“I suppose it will be impossible to keep the thing from her,” conceded Joe, “and I guess the best thing I can do is to send her a night letter telling her positively that I’m all right. But there’s another thing,” he added, with a shade of anxiety. “How do I know that I am all right? The doc didn’t seem to be any too sure about my pitching arm. If that arm gets out of kilter, I’m done for.”
“And so are the Giants,” said Jim soberly. “It would kill their pennant chances right at the start. You don’t realize, Joe, with that confounded modesty of yours, just what you mean to the team. Their greatest pitcher, their heaviest hitter, and the cleverest captain that ever wore baseball shoes. But there,” he added, with a forced assumption of lightness, “we’re not going to admit even the possibility of anything being the matter with your arm. It’s probably only a superficial burn that hasn’t affected any of the muscles, and in a few days you’ll be shooting them over again as fast as ever. We’ll have Dougherty give the arm the once over as soon as you get to your room. Here we are at the hotel now.”
As they had conjectured, a number of the Giants were lounging on the porch waiting for the supper gong.
Joe and Jim pressed back as far as they could into the tonneau in the hope of avoiding recognition, but not far enough to escape the eagle eye of McRae.
“Hello!” he shouted in surprise, as the auto did not stop in front of the hotel but made for the entrance that led to the back. “Where are you fellows going?”
Joe threw up his hands, literally as well as figuratively.
“It’s all off!” he exclaimed, as he requested the driver to stop.
He and Jim jumped out and a shout went up from their teammates as they noted Joe’s appearance.
McRae rushed toward him in consternation.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” he shouted. “Are you hurt? Don’t tell me that you’re hurt!”