All the other Gridley youngsters stopped half way in their togging
to listen for the reply.
"Nothing much," grunted Dick. "Yet it came near to being too
much. A man bumped me, as I was getting on the car, and drove
me against the iron dasher. It was all an accident, due to the
man's clumsiness. But it barked my knee a good bit."
"Let me see you walk about the room," ordered Coach Morton. He
watched closely, as Dick obeyed.
"Sit down, Prescott, and draw the trousers leg off on that side.
I want to examine the knee."
While Mr. Morton went to work the other members of the team crowded
about, anxiety written on all their faces.
"Does it hurt more when I press?" asked the submaster keenly.
"Ah, I thought so! Prescott, you're not badly hurt for anything
else; but your knee is in no shape to play this afternoon!"
A wail of dismay went up from the team members. The rueful look
in Dick's face deepened.
"I was afraid you'd bar me out," he confessed. "I never felt
so ashamed in my life."
"It wouldn't be of any use for you to play, for that knee wouldn't
stand it in any rough smash," declared the coach, shaking his
head solemnly.
"It's all off with us, then," groaned one of the fellows. "We may
as well ask Hallam if they'll allow us to hand 'em a score of six
to nothing on a platter, and then stay off the field."
"Hush your croaking, will you?" demanded Dave Darrin angrily,
glaring about him.
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