“I—I don’t know,” answered Jackwell, trying desperately to get a grip on himself. “I suddenly felt faint. Everything got black before my eyes.”
“Touch of the sun, maybe,” said Joe, kindly. “Come over and get a drink of water and then sit down on the bench for a few minutes. I’ll ask one of the other fellows to take your place at third for practice.”
Jackwell sank down on the bench, while Joe returned to his practice with Mylert, somewhat upset by the incident.
A moment later, Bowen, the new centerfielder, came along, and Jackwell beckoned to him. He sat down beside him, and the two conversed in whispers, casting surreptitious glances at a part of the grandstand almost directly behind the third-base position.
Joe kept his eye on the two men and saw Bowen start violently at something Jackwell whispered to him. His face seemed suddenly to have been drained of every drop of blood, and he shook like a man with the ague.
Just then McRae, who had been having an exchange of repartee with Evans, the manager of the Chicago team, who had chaffed him unmercifully about the playing of the Giants, came back to the dugout. He glanced in surprise at the two players.
“What are you fellows doing here?” he asked sharply, glowering at them. “Didn’t you hear the bell ring for practice? Why aren’t you in your places on the field?”
“I’m sick, Mr. McRae,” replied Jackwell. “I wish you’d put somebody else in my place. I ain’t in condition to play to-day.”
“I’m in the same fix,” put in Bowen. “I feel like thirty cents.”
“That’s what the whole team’s worth,” growled McRae. “And even at that price the fellow that bought them would get stung. What do you mean, sick? Are you sick or just lazy, soldiering on the job? You seemed husky enough this morning.”