Cap Smith was the first to reach his brother. As he lifted him up Bill opened his eyes.
“I’m all right,” he murmured. “I can stand alone.”
He proved it by doing so. His hand went to his head, and when it came away there was a little smear of blood on the palm.
“Must have hit on a stone and cut myself,” he said, a bit faintly. “But I’m all right now.”
“Are you sure?” asked Pete, slipping his arm around his brother. “Better come over here and sit down.”
He led Bill to the bench, and indeed the pitcher was a trifle dizzy, and his head felt queer, for he had fallen harder than he had supposed.
The other players, finding that nothing serious was the matter went back to their practice. In the grandstands the singing and cheering was multiplied. Crowds of pretty girls, eager youths, demure chaperones, old grads, young grads and mere spectators continued to arrive until every seat was filled.
“It’s going to be a great game,” murmured Cap, who, finding that his brother was apparently all right, resumed, his catching with Mersfeld. “I never saw such a crowd!”
“It’s money in the treasury whether we win the pennant or not,” declared J. Evans Green, the business-like manager.
“But we are going to win!” declared Cap emphatically. “Keep ’em guessing, Mersfeld, and you’ll do. Now when I put three fingers on my mitt so, let me have a swift drop,” and he went on with his code of signals.