“I guess you are, old man.”
The Yale team went back jubilant, and there was a great celebration in New Haven when the ball nine arrived. Fires were made, and the campus as well as the streets about the college were thronged with students. There were marches, and songs, and Joe Matson’s name was cheered again and again.
Meanwhile our hero was not having a very delightful time. Not only was he in pain, but he worried lest the injury to his arm prove permanent.
“If I shouldn’t be able to pitch again!” he exclaimed to Spike, in their room.
“Forget it!” advised the other. “You’ll be at it again in a little while. Just take it easy.”
And Joe tried to, but it was hard work. It was galling to go to practice and watch others play the game while he sat and looked on—especially when Weston was pitching. But there was no help for it.
And then, like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, it came.
The week had passed and Joe, who had done some light practice, was sent in to pitch a couple of innings against the scrub. Weston was pulled out, and he went to the bench with a scowl.
“I’ll get him yet,” he muttered to De Vere. “He’s put me out of it again.”
“I’d go slow,” was the advice.