“I sincerely hope so,” I answered, as we parted.
I was walking toward Colver Hall, thinking over this conversation, and scarcely noticing my surroundings, when my foot suddenly tripped over a large drain pipe which lay on the grass, and which I had not seen on account of the darkness. I was thrown violently to the ground, my right wrist doubling under me in such a way as to give it a severe wrench. It pained me considerably for a few minutes, so on reaching my room I bathed it freely with liniment until the pain subsided. Finding that it gave me little more trouble, and, beyond some slight aching, seemed as strong as usual, I experienced a feeling of relief at having escaped so luckily, and soon ceased thinking about it.
But the next morning my wrist was brought to my attention again. I was alarmed to find that it had swollen during the night, and was stiff and unmanageable. As I could move it only slightly, and then with considerable pain, the idea of using it for my regular exercise in pitching was out of the question. This worried me, so hurrying over to the doctor’s the first thing after breakfast, I submitted my wrist to his examination.
The doctor felt of the injured spot carefully.
“Only a slight straining of the muscles and tendons,” he said. “It will be all right in a week.”
“A week!” I exclaimed. “Why, I must pitch a game of ball this Saturday.”
The doctor shook his head.
“Well, you may be able to use it a little by that time if you rest it until then, but I shouldn’t advise you to subject it to such violent exercise. You probably cannot last out a whole game, and you would only strain it worse, so that it would be laid up for several weeks. Now, if you can wait a few days longer, you will have no trouble.”
“But I can’t,” I said in despair; “the game must take place Saturday, and I must pitch.”