“Game’s over!” said Doctor Lawrence, pushing Carl gently back.
“And we won!” informed Lank, stepping to Carl’s side.
The injured star nodded and moistened his lips, still staring.
“How did I get in here?” he asked, and put a shaky hand to his head. “The last I remember I—I was going through...!”
Lank grinned, reassuringly. “Yes, but they gave you the works, Carl, old boy ... and you did a backward flip-flop, landing on your bean. That was ‘lights’ for you.”
“It—it must have been,” said Carl, faintly.
“I’m glad it wasn’t a knee or an ankle,” kidded Lank. “Only your head!”
“Only?” repeated Carl, too stunned to react to kidding.
“I mean—you’ll soon be over this bump. We’ll sure need you week after next when we run into Siddall. You’ll have a chance to give your one rival some real competition then,” Lank went on.
“Whiz Deagen?” spoke Carl, and bit his lips. “Gee—my head! If you don’t mind ... I don’t want to talk hockey now ... I want to get home.... Where’s my clothes?... I want to get home...!”