“Can you stand up?” demanded Andy suspiciously.
Kendall doubted it, but he nodded. “I—I’m—all right,” he whispered. Girard and another lifted him, and again Kendall winced. Andy, watching, pounced upon him again.
“Hold up, boys,” he said quietly. “Something’s wrong.” He felt of Kendall’s collarbone, working clever fingers like lightning along the back of his neck. “Hurt?” he asked. Kendall shook his head. Andy’s fingers slid down along the left arm, his little green eyes watching Kendall’s face sharply. The boy held his breath and gritted his teeth. The awful fingers reached the wrist, closed——
Kendall felt the blood ebbing away from his face, already pale, but he returned the trainer’s gaze unflinchingly. Andy’s fingers stopped kneading, lingered inquiringly at the wrist. Then his eyes left Kendall’s and Kendall, following the trainer’s gaze, saw a white lump on the back of his hand.
Andy grunted. “Come off,” he said.
“It’s nothing, Andy, really!” pleaded Kendall. “I—I don’t even feel it!”
For answer Andy laid a compelling hand on his shoulder. “Sure, I know. ’Tis rather pleasant than otherwise, maybe. But just the same you’ll come along with me, Burtis, me boy!”
Payson awaited them on the side-line. “Dislocated wrist,” announced Andy.
“Sorry, Burtis. Fayette! Fayette! Right half, and hurry up!”