“Fine as silk,” laughed Joe. “The old wing feels as though I could go in and pitch a no-hit game.”
“Glory hallelujah!” cried McRae.
“Ye can’t keep a good man down,” exulted Robbie, his red face glowing with delight.
“Perhaps there was no need of our coming after all,” remarked one of the strangers, with a smile.
“That reminds me,” said McRae. “Joe, these are two of the finest specialists in this part of the country, Doctors Wilson and Koerner. We telegraphed to them last night, urging them to come by the first train, for I couldn’t take any chances on the local talent, good as that young man seemed to be, when it came to dealing with that arm of yours. What these gentlemen don’t know isn’t worth knowing, and they’re going to examine you right away.”
“Let Mr. Matson have his breakfast first,” said Doctor Wilson, with a genial smile. “Then we’ll put his arm through the third degree.”
“Sounds rather ominous,” remarked Joe, “but I’m betting that you’ll give me a clean bill of health.”
He ate heartily to make up for his abstention of the night before, and then went with the specialists and the local doctor to his room, accompanied by Jim, Reggie, McRae and Robbie, all on edge to hear the doctors’ verdict.
The examination of the specialists was thorough, and when they had finished their decision was unanimous.
“Purely superficial,” said Doctor Koerner, as spokesman for both. “Not a thew or sinew or muscle is affected. The arm is absolutely as good as it ever was.”