CHAPTER XXIV
A TIGHT GAME
Rad gave a look at his chum, and then, sliding out of bed, ran to the window.
"No luck!" he exclaimed.
"What do you mean?" asked Joe.
"I mean it isn't raining."
"What has that got to do with it?" the young pitcher wanted to know, as he moved his sore arm back and forth, a little frown of pain showing on his face at each flexing movement.
"Why, if it rained we wouldn't have any game, and you'd get a chance to rest and get in shape. It's a dead cinch that you or Barter will be called on to-day. Willard has 'Charlie-horse,' and he can't pitch. So it's you or Barter."
"Then I guess it will have to be Barter," said Joe with a grimace. "I'm afraid I can't go in. And yet I hate to give up and say I can't pitch. It's tough luck!"
"Does it hurt much?" Rad wanted to know.
"Enough, yes. I could stand it, ordinarily, but every time I move it will make it worse."