Their dreams that night were featured by wriggling, writhing forms.
“I’m glad I’m not scheduled to pitch to-day,” remarked Jim, at breakfast. “I’m afraid the Pirates would bat me all over the lot. I never felt less fit.”
“Such an experience isn’t exactly the best kind of preparation for box work,” replied Joe, with a ghost of a smile. “I guess Bradley will start, while I’ll stand ready to relieve him if he gets in a jam. I’m hoping, though, that he’ll pull through all right.”
After lunch they took a taxicab to the grounds, but the vehicle got in a traffic jam, and it was later than they expected when they finally reached Forbes Field.
They hurried over to the clubhouse and were entering the door when they met Iredell, who was coming out.
Iredell gave a sharp ejaculation and started back, while his face went as white as chalk.
“Why, what’s the matter, Iredell?” asked Joe.
“N—nothing,” stammered Iredell, by a mighty effort regaining control of himself and walking away.
Their wondering glances followed him, and they noticed that his gait was wavering.