His stern eyes left McDonough’s face and traveled swiftly over the other men.
“But this thing is not going to drop,” he rasped. “I’ll find out who set off that blast if I have to grill every man in the shift. I’m going to get at the truth somehow.”
An empty ore car was brought up and the mine owner helped into it. He was followed by the other members of the party. As McDonough stepped forward to help Dick into the car, the Yale man looked at him keenly, searchingly, with narrowed lids. It was the briefest sort of a glance, but there was something in Merriwell’s eyes which caused the burly giant to move uneasily and turn away his head.
Dick sprang into the car without assistance. They moved slowly down the crosscut to the main drift, and were soon back at the station again.
By the time the mine owner’s office was reached, Fairchilds was able to hobble along without assistance, though he still suffered considerable pain. He led the Yale men into his private office, where he insisted on Dick’s taking off his shirt so that his shoulder could be attended to.
Though Merriwell made light of it, there was an ugly bruise where the piece of rock had struck him, and his whole arm pained him, as if it had been badly hurt. Fairchilds’ secretary, who was experienced in looking after such things, painted it well with iodine, after he had assured himself that there were no bones broken, and cautioned Dick about taking care of it for a few days, so as not to strain it further.
“Swell chance I’ll have of taking care of it, with a game on this afternoon,” Dick remarked, as they were changing their clothes in the small room off the main office.
“Great Scott, pard!” Buckhart exclaimed in dismay. “I’d clean forgot the game. How in thunder are you going to pitch?”
Dick smiled.
“Be a south paw, I reckon, if I find the other wing won’t stand the racket.”