"A bit, yes," the pitcher was reluctantly obliged to admit.
"You come in the clubhouse and have it attended to!" ordered the trainer. "I can't have you, or any of the boys, laid up."
Then, as he got out his bottle of liniment, and looked at Joe's arm, one of the ligaments of which had been strained by the cruel twist, Boswell said, sniffing the air suspiciously:
"You've been using some of your own stuff on that arm; haven't you?"
"Yes," admitted Joe.
"I thought so. Well, maybe it's good, but my stuff is better. I'll soon have you in shape."
He began a scientific massage of the sore arm, something of which, with all his good intentions, Rad was not capable. Joe felt the difference at once, and when he went back to practice he was almost himself again.
"How about you?" asked Rad, when he got the chance.
"I guess I'll last out—if I have to pitch," replied Joe. "But it's not certain that I shall go in."
"The Phillies are out to chew us up to-day," went on his chum. "It's going to be a tight game. Don't take any chances."