Sam came on running. He was panting and out of breath.
“What’s the matter? Where were you?” demanded Darrell.
“I got on—the wrong car. I thought it—came here. They—took me off—in the woods—somewhere. I’ve had an awful time—getting here. Is the game—over?”
“No, we’re just starting the seventh.”
“Can’t I pitch?”
Darrell hesitated. It was a perfectly natural request for Sam and yet Joe had been doing so well that both the manager and the captain disliked to take him off the mound.
“Can’t I pitch?” again demanded Sam. “You don’t mean to tell me that Joe Matson has——”
“Joe hasn’t done anything but what we wanted him to,” put in Rankin quickly, “and he’s made a good record.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” sneered Sam. “Well, if you don’t want me to——”