“Can’t I pitch on the scrub?” asked Tom in dismay.
“Not unless you want to have an operation later,” replied Dr. Marshall grimly.
Tom sighed, but said no more.
Healthy blood in healthy bodies has a marvelous way of recuperating one from injuries, and in a little over a week Tom’s arm was so much improved that the doctor allowed him to dispense with the sling. In the middle of the second week Tom started in on light practice at pitching, his place meanwhile on the scrub having been filled by another player.
“Now go slow, young man,” advised Dr. Marshall as Tom one day sought and obtained permission to take part in a game against the ’varsity nine. “You’re only human, you know, but”—he added to himself as Tom hurried away—“you’re like a young colt. A fine physique! I wish I were young again,” and the good doctor sighed for the lost days of his youth.
In the meanwhile Tom had said nothing to Langridge. He reasoned it all out—that the ’varsity pitcher might have been captured as he was, and, in breaking loose, he might have mistaken Tom for one of the sophomores. Nor did Tom communicate in any way his suspicions to his chums. He knew if he began asking questions intended to disclose whether or not Langridge had been among those captured some one would want to know his object.
“I might be mistaken,” thought Tom, and he honestly hoped that he was. “Anyhow, my arm is better, and I can pitch—at least on the scrub.”
The game between the first and second teams that day was a “hot” one. Langridge seemed to have recovered mastery of himself and he pitched surprisingly well. Tom, because of his hurt, was not at his best. The ’varsity lads were joyful when they beat the scrub by a big score.
“Well, now, if we do as well as that Saturday against Boxer Hall,” said Kindlings Woodhouse, “we’ll be all to the pepper hash, poetically speaking.”
“We’ve got to do a great deal better than this against Boxer,” declared Coach Lighton with a shake of his head.