“Who doesn’t?” replied the doctor. “Many’s the time I’ve seen you pitch when I was at my studies in New York. So it was your million dollar arm that carried this woman downstairs!”
“I’m afraid you rate the arm too highly,” replied Joe, grinning.
“Not a bit of it,” returned the doctor, a young man named Templeton. “It’s earned more than that for the Giants. And now, in addition to saving many a game, it’s saved a life. It’s a magnificent thing you’ve done, Mr. Matson. I only hope you haven’t been seriously injured in doing it. Suppose you let me look you over?”
Joe submitted, and a hasty examination seemed to prove that his burns were superficial, though the doctor looked long and somewhat gravely at his pitching arm.
“Scorched!” he muttered to himself.
“Nothing serious there, is there, doctor?” asked Joe. “I need that arm in my business, you know.”
He tried to speak lightly, but his heart sank as he realized what a terrible calamity it would be to him if that mighty pitching arm were put out of commission.
“I don’t think so,” replied the doctor, but not with the conviction in his voice that Joe would have liked to hear. “But you’ll have to let up on your practice for a time and take the best of care of it. I’ll give it a temporary dressing now and drop around later at your hotel, if you say so, to go over it more carefully.”
He bandaged the arm with deftness and skill.
“You’d better get right back to your hotel now,” he recommended. “You’ll feel the reaction from the strain pretty soon, and you’ll need to rest for a day or two. There are a number of cars around, and the owner of any one of them will be proud to give you a lift. I’d take you in mine, but I’ve got to take the woman over to the hospital.”