“Ptomaine poisoning’s a pretty bad thing,” said Joe, looking at them rather quizzically. “It usually hangs on for days. You’re lucky to get over it so quickly.”
“You look fit as a fiddle,” added Jim, dryly. “Or is it the hectic flush of disease that gives you such a good color?”
“I guess it was only a slight attack,” said Jackwell. “Just enough to put us out of our stride for the day.”
“I’ve got to get to the hotel and get there quickly,” declared Joe, a twinge going through his foot as he stepped down from the threshold of the clubhouse. “Mabel will be at the hotel, wondering what on earth has happened to me.”
“By jiminy, that’s so!” cried Jim, turning to stare at his chum. “What will you think of me, old boy, if I confess that in the excitement of the game I’d forgotten about her coming?”
Joe grinned.
“You wouldn’t have been so quick to forget if Clara had been able to come along with her,” he said, as he walked along gingerly, favoring his injured leg.
“Say, Joe, that leg must be pretty bad,” said Jim, anxiously. “Better rest a while, don’t you think, before starting out?”
“I tell you I’ve waited too long already,” returned Joe. “Just call a taxi, will you? and we’ll spin down to the hotel in no time.”
Jim went personally in search of a conveyance. It was not hard to find one, and he returned almost immediately to find Joe limping toward him with the aid of a cane furnished by Dougherty. The latter had offered him his shoulder, but Joe, with a smile, refused.