“Read it aloud,” cried Dill. “George doesn’t seem to think any one is interested except himself. What’s the matter with Disbrow? When is he coming?”
“Isn’t coming at all,” answered George weakly. “Please read it.”
“‘George Baker, Meadow-Brook, N. H.’ It is dated at New London,” explained Harriet, then continued to read the message, which was as follows: “‘Unfortunate accident. Pullman step porter set down tilted under foot when I was stepping from train. Landed on back with sprained ankle. Laid up perhaps two weeks. Awfully sorry. See what I can do if come here. Let know any change. (Signed) Disbrow.’”
“Must have thought he was writing a letter instead of sending a telegram,” jeered Crazy Jane.
The boys glanced at each other and breathed deeply. Words failed them just at that moment.
“Sprained his ankle and is laid up,” reflected Jane. “He asks you to come to see him. Are you going?”
“You must not go on our account,” said Harriet Burrell. “You must not worry him with our troubles. He has plenty of his own at present. We shall get along somehow.”
“Yes, don’t take it so to heart, George,” urged the guardian. “We are fortunate in having you to coach us. I know you will turn us out finished players at the expiration of five weeks from the time we started.”
“Where is Mr. Mabie?” asked Hazel.
“I left him in town, in case there should happen to be anything more from Disbrow. But there won’t be. I know what a sprained ankle is. I had one once, and I don’t want another. What a mess I have made of it!”