"Did I?" snorted the young pitcher. "I thought there were four of us in it, with five others helping a bit."
"It was the crack you gave that ball that brought us in," glowed Purcell. "Gracious, I don't believe that Gardiner pitcher was ever stung as badly as that before!"
The band was playing, now. As the strain stopped, and the young pitcher came across the field, leaning now on Dave Darrin's arm, the music crashed out again into "Hail to the Chief!"
"You see, Purcell. You're getting your share of the credit now," laughed Dick. "The band is playing something about a captain, isn't it?"
In the dressing room Dick had abundant offers of help. Fred Ripley was the only silent one in the group. He changed his togs for street clothes as quickly as he could and disappeared. Later, Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes helped Dick on to a street car, and saw him safely home. That knee required further treatment by Dr. Bentley, but there was time, now, and no game depending on the result.
"Fred, I can't say much for your appetite tonight," remarked his father at the evening meal.
"Neither can I, sir," Fred answered.
"Are you out of sorts?"
"Never felt any better, sir."
"Being out in the open air all this April afternoon should have given you an appetite.