But Jack didn’t disturb the handkerchief around it. Instead he thrust it into his pocket, where he had been keeping it most of the time. “There isn’t anything to see,” he answered. “It’s just—sort of red.”
Walker eyed him narrowly and shrugged his shoulders. “Better get it attended to if you expect to play,” he said. “Too bad it isn’t the other hand. Then you could have padded your glove a bit. How’d you do it?”
“Took hold of a piece of hot iron,” replied Jack.
“Guess you dropped it in a hurry,” said Walker with a grin. “Say, Borden, I think we were pretty good to that old rascal last night. Seems to me after what we did for him he ought to come off his high horse and be decent about that piece of land we want.”
“I think so, too, but Sam says he’s more likely to prosecute us for trespassing!”
“That’s not bad,” laughed Walker, “and I dare say that’s what he will do. Well, I’m off. Hope you get into the game, Borden.”
After he was gone Jack drew his hand from his pocket, unwrapped the handkerchief and examined his wound. It looked pretty ugly, for the blisters had broken and the flesh underneath was red and inflamed. The only thing Jack had found to apply was peroxide of hydrogen. Sam had a bottle of that and Jack had filched a little before breakfast when Sam wasn’t looking. Jack didn’t want even Sam to know about his burn; it was best to be on the safe side. If it got to Dolph’s ears or to Shay’s they might make a lot of it and not let him play. Of course it did hurt, but then it wasn’t anything to interfere with his catching or batting. Meanwhile, he concluded, he would go back to the room and if Sam wasn’t there put some more peroxide on it.
Dinner for the nine and substitutes that day was a half-hour earlier than usual, for the game was to start at two-fifteen. Every fellow made a good pretence of eating heartily, but few of them really consumed enough food to satisfy a healthy baby. The heat continued, although there seemed a little more breeze stirring than earlier in the day, and many anxious looks were cast at the sky. But the thunder clouds didn’t materialize. At a little after one the Towners and their friends began to arrive and at half-past the nine went to the gymnasium to get into their togs. Dolph was looking a bit pale and acting fidgety, and Mr. Shay was very quiet and earnest. When the fellows were ready for the field he called them around him and made a little speech. It was quite the usual thing, only it sounded a deal more important to-day, and the fellows listened very quietly to it. And when he had finished he took his little red memorandum book from his pocket.
“Here’s the batting-list for the game, boys,” he announced. “Warner, first base; Smythe, shortstop; Jones, catcher; Truesdale, center field; Borden, right field; Turnbull, second base; Cassart, third base; Wicks, left field; Phillips, pitcher. All right now; come on!”