"Surely," nodded Darrin. "He's Ripley's right hand at nasty work, isn't he?"
"I'd hate to think that Fred had a hand in such mean business," muttered Dick, flushing.
"Don't be simple," muttered Dave. "Who wanted to be crack pitcher for the nine? Who pitches to-day, if neither of us can? That would be a mean hint to throw out, if Ripley's past conduct didn't warrant the suspicion."
Later in the morning there was another phase of the sensation, and Dave came back with it. He was just in time to find Dick walking out into the little parlor of the flat, Dr. Bentley watching.
"Fine!" cheered Dave. "How is he, doctor?"
"Doing nicely," nodded Dr. Bentley.
"But how about the big problem—-can he pitch to-day?"
"That's what we're trying to guess," replied the physician. "Now, see here, Prescott, you're to sit over there by the window, in the sunlight. During the first hour you will get up once in every five minutes and walk around the room once, then seating yourself again. In the second hour, you'll walk around twice, every five minutes. After that you may move about as much as you like, but don't go out of the room. I think you can, by this gentle exercise, work out all the little stiffness that's left there."
"And now for my news," cried Dave, as soon as the medical man had gone. "Fred Ripley ran into trouble, too."
"Got hurt, you mean?" asked Dick quickly.