"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."