“You shouldn’t have stopped that ball!” exclaimed Dutch, half savagely.
“I shouldn’t? Do you think I was going to stand there and let it go by, and lose us the game?” demanded Tom. “I guess not—not for two sore hands!”
“But, it’s your pitching hand,” expostulated Dutch. “We need you the rest of the season, and the championship is far from won—in fact it’s almost as far off as the stars,” he added in a low voice, for he, too, had noted the lack of team work in the present game, and some that had preceded.
“Oh, don’t be a croaker,” advised Tom, trying to speak lightly though he was in considerable pain. “I’ll be all right in a week. We haven’t any hard game until then, and we’ll go in and clean up all the roosts around here before the season closes.”
“I hope so,” remarked Mr. Leighton in a low voice. “You had better let the doctor look at that hand, Parsons. No use taking any chances.”
The injury was temporarily bandaged and Tom, with a queer feeling about him, that was not at all connected with his wound, changed his uniform for street clothing and returned to Randall with the nine. Dr. Marshall, later, dressed the hurt, and decided that Tom must refrain from playing ball for at least a week—perhaps longer.
“I’ll have Evert warming up all this week,” decided the coach. “We play the Branchville nine Saturday, and ought to win easily. Then I think you’ll be ready for Fairview the following week, and Boxer Hall after that.”
“The last two big games,” murmured Tom. “We’ve got to win them both if we want the championship, and I’m afraid——”
“Oh, cheer up!” advised Phil. “I know I played rotten to-day, but I’ll do better next time. Please forgive me?” and he assumed a mocking, contrite air, at which Tom could not help laughing.