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The High School Pitcher, a fiction by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 16. The Hour Of Tormenting Doubt |
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_ CHAPTER XVI. THE HOUR OF TORMENTING DOUBT "Oh, no! That mustn't be. I've got to pitch in to-morrow's game!" Prescott ground out the words between his clenched teeth. The consciousness of pain was again asserting itself. "What's the matter, Prescott?" called the first passer-by to reach him. "Matter enough," grumbled Dick, pointing to the pole that lay near him. "See that thing?" "Yes. Trip over it?" "I did. But some one thrust it between my legs as I was running past here." "Sho!" exclaimed another, curiously. "Now, who would want to do that?" "Anyone who didn't want me to pitch to-morrow's game, perhaps," flashed Dick, with sudden divination. "What's this?" demanded a boy, breaking in through the small crowd that was collecting. "Dick---you hurt?" It didn't take Dave many seconds to understand the situation. "I'll bet I know who did it!" he muttered, vengefully. "Who?" spoke up one of the men. But Dick gave a warning nudge. "Oh, well!" muttered Dave Darrin. "We'll settle this thing all in our own good time." "Let me have your arm, Dave," begged young Prescott. "I want to see how well I can walk." The young pitcher had already been experimenting, cautiously, to see how much weight he could bear on his injured left leg. "Take my arm on the other side," volunteered a sympathetic man in the crowd. Dick was about to do so, when the lights of an auto showed as the machine came close to the curb. "Here's a doctor," called some one. "Which one?" asked Dick. "Bentley." "Good!" muttered Dave. "Dr. Bentley is medical examiner to the High School athletic teams. Ask Dr. Bentley if he won't come in here. Stand still, Dick, and put all the weight you can on your sound leg." Prescott was already doing this. Dr. Bentley, a strong looking man of about fifty, rather short though broad-shouldered, took a quick survey of the situation. "One of you men help me put Prescott in the tonneau of my car," he directed, "and come along with me to Prescott's home. The lad must not step on that leg until it has been looked at." Dick found himself being lifted and placed in a comfortable seat in the after part of the auto. Dave and the man who had helped the physician got in with him. Barely a minute later Dr. Bentley stopped his car before the Prescott book store. "You stay in the car a minute," directed the physician. "I want to speak to your mother, so she won't be scared to death." Mrs. Prescott, from whom Dick had inherited much of his own pluck, was not the kind of woman to faint. She quickly followed Dr. Bentley from the store. "I'm hurt only in my feelings, mother," said Dick cheerfully. "I'm afraid I have a little wrench that will keep me out of the game tomorrow." "That's almost a tragedy, I know," replied Mrs. Prescott bravely. The physician directing, the boy was lifted from the car, while Mrs. Prescott went ahead to open the door. Dave Darrin followed, his eyes flashing. Dave had his own theory to account for this state of affairs. Into his own room Dick was carried, and laid on the bed. Mrs. Prescott remained outside while Dave helped undress his chum. "Now, let us see just how bad this is," mused the physician aloud. "It isn't so very bad," smiled Dick. "I wouldn't mind at all, if it weren't for the game to-morrow. I'll play, anyway." "Huh!" muttered Dave, incredulously. Dr. Bentley was running his fingers over the left knee, which looked rather red. "Does this hurt? Does this? Or this" inquired the medical man, pressing on different parts of the knee. "No," Dick answered, in each case. "We don't want grit, my boy. We want the truth." "Why, no; it doesn't hurt," Dick insisted. "I believe I could rub that knee a little, and then walk on it." "I hope that's right," Dave muttered, half incredulously. Dr. Bentley made some further examination before he stated: "I knew there was nothing broken there, but I feared that the ligaments of the knee had been strained. That might have put you out of the game for the season, Prescott." "I'll be able to sprint in the morning," declared the young pitcher, with spirit. "You fell on your hands, as well, didn't you?" asked the physician. "Yes, sir." "That saved you from worse trouble, then. The ligaments are not torn at all. The worst you've met with, Prescott, is a wrench of the knee, and there's a little swelling. It hurt to stand on your foot when you first tried to do so, didn't it?" "Yes, sir." "It would probably hurt a little less, now. No---don't try it," as Dick started to bolster himself up. "You want that knee in shape at the earliest moment, don't you?" "Of course I do, doctor." "Then lie very quiet, and do, in everything, just what you are told." "I've got to pitch to-morrow afternoon, you know, doctor. And I've got to run bases." Dr. Bentley pursed his lips. "There's a chance in a thousand that you'll be able, Prescott. The slight swelling is the worst thing we have to deal with, I'm glad to say. We'll have to keep the leg pretty quiet, and put cold compresses on frequently." "I'll stay here and do it," volunteered Dave, promptly. "You have to pitch to-morrow, Dave, if anything _should_ make the coach order me off the field," interposed Dick, anxiously. "And you ought to be home and in bed now." "If Mrs. Prescott will put on the bandages up to one o'clock to-night that will be doing well enough," suggested Dr. Bentley. "I shall be in to look at the young man quite early in the morning. But don't attempt to get up for anything, do you understand, Prescott? You know---" here Dr. Bentley assumed an air of authority---" I'm more than the mere physician. I'm medical director to your nine. So you're in duty bound to follow my orders to the letter." "I will---if you'll promise me that I can pitch," promised the boy fervently. "I can't promise, but I'll do my best." "And, Dave," pressed Dick, "you'll skip home, now, and get a big night's rest, won't you? There's a bare chance that you _might_ have to throw the ball to-morrow. But I won't let you, if I can stop it," Prescott