There was a general groan.
“That means, does it, that he will be out of the game for the rest of the season?” asked McRae, in notes of despair.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the doctor hastened to reassure him. “It may be only a trifling fracture, and in that case he will have to be out only for a short time. But for the next few weeks anyway, he isn’t likely to do any more pitching.”
“Who’s the best specialist in New York?” demanded McRae.
The doctor named a surgeon of national reputation.
“’Phone him to come at once,” commanded McRae. “Or, better yet, Joe, you’d better come right with me now. My car’s outside and I’ll get you up there in fifteen minutes. Every minute counts now.”
Joe hurriedly finished dressing, and McRae bundled him into his automobile. It was a speedy machine, and it was to be feared that the traffic laws were not strictly observed as it made its way downtown. But the traffic policemen all knew McRae and Joe, and there was nothing to prevent their getting to their destination in record time.
A telephone call from the clubhouse had already notified the eminent surgeon that the pair were coming, and he was waiting for them. Without a moment’s delay, they were ushered into his inner office, where he stripped off the bandages from the hand and made a thorough examination.
“There is a small dislocation,” he said when he had finished. “But I think it will yield readily to treatment. It will not be a permanent injury, and in a little while the hand will be as good as ever.”
Both drew a sigh of immense relief.