“Where do you get that ‘we’ stuff, you old porpoise,” grinned McRae, poking him jovially in the ribs. “Seems to me that Joe had something to do with it. Put it there, Matson,” he went on, extending his hand. “You pitched a game that will go down in baseball history and you saved our winning streak from going up in smoke.”
Joe put out his left hand, and McRae looked a little surprised. Then he glanced down at Joe’s right hand, and a look of consternation swept over his face.
[“Great Scott!” he cried. “What’s the matter with your hand?] It’s swelled to twice its usual size.”
[“GREAT SCOTT!” HE CRIED. “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOUR HAND?”]
“It was that drive of Bemis’, I guess,” replied Joe. “When I nabbed it, I seemed to feel something crack in the hand. Perhaps, though, it’s only strained. It will probably be all right by to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” roared McRae, as all crowded around anxiously. “There’ll be no waiting till to-morrow. That hand is worth a half million dollars to the New York club, to say nothing of its worth to yourself. Where’s the trainer? Where’s the doctor? Jump, some of you fellows, and get them here quick!”
There was a general scurrying around, and in a few minutes both of those men were examining the injured hand with the greatest solicitude. They looked grave when they had finished.
“It’s hard to tell just what has happened until the swelling has been reduced,” pronounced the doctor, as he busied himself with splints and lotions. “I’m afraid, though, that it’s more than a sprain. When it swells as much as that it generally means that a bone has been broken.”