"Hurry," she said, faint from weariness and the reaction. "You must dress."
He ran stiffly toward the dressing room under the stand. Bill Tascott, the umpire, was just starting toward the field.
"McCarthy!" he exclaimed at sight of the specter covered with mud and with cut and bruised features.
"Bill, don't start the game yet," panted McCarthy beseechingly. "Wait till I dress. Please tell Clancy I'm here."
"I'll tell him. I'll delay the game. Can you play?" said the umpire rapidly.
"Yes—give me time to dress."
Jack, the trainer, quiet after his first outburst of surprise, was preparing the hot shower and working like mad over the weary player and when Clancy, summoned by a quiet word from the umpire, rushed into the player's room, McCarthy was sighing luxuriously as the trainer soaked his weary, cramped limbs with witch hazel.
"Hurry, Jack," ordered Clancy as he squeezed McCarthy's hands. "I knew you'd come, Kohinoor."
"Am I in time?" asked the player. "Get my uniform out, please."
"Just in time. Good old Bill Tascott is delaying the game. You ought to see him raising cain over his mask being lost. He hid it in our bench and is accusing the Blues of stealing it. He won't start the game until you are ready."