“And I a sprained ankle,” said another.
“And I a wrenched back,” from another.
“And Hodge has a broken head,” declared somebody, speaking for Bart.
“And every other man but Merriwell is a cripple,” asserted Walt Forrest. “Merriwell is the luckiest dog alive. Why, he couldn’t get hurt! Did you ever get hurt, Merriwell?”
For a reply, Frank held up a hand which he had been keeping out of sight, pulling a handkerchief bandage off his wrist, which was seen terribly swollen. There were exclamations of astonishment on all sides.
“Why, you didn’t say a word about it?” cried Birch.
Frank laughed.
“What was the good of saying anything?” he asked. “The others were saying enough. I didn’t need to add my plaint to theirs.”
“But you should have had that attended to, old man.”
“I did,” said Frank. “If you other fellows hadn’t been so plastered with linement, you’d smelled the stuff I have on this handkerchief. The doctor told me to keep my wrist wet with it.”