“There has,” he said, quietly, and he told of the accident to his father.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, clasping his hand again. “And you pitched after you heard the news! How brave of you! Is there anything we can do—my brother—or I?” she asked anxiously.
“Thank you, no,” responded Joe, in a low voice. “I am hoping it will not be serious.”
“You must let me know—let Reggie know,” she went on. “We shall be here for some days yet.”
Joe promised to write, and then hurried off to catch his train. It was a long ride to Riverside, and to Joe, who was all impatience to be there, the train seemed to be the very slowest kind of a freight, though it really was an express.
But all things must have an end, and that torturing journey did. Joe arrived in his home town late one afternoon, and took a carriage to the house. He saw Clara at the window, and could see that she had been crying. She slipped to the door quickly, and held up a warning finger.
“What—what’s the matter?” asked Joe in a hoarse whisper. “Is—is he worse?”
“No, he’s a little better, if anything. But he has just fallen asleep, and so has mother. She is quite worn out. Come in and I’ll tell you about it. Oh, Joe! I’m so glad you’re home!”
Clara related briefly the particulars of the accident, and then the doctor came in. By this time Mrs. Matson had awakened and welcomed her son.
“What chance is there, Doctor,” asked the young pitcher; “what chance to save his eyesight?”