next. He, too, was frightened by the suddenness of the accident. The ballplayer bent down. The face of the youngster was smeared with grease, one leg was bleeding badly, his trousers were torn, there was blood across his right arm. He was silent, terrifyingly silent.
Is he badly hurt? Or stunned? Or seriously injured? Or killed? Highpockets stood there, unable to act, unable to move.
Then all at once the kid began to cry. Hurt he was, badly injured he might well be. But certainly he was not dead. His crying had a strong and healthy sound. A welcome one, also, for a feeling of enormous relief rose within the ballplayer.
“Look! He can’t lie here like this. We better take him to the curb and get a doc right off.” He leaned over and lifted the boy’s legs while the father picked up his shoulders. The youngster bawled louder and louder still as they lugged him clumsily to the sidewalk and laid him down.
Highpockets stood wiping his face, looking at the tousled lad, thinking that while he might not be dead he was probably badly injured. Highpockets was miserable. He knew that he had been going too fast for that crowded street, that if he had not been upset he would have been driving at a slower pace and the blow would have been less severe.
In a minute half a dozen kids had collected, and behind the circle surrounding the sobbing boy on the pavement, Highpockets recognized the truck driver with the cigar still in his mouth. Then a policeman sauntered up.
“Lemme see yer license, bud,” he said, casually. He was quite unconcerned about the accident. Apparently this sort of thing happened frequently in Brooklyn.
The father spoke up for the first time. “It’s nothing, nothing much, officer. He’s not hurt bad. This gentleman ain’t to blame.” At this remark the youngster howled louder than ever. The circle around them grew rapidly. Boys’ voices spoke up. “It’s Dean. Dean Kennedy. He’s had an accident.” Windows opened, heads appeared above and across the street.
Highpockets had only a North Carolina license, which fortunately was in his wallet. He handed it over; the policeman glanced at it and handed it back. He grunted.
“That-there your car?”
Highpockets nodded.
“O.K. I’ll call an ambulance,” said the officer.
“Ambulance! We live near here. Look, he’s not that bad, officer,” said the boy’s father.
“Yeah, we better be sure. I’ll just call the Bushwick; they ain’t too far from here. Leave him he there. You never know is they any broken bones. Leave him lie ...” He turned and walked a hundred feet to the red police box on the corner. They saw him open it up with a key and with no apparent hurry, and take the telephone off the hook.
Then the truck driver edged his way through the circle, animosity on his face. “Hey, youse, you Cecil McDade of the Dodgers?”
You run over a kid with your car; you make him lose a leg possibly; you hurt him surely; you lay him up certainly for a long, long time. Just a kid, lying there crying on the pavement. So you forget things, sort of; your job is a long way off. So, too, are your home and your people.
Then you’re brought suddenly back to Brooklyn. Highpockets, disconsolate and worried, turned to nod. He disliked Brooklyn more than ever he had before. He wished with all his heart he had never seen Flatbush. Or the Dodgers, either.
“Ya bum!” said the truck driver, venom in his tones. “Whatcha wanna drop that fly against the G’ints for this affernoon?”
Cecil McDade of the Dodgers! There was a kind of involuntary forward movement all around the circle as the boys on the edge pressed toward him, curiosity on every face. The injured youngster ceased to bawl. The father, kneeling beside him, looked up quickly. Cecil McDade! Why, say, that’s Highpockets.
It was the truck driver who spoke. “Ya bum ya! If that hadda been you out there just now, know what I’d’a done? I’d’a run over ya. Yeah, an’ they’d gimme a
Is he badly hurt? Or stunned? Or seriously injured? Or killed? Highpockets stood there, unable to act, unable to move.
Then all at once the kid began to cry. Hurt he was, badly injured he might well be. But certainly he was not dead. His crying had a strong and healthy sound. A welcome one, also, for a feeling of enormous relief rose within the ballplayer.
“Look! He can’t lie here like this. We better take him to the curb and get a doc right off.” He leaned over and lifted the boy’s legs while the father picked up his shoulders. The youngster bawled louder and louder still as they lugged him clumsily to the sidewalk and laid him down.
Highpockets stood wiping his face, looking at the tousled lad, thinking that while he might not be dead he was probably badly injured. Highpockets was miserable. He knew that he had been going too fast for that crowded street, that if he had not been upset he would have been driving at a slower pace and the blow would have been less severe.
In a minute half a dozen kids had collected, and behind the circle surrounding the sobbing boy on the pavement, Highpockets recognized the truck driver with the cigar still in his mouth. Then a policeman sauntered up.
“Lemme see yer license, bud,” he said, casually. He was quite unconcerned about the accident. Apparently this sort of thing happened frequently in Brooklyn.
The father spoke up for the first time. “It’s nothing, nothing much, officer. He’s not hurt bad. This gentleman ain’t to blame.” At this remark the youngster howled louder than ever. The circle around them grew rapidly. Boys’ voices spoke up. “It’s Dean. Dean Kennedy. He’s had an accident.” Windows opened, heads appeared above and across the street.
Highpockets had only a North Carolina license, which fortunately was in his wallet. He handed it over; the policeman glanced at it and handed it back. He grunted.
“That-there your car?”
Highpockets nodded.
“O.K. I’ll call an ambulance,” said the officer.
“Ambulance! We live near here. Look, he’s not that bad, officer,” said the boy’s father.
“Yeah, we better be sure. I’ll just call the Bushwick; they ain’t too far from here. Leave him he there. You never know is they any broken bones. Leave him lie ...” He turned and walked a hundred feet to the red police box on the corner. They saw him open it up with a key and with no apparent hurry, and take the telephone off the hook.
Then the truck driver edged his way through the circle, animosity on his face. “Hey, youse, you Cecil McDade of the Dodgers?”
You run over a kid with your car; you make him lose a leg possibly; you hurt him surely; you lay him up certainly for a long, long time. Just a kid, lying there crying on the pavement. So you forget things, sort of; your job is a long way off. So, too, are your home and your people.
Then you’re brought suddenly back to Brooklyn. Highpockets, disconsolate and worried, turned to nod. He disliked Brooklyn more than ever he had before. He wished with all his heart he had never seen Flatbush. Or the Dodgers, either.
“Ya bum!” said the truck driver, venom in his tones. “Whatcha wanna drop that fly against the G’ints for this affernoon?”
Cecil McDade of the Dodgers! There was a kind of involuntary forward movement all around the circle as the boys on the edge pressed toward him, curiosity on every face. The injured youngster ceased to bawl. The father, kneeling beside him, looked up quickly. Cecil McDade! Why, say, that’s Highpockets.
It was the truck driver who spoke. “Ya bum ya! If that hadda been you out there just now, know what I’d’a done? I’d’a run over ya. Yeah, an’ they’d gimme a
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