“Maybe! Sure I said maybe, Burtis. But what would you be doing out there with one arm in a sling——”
“I don’t need to keep it in a sling, Andy!”
“You don’t, eh? Listen, son. Do you keep your hand where I put it and take care of it. Then maybe you can play next week. If you don’t——”
“Maybe!” gasped Kendall in dismay. “Is—is there any doubt of it?”
“There is,” replied Andy dryly. “All ready, men!”
Kendall, staring blankly before him, turned to find a seat on the bench, and heard his name called. Gerald was leaning across the barrier with an anxious countenance.
“What did you do?” he called. “Break anything?”
“Dislocated,” answered Kendall, tapping the bandaged wrist. He moved nearer to Gerald. “They say I can’t play any more to-day, and—and——”
“Of course you can’t,” agreed Gerald frowningly. “You’ve got to take care of it. Isn’t it mean luck, Kendall?” One might have thought that it was Gerald who had injured himself instead of Kendall. The latter nodded gloomingly, waved his well hand and found a seat between Metz and Jackson. Metz was not very cheerful company these days, since he had but lately been deposed from right end in favor of Adler and was not yet viewing the matter philosophically. Jackson, who was a substitute guard, a big, raw-boned chap with lantern jaws and eyebrows that met companionably above his nose, glanced at Kendall’s injury and asked laconically:
“Broke, Burtis?”