“Hope you’re not hurt much!” was Joe’s first greeting.
“Humph! It isn’t your fault if I’m not,” was the ungracious answer, as Sam felt of his pitching arm. “What do you mean by crashing into a fellow that way for, anyhow?”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know that curve was so sharp. I’d never ridden on this road before.”
“Well, why didn’t you blow your horn or ring your bell or—or something?”
“Why didn’t you?” demanded Joe with equal right.
“Never mind. Don’t give me any of your talk. You’re one of the fresh juniors at school, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know that I’m ‘fresh,’” replied Joe quietly, “but I am a junior. I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I couldn’t help it.”
“Yes you could, if you knew anything about riding a wheel.”
“I tell you I couldn’t,” and Joe spoke a bit sharply. “I was into you before I knew it. And besides, you ran into me as much as I did into you.”
“I did not. If you don’t know enough to ride a wheel, keep off the roads!” snarled the pitcher. “If I’m stiff for Saturday’s game it will be your fault.”