“What’s up, old boy?” Jim asked. But, without answering, Joe crumpled the paper in his hand and started on a run for the clubhouse.
“Now what’s up?” groaned McRae. “If anything happens to put Joe out of his stride now, we’re gone coons. Go after him, Jim, and find out what’s wrong. Club the information out of him, if necessary.”
Without replying, Jim departed on his mission of force while McRae followed more slowly, dismally shaking his head.
“We’re sure up against a jinx,” he muttered. “If anything else happens to this team, it’ll have to look around for a new manager, that’s all. I can’t stand the pace.”
Jim found Joe in the act of changing into his street clothes. His face was drawn and white and when Jim spoke to him he looked at his chum as though he hardly saw him.
“Matter enough,” he said, in answer to Jim’s twice-repeated query. “Mabel’s sick, Jim, and she wants me. Get out of my way, old boy. This is no time to argue.”
“Where’s the telegram?” asked Jim. “Will you let me see it?”
“Good gracious, how do I know where it is?” Joe roared at him. “Get out of my way, will you, Jim? I tell you, Mabel’s sick!”
At that moment Jim saw the crumpled bit of yellow paper where Joe, in his frantic haste, had dropped it. Jim picked it up and hurried to the light with it. When he returned, his face was grim.