The question was settled for him, for someone laid hands on his shoulders and turned him face upwards. And someone shouted “Water!” in a perfectly thunderous voice, and Monty wondered if he would ever be able to shout like that! The next moment he was snatched back from semi-consciousness by hands tugging at his left arm. They were trying to get the ball away from him! And he had thought them friends! He resisted with every ounce of strength left him and opened his eyes to a glare of blue sky that pained him and said as loud and defiantly as he could: “Down!”
The person beside him heard the whisper and laughed pantingly. “All right, Crail,” he said. “Drop the ball and give me that arm.”
Monty looked up and saw the face of Hobo Ordway bending over him. He sighed and released his tense muscles. Ordway began pumping his arms and Monty shook his head weakly. “I’m all right—now, partner,” he murmured. “Just—a little—short of breath.”
Further speech was impossible, for something very cold and dripping obliterated speech and sight. Monty squirmed and said “Ugh!” and wrested an arm away from Ordway. “Gosh! Want to drown a fellow?” he demanded.
“Lie still,” replied a callous voice. The sponge went on sopping and Monty decided that, after the first shock, it felt rather pleasant. He was breathing more easily now, although his lungs still felt hot and scraped, but when he raised his knees he had to groan.
“Where is it?” asked Davy Richards.
“Just my legs, thanks,” explained Monty, very elaborately since he had an idea that his voice was not yet in good working order. “They are awfully tired.”
“I’ll fix ’em!” The sponge left his face and went sopping down on the fronts of his pants. It took a moment or two for the water to penetrate the canvas and the padding, but when it did it felt wonderful against those aching legs. “How’s that?” asked the trainer.
“Great, thanks! I guess I’ll get up.”
“No hurry. You’re not wanted.”