y
think you're crippled they won't give you a chance."

"That's so," admitted Joe.

"Still, you wouldn't go in if you didn't think you could do good work,"
went on his chum.

"Certainly I would not," agreed Joe. "That would be too much like
throwing the game. Well, see what you can do, Rad. I'd like to get a
good whack at the fellow who did this, though," he went on, as he worked
his arm slowly back and forth.

Rad rang for a messenger, and soon had in from a drug store a bottle of
strong-smelling liniment, with which he proceeded to massage Joe's arm.
He did it twice before the late breakfast to which they treated
themselves, and once afterward, before it was time to report at the park
for morning practice.

"Does it feel better?" asked Rad, as his chum began to do some pitching
work.

"A whole lot, yes."

It was impossible to wholly keep the little secret from Boswell. He
watched Joe for a moment and then asked suddenly:

"Arm stiff?"

"A bit, yes," the pitcher was reluctantly obliged to admit.

"You come in the clubhouse and have it attended to!" ordered the
trainer. "I can't have you, or any of the boys, laid up."

Then, as he got out his bottle of liniment, and looked at Joe's arm, one
of the ligaments of which had been strained by the cruel twist, Boswell
said, sniffing the air suspiciously:

"You've been using some of your own stuff on that arm; haven't you?"

"Yes," admitted Joe.

"I thought so. Well, maybe it's good, but my stuff is better. I'll soon
have you in shape."

He began a scientific massage of the sore arm, something of which, with
all his good intentions, Rad was not capable. Joe felt the difference at
once, and when he went back to practice he was almost himself again.

"How about you?" asked Rad, when he got the chance.

"I guess I'll last out--if I have to pitch," replied Joe. "But it's not
certain that I shall go in."

"The Phillies are out to chew us up to-day," went on his chum. "It's
going to be a tight game. Don't take any chances."

"I won't; you may depend on that."

There was a conference between Boswell and the manager.

"Who shall I put in the box?" asked the latter, for he often depended in
a great measure on the old trainer.

"Let Barter open the ball, and see how he does. It's my notion that he
won't stand the pace, for he's a little off his feed. But I want to take
a little more care of Matson, and this will give him a couple of innings
to catch up."