“Well, you’ve got that foot of yours into a beautiful condition,” Niles went on. “It’s beginning to swell already. Here, sit down, while we take you into the house.”
He and Buckhart clasped hands and, lifting Merriwell up between them, started slowly back toward the clubhouse, the spectators straggling behind, discussing the result with much interest.
The two fellows carried Dick into the dressing room, where he rested on a chair while they bathed his ankle in cold water and then bandaged it as tightly as they could to keep down the swelling.
“How the mischief did you do it, pard?” Buckhart asked, while this was being done.
“I think I stepped on a small stone,” Dick answered “At least it felt like that.”
“A stone!” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible. I walked over the track an hour before the race and it was in perfect condition. It couldn’t have been a stone.”
“Well, it felt like one,” Dick smiled. “I can’t swear to it.”
Niles turned to one of the men who had acted as timekeepers, and who was helping them with the bandage.
“Say, Johnson, just take a run out to the track and see if you can see anything of a stone, will you?” he asked. “I want to find out about this.”