Joe and Jim lifted the old man carefully and placed him, half sitting, half lying, in the tonneau of the car. The others crowded in as they were able, and Reggie threw in his clutch and started on the way to Bay Shore.
Here on making inquiries they found that there was a large hospital at Islip, not far away, and in a few minutes they were at the doors of the big institution.
A preliminary examination showed that the wound on the head was a superficial one and that the old man was suffering chiefly from shock. He was put to bed in a cool private room that Joe made himself responsible for, and the doctor predicted that in a few days he would be on his feet again and able to return to his home.
This, they had learned from him, was Boston. His name was Louis Anderson. He was in poor circumstances and his visit to Long Island had been for the purpose of disposing of a tiny bit of property which represented his last earthly possession.
“I can’t thank you boys enough,” he said, as they at last prepared to leave. “I only wish there was something I could do for you in return. I don’t suppose you often get to Boston.”
“We expect to get there several times within the next week or two,” remarked Joe, as he looked at Jim with an amused twinkle in his eye.
“Then you must be traveling men,” suggested Anderson. “What line are you in?”
“The baseball line,” grinned Jim.
“And you’re going to Boston?” repeated Anderson. “Why, then you must be members of the Giants and going to play in the World Series.”