He tried his weight on it, and to his delight found that it was not a bad sprain, rather a severe wrench that, while it lamed him, still allowed him to walk.
“Guess I’ll go back,” he murmured. “If there’s a row I can’t hold up my end, and there’s no use being a handicap. I’ll go back and turn in. I can explain later.”
He turned about, walking slowly, the pain seeming to increase rather than diminish, and he realized that he was in for a bad time.
“If I could see a hack I’d hail it,” he thought, but the streets seemed deserted, no public vehicles being in sight. “I’ve got to tramp it out,” Joe went on. “Well, I can take it slow.”
His progress brought him to Wall street, and he decided to continue along that to Temple, and thence to the modest side-thoroughfare on which the Red Shack was located. But he was not destined to reach it without further adventures.
As he came around a corner he heard the murmur of low voices, and, being cautious by nature, he halted to take an observation.
“If it’s my own crowd—all right,” he said. “But if it’s a lot of Sophs., I don’t want to run into ’em.”
He listened, and from among those whom he could not see he heard the murmur of voices.
“That’s the house over there,” said someone.
“Right! Now we’ll see if he’ll double on me just because I wasn’t prepared. I’ll make him walk Spanish!”