“I—I can’t!” cried the motorman. “It’s got too much speed! I can’t stop it.”
Joe sprang to his feet and made his way along the seat past Tom, to the running board of the car, for the vehicle was an open one.
“Where are you going?” cried Tom.
“To save that lad! He’ll be killed if the car strikes him!”
“Let the motorman do it!”
“He can’t! He’s grinding on the brakes as hard as he can and so is the conductor. I’ve got to save him—these ladies can’t! I can lean over and pull him aboard the car.”
“But your arm! You’ll strain your arm and you can’t pitch to-morrow.”
For an instant Joe hesitated, but only for an instant. He realized that what Tom said was true. He saw a vision of himself sitting idly on the bench, unable to twirl the ball because of a sprained arm. Then Joe made up his mind.
“I’m going to save him!” he cried as he hurried to the front end of the running board. Then, clinging to the upright of the car with his left arm, he stretched out his other to save the lad from almost certain death, the conductor and motorman unable to lend aid and the women incapable. There was not room on the running board for Tom to help Joe.