow who did this, though," he went on, as he worked
his arm slowly back and forth.
Rad rang for a messenger, and soon had in from a drug store a bottle of
strong-smelling liniment, with which he proceeded to massage Joe's arm.
He did it twice before the late breakfast to which they treated
themselves, and once afterward, before it was time to report at the park
for morning practice.
"Does it feel better?" asked Rad, as his chum began to do some pitching
work.
"A whole lot, yes."
It was impossible to wholly keep the little secret from Boswell. He
watched Joe for a moment and then asked suddenly:
"Arm stiff?"
"A bit, yes," the pitcher was reluctantly obliged to admit.
"You come in the clubhouse and have it attended to!" ordered the
trainer. "I can't have you, or any of the boys, laid up."
Then, as he got out his bottle of liniment, and looked at Joe's arm, one
of the ligaments of which had been strained by the cruel twist, Boswell
said, sniffing the air suspiciously:
"You've been using some of your own stuff on that arm; haven't you?"
"Yes," admitted Joe.
"I thought so. Well, maybe it's good, but my stuff is better. I'll soon
have you in shape."
He began a scientific massage of the sore arm, something of which, with
all his good intentions, Rad was not capable. Joe felt the difference at
once, and when he went back to practice he was almost himself again.
"How about you?" asked Rad, when he got the chance.
"I guess I'll last out--if I have to pitch," replied Joe. "But it's not
certain that I shall go in."
"The Phillies are out to chew us up to-day," went on his chum. "It's
going to be a tight game. Don't take any chances."
"I won't; you may depend on that."
There was a conference between Boswell and the manager.
"Who shall I put in the box?" asked the latter, for he often depended in
a great measure on the old trainer.
"Let Barter open the ball, and see how he does. It's my notion that he
won't stand the pace, for he's a little off his feed. But I want to take
a little more care of Matson, and this will give him a couple of innings
to catch up."
"Matson!" cried the manager. "Has he----"
"Just a little soreness," said Boswell quickly, for that was all he
imagined it to be. He had not asked Joe how it happened, for which the
young pitcher was glad. "It'll be all right with a little more rubbing."
He knew Joe's hope, and wanted to do all he could to further it.
"All right. Announce Barter and Russell as the battery. And you look
after Matson; will you?"
"I sure will. I think Joe can pitch his head off if he gets the chance."
"I hope he doesn't lose his head," commented the manager grimly. "It's
going to be a hard game."
Which was the opinion of more than one that day.
Joe was taken in charge by Boswell, and in the clubhouse more attention
was given to the sore arm.
"How does it feel now?" asked the trainer, anxiously.
"Fine!" replied Joe, and really the pain seemed all gone.
"Then come out and warm up with me. You'll be needed, if I am any
judge."
To Joe's delight he found that he could send the ball in as swiftly as
ever, and with good aim.
"You'll do!" chuckled Boswell. "And just in time, too. There goes a home
run, and Barter's been hit so hard that we'll have to take him out."
It was the beginning of the third inning, and, sure enough, when it came
the turn of the Cardinals to bat, a substitution was made, and the
manager said:
"Get ready, Joe. You'll pitch the rest of the game."
Joe nodded, with a pleased smile, but, as he raised his arm to bend it
back and forth, a sharp spasm of pain shot through it.
"Whew!" whistled Joe, under his breath. "I wonder if the effects of that
liniment are wearing off? If they are, and that pain comes back, I'm
done for, sure. What'll I do?"
There was little time to think; less to do anything. Joe would not bat
that inning, that was certain. He took a ball, and, nodding to Rad, who
was not playing, went out to the "bull-pen."
"What's up?" asked Rad, cautiously.
"I felt a little twinge. I just want to try the different balls, and
find which I can deliver to best advantage to myself. You catch."
Rad nodded understandingly. To Joe's delight he found that in throwing
his swift one, the spitter, and his curves he had no pain. But his
celebrated fadeaway made him wince when he twisted his arm into the
peculiar position necessary to get the desired effect.
"Wow!" mused Joe. "I can't deliver that, it's a sure thing. Well, I'm
not going to back out now. I'll stay in as long as I can. But it's going
to hurt!"
He shut his teeth, and, trying to keep away from his face the shadow of
pain, threw his fadeaway to Rad again.
The pain shot through his arm like a sharp knife.
"But I'll do it!" thought Joe, grimly.