CHAPTER XXII
A DELAYED PITCHER
The motorman was grinding away at the brakes but the heavy car continuedto slide on, for the hill was steep. The horse lay quiet now, for a manhad managed to get to him and sit on his head, so the animal could notkick and thresh about with the consequent danger of getting his legsunder the trolley. The car would pass the horse and the wagon by a goodmargin, but the boy, leaning far over, was sure to be hit unless Joesaved 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 notseem to be able to raise himself to an upright position on the seat, inwhich case he would have been safe.
"Steady now!" called Joe, and he braced himself for the shock he knewwould come.
The next instant, as the car kept on, Joe found himself opposite the ladand reaching forward his right hand he grasped him by the collar,shoving him away so the car would not strike him. Then, holding on ingrim despair Joe pulled the youth toward him, aided by the momentum ofthe vehicle. His idea was to get him aboard the car to prevent his beingstruck by it, and in this he succeeded.
There was a ripping sound, for some part of the lad's clothing wascaught on the seat and tore loose. A shower of boxes and basketsfollowed the body as it slid forward, and a moment later Joe had the ladon the foot board beside him, safe and sound, but very much astonishedby 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 thelad was on uncertain footing. The pain increased. It was like beingkicked by the back-fire of an auto or motor boat. For a moment there wasa dull sensation and then the outraged nerves and muscles seemed to cryout in agony.
"There--there!" murmured Joe between his clenched teeth to the lad hehad saved. "You're all right I guess. Will--will somebody----"
He did not finish, but turned to the conductor, who had rushed towardhim on the running board, ready to relieve him of the lad's weight. Butthe boy was able to look after himself now, for the vehicle was almostat a standstill, and the motorman had it under control.
"Much--much obliged to you," the boy stammered his thanks to Joe who wasslowly making his way back to where Tom awaited him. Joe did not knowwhether he could get there or not, passing himself along by clingingwith his left hand to the successive car uprights.
"He saved your life all right," said the conductor, who had hold of thedelivery wagon lad.
"That's what!" chimed in several other men from the street, as theycrowded up around the car.
By this time the motorman had succeeded in bringing the vehicle to afull 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 touse in the game on the morrow--the first game with him in the box--hunglimp at his side.
Tom Davis saw and knew at once that something serious was the matter. Herealized 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 ifyou'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 tofix it up. You can't let this chance slip. I was afraid this wouldhappen 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. Comeon," and Tom quickly improvised a sling from his own and Joe'shandkerchiefs, 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 mightmean to him.
The lad thanked Joe again, earnestly, for his brave act and thenhastened to look after his horse, that had been gotten to its feet. Themotorman, too, thanked Joe for, though had an accident resulted itwould not have been his fault, yet he was grateful.
"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Tom impatiently as several others crowded uparound 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 aslight swelling he shook his head. "I'm afraid you can't pitchto-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 ifthat arm is massaged half the night and up to the time of the gameto-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 rubon, doctor."
Dr. Pickett showed Tom how to rub the arm, and how to knead the musclesto take out the soreness, and gave the boys a prescription to getfilled at the drug store.
"Come on!" cried Tom again. He seemed to have taken charge of Joe as atrainer 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, andfor several hours thereafter there was the smell of arnica and pungentliniment throughout the house. Tom was a faithful massage artist, andsoon 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 Tomabout nine o'clock. "I want to see if I can move it."
"Not a move!" sternly forbade the nurse. "You just keep quiet. If youcan pitch in the morning you'll be lucky."
At intervals until nearly midnight Tom rubbed the arm and then, knowingthat Joe must have rest, he installed himself on a couch in his chum'sroom, and let Joe go to sleep, with his arm wrapped in hot towelssaturated 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 tofind the sun streaming in his room. The young pitcher tried to raisehis arm but could not. It seemed as heavy as lead and a look of alarmcame over his face.
"That's all right," explained Tom. "Wait until I get off some of thetowels. It looks like an Egyptian mummy now."
Tom loosed the wrappings and then, to Joe's delight, he found that hecould move his arm with only a little pain resulting. He was about toswing 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." Therubbing did good, and Joe found that he had nearly full control of thehand 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 alittle light practice," decided Tom, and Joe smiled, but he gave in andate a hearty meal.
Once more faithful Tom massaged the arm, and rubbed in a salve designedto make the sore muscles and tendons limber. Not until then would heallow 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'sface, but he kept at it until he was nearly himself again. Then camemore rubbing and another application of salve and liniment, until Joedeclared that there wouldn't be any skin left on his arm, and that he'dsmell like a walking drug store for a week.
"Don't you care, as long as you can pitch," said Clara. "I'm going tothe game and I'm going to take Mabel Davis and Helen Rutherford. Theyboth 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," wasTom'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 thatmedicine worked wonders."
"It was my rubbing," explained Tom, puffing out his chest in pretendedpride.
"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, andwear a wrist strap. Good luck and I hope you'll win," and with a smilehe dismissed them.
Wearing a wrist strap helped greatly, and when it was nearly time toleave 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'llbe batted out of the box."
"It's too bad, of course," replied the manager, when the accident hadbeen explained to him, "but we won't work you very hard. I want you toget your chance, though."
And Joe felt his heart beat faster as he thought how nearly he had losthis chance. Yet he could not have done otherwise, he reflected.
"I don't see what's keeping Sam Morton," mused Captain Rankin, as theteam prepared to take the special trolley car. "He met me a little whileago and said he'd be on hand."
"It's early yet," commented the manager. "I guess he'll be on hand. Itold 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 itwas only fair to give him a show, but I know Sam is jealous and he won'ttake any chances on not being there."
All of the players, save the regular pitcher, were on hand now and theywere anxiously waiting for Sam. One of the inspectors of the trolleyline came up to where the boys stood about the special car that was on asiding.
"Say," began the inspector, "I'll have to send you boys on your waynow."
"But our special isn't due to leave for half an hour," complainedDarrell. "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 Idon't get you off now I can't for another hour, as the line toFayetteville 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 theinspector. "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 crowdalready gathered on the Academy grounds when they arrived and they werenoisily 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 watchedthem.
"Yes, we won't have any walk-over," said the captain.
The Silver Star lads lost no time in getting into their uniforms. Tomgave Joe's arm a good rubbing and then he caught for him for a whileuntil Joe announced that, aside from a little soreness, he was allright.
"Try it with Ferguson now," ordered Darrell, motioning to the regularcatcher, and Joe did so, receiving compliments from the backstop for hisaccuracy.
"A little more speed and you'll have 'em guessing," said the catchergenially. "But don't strain yourself."
The minutes ticked on. Several of the regular cars had come in fromRiverside but there was no sign of Sam Morton. Darrell and CaptainRankin 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 thegame."
"Oh, Sam wouldn't do that. He's too anxious to pitch. We'll wait a fewmore cars."
"And if he doesn't come?"
Darrell shrugged his shoulders and looked over to where Joe waspracticing with Bart Ferguson.