He was making a brave effort to keep on, and for another block Swanson half supported him. Then he gave up and sat down upon the curbing.
"Sit here," said Swanson quickly. "There is an all-night drug store a couple of blocks down; I'll find a cab there."
He limped away as rapidly as possible, and, almost before Kennedy realized it, he returned in a taxicab.
"Caught him just starting home," explained Swanson, as he half lifted Kennedy into the tonneau. "He says there is a hospital less than a mile from here where we can get treatment."
The bruised and battered players groaned and swore under their breath, while the cab made a rapid trip to the hospital, and half an hour later they were resting easily in a private room, their wounds were being washed and dressed and a young doctor was working hard to relieve their sufferings.
"We've got to play ball this afternoon, Doc," said Swanson, watching the surgeon cut and wash the hair from the wound on his scalp. "Fix us up right."
"You'll not play ball this week," said the surgeon cheerfully. "Your friend over there will be all right in a couple of days. He's badly bruised and his hand is sprained, but not seriously. He's sorer than you are, but by morning you'll be a cripple."
"But, Doc, we've got to play," pleaded Swanson. "You've got to fix us up."
"I'll do all I can," remarked the surgeon. "But your right arm is badly wrenched and bruised. The cuts won't hurt, but one of your eyes will be out of commission for three or four days. Whose mule kicked you?"
Swanson, pledging the doctor to secrecy, revealed part of the truth.