A DELAYED PITCHER
The motorman was grinding away at the brakes but the heavy car continued
to slide on, for the hill was steep. The horse lay quiet now, for a man
had managed to get to him and sit on his head, so the animal could not
kick and thresh about with the consequent danger of getting his legs
under the trolley. The car would pass the horse and the wagon by a good
margin, but the boy, leaning far over, was sure to be hit unless Joe
saved him, and no one in the street seemed to think of the boy's danger.
He said later that he did not realize it himself.
The lad was struggling to free himself but could not, and he did not
seem to be able to raise himself to an upright position on the seat, in
which case he would have been safe.
"Steady now!" called Joe, and he braced himself for the shock he knew
would come.
The next instant, as the car kept on, Joe found himself opposite the lad
and reaching forward his right hand he grasped him by the collar,
shoving him away so the car would not strike him. Then, holding on in
grim despair Joe pulled the youth toward him, aided by the momentum of
the vehicle. His idea was to get him aboard the car to prevent his being
struck by it, and in this he succeeded.
There was a ripping sound, for some part of the lad's clothing was
caught on the seat and tore loose. A shower of boxes and baskets
followed the body as it slid forward, and a moment later Joe had the lad
on the foot board beside him, safe and sound, but very much astonished
by his sudden descent from the wagon seat.
Joe felt an excruciating pain shoot through his arm--his pitching arm.
It was numb from the shock but even yet he did not dare let go, for the
lad was on uncertain footing. The pain increased. It was like being
kicked by the back-fire of an auto or motor boat. For a moment there was
a dull sensation and then the outraged nerves and muscles seemed to cry
out in agony.
"There--there!" murmured Joe between his clenched teeth to the lad he
had saved. "You're all right I guess. Will--will somebody----"
He did not finish, but turned to the conductor, who had rushed toward
him on the running board, ready to relieve him of the lad's weight. But
the boy was able to look after himself now, for the vehicle was almost
at a standstill, and the motorman had it under control.
"Much--much obliged to you," the boy stammered his thanks to Joe who was
slowly making his way back to where Tom awaited him. Joe did not know
whether he could get there or not, passing himself along by clinging
with his left hand to the successive car uprights.
"He saved your life all right," said the conductor, who had hold of the
delivery wagon lad.
"That's what!" chimed in several other men from the street, as they
crowded up around the car.
By this time the motorman had succeeded in bringing the vehicle to a
full stop and Joe, fearing he might fall, for the pain was very severe,
got off. Tom hurried up to him.
"Did it strain you much?" he asked eagerly.
"A little--yes; considerable I guess," admitted Joe, making a wry face.
"But it will be all right--I guess." His right arm--the arm he hoped to
use in the game on the morrow--the first game with him in the box--hung
limp at his side.
Tom Davis saw and knew at once that something serious was the matter. He
realized what it meant to Joe, and he lost no time in useless talk.
"You come with me!" he commanded, taking hold of Joe's left arm.
"Where are you going?" demanded our hero.
"To our old family doctor. That arm of yours will need attention if
you're going to pitch to-morrow."
"I don't know that I can pitch, Tom."
"Yes you can--you've _got_ to. Dr. Pickett will give you something to
fix it up. You can't let this chance slip. I was afraid this would
happen when I saw what you were going to do."
"Yes," said Joe simply, "but I couldn't let him be hit by the car."
"No, I suppose not, and yet--well, we'll see what Dr. Pickett says. Come
on," and Tom quickly improvised a sling from his own and Joe's
handkerchiefs, and was about to lead his chum away.
"Oh, are you hurt? I'm sorry!" exclaimed the lad whom Joe had saved.
"It's only a strain," said the pitcher, but he did not add what it might
mean to him.
The lad thanked Joe again, earnestly, for his brave act and then
hastened to look after his horse, that had been gotten to its feet. The
motorman, too, thanked Joe for, though had an accident resulted it
would not have been his fault, yet he was grateful.
"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Tom impatiently as several others crowded up
around Joe. "Every minute's delay makes it worse. Let's get a move on,"
and he almost dragged his chum to the doctor's office.
Dr. Pickett looked grave when told of the cause of the injury.
"Well, let's have a look at the arm," he suggested, and when he saw a
slight swelling he shook his head. "I'm afraid you can't pitch
to-morrow," he said.
"I've _got_ to," replied Joe simply.
"Can't you give him some liniment to rub on to take the stiffness out,
doctor?" asked Joe.
"Hum! Nature is something that doesn't like to be hurried, young man,"
responded the physician. "However, it might be worse, and perhaps if
that arm is massaged half the night and up to the time of the game
to-morrow, he might pitch a few innings."
"That's good!" exclaimed Joe.
"And it's me for the massage!" cried Tom. "Now give us some stuff to rub
on, doctor."
Dr. Pickett showed Tom how to rub the arm, and how to knead the muscles
to take out the soreness, and gave the boys a prescription to get
filled at the drug store.
"Come on!" cried Tom again. He seemed to have taken charge of Joe as a
trainer might have done. "I must get you home and begin work on you."
And Tom did. He installed himself as rubber-in-chief in Joe's room, and
for several hours thereafter there was the smell of arnica and pungent
liniment throughout the house. Tom was a faithful massage artist, and
soon some of the soreness began to get out of the wrenched arm.
"Let me try to throw a ball across the room," the pitcher begged of Tom
about nine o'clock. "I want to see if I can move it."
