"How is my uncle?" asked the lad anxiously.
"Only a slight cut. The drug clerk is putting some plaster on it. Shall I call him in?"
"Will I be able to play football Saturday?" There was a querulous note in Dick's voice.
"Humph! That's all you lads care about. As soon as you crawl through a knot hole without getting killed you want to rush off to battle. Play Saturday? Well——" The doctor paused.
"I've just got to!" cried Dick. "We meet Haskell—it means a lot to my team. I've got to play!"
"Well, I guess we can fix you up if you wear a leather bandage on that ankle. It might be a good deal worse. I'll take another look at it."
"We'll tell that elderly gentleman—your uncle—that you are all right, and ask him to come in here," said Miss Hanford. "Come, Mildred."
They withdrew, and as the physician was tightening the bandages on Dick's ankle Mr. Larabee entered. His appearance was not improved by a large piece of sticking plaster over his right eye, and he looked more aggressive than ever.
"I told you how it would be if we rode in one of them automobiles!" he exclaimed. "It's all your fault, Nephew Richard, and you'll have to pay the doctor bills. I shan't, and what's more I shan't pay that driver either. He ought to be more careful."
"Please don't get excited," begged the doctor, with a regard for Dick's nerves.