“Hurt?” asked Joe, anxiously.
“No. Are you?”
“Not a scratch.”
“Rotten luck!” commented Reggie. “Now you’ll never get to the game on time.”
“Lucky you weren’t both killed,” commented an elderly autoist. “And your car isn’t damaged to speak of. Only a tire to the bad. That grassy bank saved you.”
“Yes,” assented Reggie. “All she needs is righting, but by the time that’s done it will be too late.”
“Where were you going?” asked another man.
“To the game,” answered Reggie.
“I’m on the Pittston team,” said Joe. “I’m supposed to be there to pitch if I’m needed. Only—I won’t be there,” he finished grimly.
“Yes you will!” cried a man who had a big machine. “I’ll take you both—that is, if you want to leave your car,” he added to Reggie.