added wistfully. So Dave departed, for he was accustomed to following the wishes of the head of Dick & Co. in such matters. Mrs. Prescott had come in as soon as the lad had been placed between the sheets. Dr. Bentley gave some further directions, then left something that would quiet the pain without having the effect of an opiate. "It all depends on keeping the leg quiet and keeping the cold compresses renewed," were the medical man's parting words. Twenty minutes later Dave telephoned the store below. Darrin was in a state of great excitement. "Tell Dick, when he's awake in the morning," begged Dave of Mr. Prescott, who answered the call, "that Gridley pitchers seem to be in danger to-night. At least, _two_ of 'em are. I was right near home, and running a bit, when I passed the head of the alley near our house. A bag of sand was thrown out right in front of my feet. How I did it I don't quite know yet, but I jumped over that bag, and came down on my feet beyond it. It was a fearfully close call, though. No; I guess you hadn't better tell Dick to-night. But you can tell him in the morning." Though "The Blade" somehow missed the matter, there were a good many in Gridley who had heard the news by Saturday morning. It traveled especially among the High School boys. More than a dozen of them were at the book store as soon as that place was opened. "How's Dick?" asked all the callers. "Doing finely," replied the elder Prescott, cheerily. "Great! Is he going to pitch this afternoon?" "Um---I can't say about that." "If he can't, Mr. Prescott, that'll be one of Gridley's chances gone over the fence." Dave was on hand as early as he could be. Dick had already been told of the attempt on his chum the night before. "You didn't see the fellow well enough to make out who he was?" Prescott pressed eagerly. "No," admitted Dave, sadly. "After a few seconds I got over my bewilderment enough to try to give chase. But the dastard had sneaked away, cat-foot. I know who it was, though, even if I didn't see him." "Tip Scammon?" "Surely," nodded Darrin. "He's Ripley's right hand at nasty work, isn't he?" "I'd hate to think that Fred had a hand in such mean business," muttered Dick, flushing. "Don't be simple," muttered Dave. "Who wanted to be crack pitcher for the nine? Who pitches to-day, if neither of us can? That would be a mean hint to throw out, if Ripley's past conduct didn't warrant the suspicion." Later in the morning there was another phase of the sensation, and Dave came back with it. He was just in time to find Dick walking out into the little parlor of the flat, Dr. Bentley watching. "Fine!" cheered Dave. "How is he, doctor?" "Doing nicely," nodded Dr. Bentley. "But how about the big problem---can he pitch to-day?" "That's what we're trying to guess," replied the physician. "Now, see here, Prescott, you're to sit over there by the window, in the sunlight. During the first hour you will get up once in every five minutes and walk around the room once, then seating yourself again. In the second hour, you'll walk around twice, every five minutes. After that you may move about as much as you like, but don't go out of the room. I think you can, by this gentle exercise, work out all the little stiffness that's left there." "And now for my news," cried Dave, as soon as the medical man had gone. "Fred Ripley ran into trouble, too." "Got hurt, you mean?" asked Dick quickly. "Not quite," went on Darrin, making a face. "When Fred was going into the house last night he tripped slightly---against a rope that had been stretched across the garden path between two stakes." "But Fred wasn't hurt?" "No; he says he tripped, but he recovered himself." "I'm afraid you don't believe that, Dave?" "I ought to, anyway," retorted Darrin dryly. "Fred is showing the rope." "A piece of rope is easy enough to get," mused Dick. "Yep; and a lie is easy enough for some fellows to tell. But some of the fellows are inclined to believe Rip, so they've started a yarn that Gardiner High School is up to tricks, and that some fellows have been sent over in advance to cripple our box men for to-day." "That's vile!" flushed Prescott indignantly, as he got up to make the circuit of the room. "The Gardiner fellows have always been good, fair sportsmen. They wouldn't be back of any tricks of that sort." "Well, Fred has managed to cover himself, anyway," returned Dave rather disgustedly. "He called his father and mother out to see the rope before he cut it away from the stakes. Oh, I guess a good many fellows will believe Ripley's yarn!" "I'm afraid you don't, Dave;" "Oh, yes; I'm easy," grinned Darrin. "Can you see two young ladies, Richard?" asked Mrs. Prescott, looking into the room. "Certainly, mother, if I get a chance. My vision is not impaired in the least," laughed Dick. Mrs. Prescott stood aside to admit Laura and Belle, then followed them into the room. "We came to make sure that Gridley is not to lose its great pitcher to-day," announced Laura. "Then your father must have told you that I'd do," cried Dick, eagerly. "Father?" pouted Miss Bentley. "You don't know him then. One can never get a word out of father about any of his patients. But he said we might call." The visit of the girls brightened up twenty minutes of the morning. "Of course," said Laura, as they rose to go, "you mustn't attempt to pitch if you really can't do it, or if it would hurt you for future games." "I'm afraid the coach won't let me pitch, unless your father says I can," murmured Dick, with a wry face. Few in Gridley who knew the state of affairs had any idea that Dick Prescott would be able to stand in the box against Gardiner. But the young pitcher boarded a trolley car, accompanied by Dave Darrin, and both reached the Athletic Field before two o'clock. Dr. Bentley was there soon after. In the Gridley dressing room, Dick's left leg was bared, while Coach Luce drew off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Under the physician's direction the coach administered a very thorough massage, following this with an alcohol rubbing. When it was all over Dick rose to exhibit the motions of that leg before the eyes of the doubtful physician. _ |
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