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?”