“Where are you going?” demanded our hero.
“To our old family doctor. That arm of yours will need attention if you’re going to pitch to-morrow.”
“I don’t know that I can pitch, Tom.”
“Yes you can—you’ve got to. Dr. Pickett will give you something to fix it up. You can’t let this chance slip. I was afraid this would happen when I saw what you were going to do.”
“Yes,” said Joe simply, “but I couldn’t let him be hit by the car.”
“No, I suppose not, and yet—well, we’ll see what Dr. Pickett says. Come on,” and Tom quickly improvised a sling from his own and Joe’s handkerchiefs, and was about to lead his chum away.
“Oh, are you hurt? I’m sorry!” exclaimed the lad whom Joe had saved.
“It’s only a strain,” said the pitcher, but he did not add what it might mean to him.
The lad thanked Joe again, earnestly, for his brave act and then hastened to look after his horse, that had been gotten to its feet. The motorman, too, thanked Joe for, though had an accident resulted it would not have been his fault, yet he was grateful.
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Tom impatiently as several others crowded up around Joe. “Every minute’s delay makes it worse. Let’s get a move on,” and he almost dragged his chum to the doctor’s office.