"Not a move!" sternly forbade the nurse. "You just keep quiet. If you
can pitch in the morning you'll be lucky."
At intervals until nearly midnight Tom rubbed the arm and then, knowing
that Joe must have rest, he installed himself on a couch in his chum's
room, and let Joe go to sleep, with his arm wrapped in hot towels
saturated with witch hazel, a warm flat iron keeping the heat up.
"Well, how goes it?" Joe heard some one say, as he opened his eyes to
find the sun streaming in his room. The young pitcher tried to raise
his arm but could not. It seemed as heavy as lead and a look of alarm
came over his face.
"That's all right," explained Tom. "Wait until I get off some of the
towels. It looks like an Egyptian mummy now."
Tom loosed the wrappings and then, to Joe's delight, he found that he
could move his arm with only a little pain resulting. He was about to
swing it, as he did when pitching, but Tom called out:
"Hold on now! Wait until I rub it a bit and get up the circulation." The
rubbing did good, and Joe found that he had nearly full control of the
hand and arm. They were a bit stiff to be sure, but much better.
"Now for a good breakfast, some more rubbing, then some more, and a
little light practice," decided Tom, and Joe smiled, but he gave in and
ate a hearty meal.
Once more faithful Tom massaged the arm, and rubbed in a salve designed
to make the sore muscles and tendons limber. Not until then would he
allow Joe to go down in the yard and throw a few balls.
The delivery of the first one brought a look of agony on the pitcher's
face, but he kept at it until he was nearly himself again. Then came
more rubbing and another application of salve and liniment, until Joe
declared that there wouldn't be any skin left on his arm, and that he'd
smell like a walking drug store for a week.
"Don't you care, as long as you can pitch," said Clara. "I'm going to
the game and I'm going to take Mabel Davis and Helen Rutherford. They
both want to see you pitch, Joe."
"That's good," said her brother with a smile.
"Now we'll take another trip to the doctor's and see what he says," was
Tom's next order. The physician looked gratified when he saw the arm.
"Either it wasn't as badly strained as I thought it," he said, "or that
medicine worked wonders."
"It was my rubbing," explained Tom, puffing out his chest in pretended
pride.
"Well, that certainly completed the cure," admitted the physician.
"And I can pitch?" asked Joe anxiously.
"Yes, a few innings. Have your arm rubbed at intervals in the game, and
wear a wrist strap. Good luck and I hope you'll win," and with a smile
he dismissed them.
Wearing a wrist strap helped greatly, and when it was nearly time to
leave for Fayetteville Joe found that his arm was much better.
"I don't know how long I can last," he said to Darrell, "and maybe I'll
be batted out of the box."
"It's too bad, of course," replied the manager, when the accident had
been explained to him, "but we won't work you very hard. I want you to
get your chance, though."
And Joe felt his heart beat faster as he thought how nearly he had lost
his chance. Yet he could not have done otherwise, he reflected.
"I don't see what's keeping Sam Morton," mused Captain Rankin, as the
team prepared to take the special trolley car. "He met me a little while
ago and said he'd be on hand."
"It's early yet," commented the manager. "I guess he'll be on hand. I
told him Joe was going to pitch a few innings."
"What did he say?"
"Well, he didn't cut up nearly as much as I thought he would. He said it
was only fair to give him a show, but I know Sam is jealous and he won't
take any chances on not being there."
All of the players, save the regular pitcher, were on hand now and they
were anxiously waiting for Sam. One of the inspectors of the trolley
line came up to where the boys stood about the special car that was on a
siding.
"Say," began the inspector, "I'll have to send you boys on your way
now."
"But our special isn't due to leave for half an hour," complained
Darrell. "We're waiting for Sam Morton."
"Can't help that. I've got to start you off sooner than I expected.
There's been a change in the schedule that I didn't expect, and if I
don't get you off now I can't for another hour, as the line to
Fayetteville will be blocked."
"That means we'll be half an hour later than we expected," said Darrell.
"Well, I suppose we'd better go on. Sam can come by the regular trolley,
I guess."
"Sure, he'll be in Fayetteville in plenty of time," suggested the
inspector. "I'll be here and tell him about it."
There was no other way out of it, and soon the team and the substitutes,
with the exception of Sam, were on their way. There was quite a crowd
already gathered on the Academy grounds when they arrived and they were
noisily greeted by their opponents as well as by some of their own
"rooters." The Academy lads were at practice.
"They're a snappy lot of youngsters," commented Darrell, as he watched
them.
"Yes, we won't have any walk-over," said the captain.
The Silver Star lads lost no time in getting into their uniforms. Tom
gave Joe's arm a good rubbing and then he caught for him for a while
until Joe announced that, aside from a little soreness, he was all
right.
"Try it with Ferguson now," ordered Darrell, motioning to the regular
catcher, and Joe did so, receiving compliments from the backstop for his
accuracy.
"A little more speed and you'll have 'em guessing," said the catcher
genially. "But don't strain yourself."
The minutes ticked on. Several of the regular cars had come in from
Riverside but there was no sign of Sam Morton. Darrell and Captain
Rankin held an earnest conversation.
"What do you suppose is keeping him?" asked the manager.
"I can't imagine. Unless he is deliberately staying away to throw the
game."
"Oh, Sam wouldn't do that. He's too anxious to pitch. We'll wait a few
more cars."
"And if he doesn't come?"
Darrell shrugged his shoulders and looked over to where Joe was
practicing with Bart Ferguson.