“A little while,” repeated McRae. “Just what do you mean by that, Doctor? You know we’re fighting for the pennant, and we’re depending on this king pitcher of ours more than on any one else to win out. Every day he’s out of the race weakens our chances.”
“I can’t tell that definitely until to-morrow morning,” the doctor replied. “But offhand I should say for two or three weeks at least.”
“Two or three weeks!” repeated McRae in tones of mingled dismay and relief. “In those two or three weeks we may lose the flag. But thank heaven it’s no worse.”
After making an appointment for the next morning, McRae drove Joe to his hotel.
“It’s bad enough, Joe,” he said to him in parting. “I don’t know how we’re going to spare you while we’re in the thick of the fight. But when I think of what it would mean to the team if you were knocked out altogether, I’ve got no kick coming. We’re ahead of the Pittsburghs now, anyway, thanks to your splendid work, and if we can just hold our own till you get back, we’ll pull out all right yet.”
Joe found Jim waiting for him, full of anxiety and alarm. But his face lighted up when he learned that the injury was not a permanent one.
“It would have been a mighty sight better to have lost the game to-day than to have bought it at such a price,” he said. “But after all, nothing matters as long as your hand is safe. That hand is your fortune.”
“To-day was my unlucky day,” remarked Joe ruefully, as he looked at his bandaged hand.
“In one sense it was,” replied Jim, “but in another it wasn’t. To-day you hung up a record. You saved the Giants’ winning streak and you pitched a no-hit game!”