Joe was only too willing, and they bundled in. The driver, under the promise of a generous tip, made fast time on his way to Hughson’s house.
They found the great pitcher reclining on a lounge with his arm in bandages and his face drawn with pain. He greeted them with a smile that was evidently an effort.
“Come up to look at the wreck?” he inquired, as they crowded anxiously around him. “Well, I’m worth a dozen dead men yet, even if this arm of mine is on the blink.”
“In the name of hard luck,” moaned McRae, “how did it all happen?”
“Got caught between two trolley cars,” replied Hughson. “I was in a taxi on Eighth Avenue on my way to the grounds and the driver tried to cross the tracks. Thought he could just slip by between cars coming in opposite directions, but missed his guess. I might just as well have been killed as not, but all hands did their best, and I got off with a wrenched back and a strained arm.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing broken?” inquired Joe anxiously.
“Dead sure,” was the reply. “The doctor’s just got through fixing me up, and he says that there are no bones or ligaments broken. But I’ll be on the shelf for two or three weeks.”
“Two or three weeks!” groaned McRae. “And this series will be over in two or three days!”
“It’s tough luck,” said Hughson bitterly. “I’d have given my share of the World’s Series money not to have had this thing happen.”
“Just when we had those fellows on the run, too,” remarked Robson gloomily. “That beating you gave them yesterday took a good deal of vim out of them and we’d probably have cleaned ’em up today. But when they hear of this they’ll be like wild men and there’ll be no holding them.”