“So Richard is himself again,” beamed Joe.
“Best news we’ve had in a dog’s age,” added Jim.
“Yes, I guess the old salary wing is on the job again,” laughed Hughson.
“How’s it feeling?” asked Joe, eagerly.
“Fine as silk,” Hughson responded. “I’ve been trying it out gradually, and I don’t see but what I can put them over as well as ever I did. It hurts me a little on the high, fast ones, but everything else I’ve got in stock seems to go as well as I could ask.”
“What does the doctor say about your pitching?” asked Jim.
“Oh, he’s dead set against it,” was the answer. “Tells me it isn’t well yet by any means, and that it may go back on me any minute. But you know how those doctors are. They always want to make a sure thing of it. But McRae and I have been talking it over, and we’ve concluded that in the present condition of things it might be well to take a chance.”
“That head of yours is all right, anyway, you old fox,” laughed Joe. “You’ve always pitched with that as much as with your arm. You’ll outguess those fellows, even if you have to favor your arm a little.”
“We’ll hope so, anyway,” was the reply. “That was hard luck the boys had in Boston on Saturday, wasn’t it? Pity we couldn’t have had it played here that day. It didn’t rain a drop in New York.”