“Why, good morning, Mr. Schimmelpodt,” Dick responded, as he started to get up.  “What are you doing here.”

“Oh, choost vaiting to see bis you do the same thing,” grunted the contractor.  “It was great sport—–­not?”

“Decidedly ‘not,’” laughed Dick, stepping gingerly over a sidewalk that had been spread thinly with some sticky substance.  “Can I help you up, Mr. Schimmelpodt?”

The German, who knew his own weight, glanced at the boy’s slight figure rather doubtfully.

“Bresgott, how many horsepower are you alretty?”

But Dick, standing carefully so that he would not slip again, displayed more strength than the contractor had expected.  In another moment the German was on his feet, moving cautiously away, his eyes on the sidewalk.  Yet he did not forget to mutter his thanks to the boy.

As Dick now went on his way again, slipping around the corner and into a bakeshop, he noticed that his right wrist felt a bit queer.

“Well, I haven’t broken anything,” he murmured, feeling of the wrist with his left hand.  “But what on earth happened to the sidewalk.”

As he paused before his door on the way back, he looked carefully down at the sidewalk.  Right before the door several flags in the walk appeared to be thinly coated with some colorless specimen of slime.

“It looks as though it might be soft soap,” pondered Prescott, examining the stuff more closely.  “It’ll be dry in a half an hour more, but I think I had better fix it.”

In the basement was a barrel of sand that was used for sanding the icy sidewalk in winter.  As soon as Dick had run upstairs with the bread he went below, got a few handfuls of sand and fixed the sidewalk.

At recess Dick noticed just enough about his wrist to make him speak about it to Submaster Luce.

“Let me see it,” demanded coach.  “Hm!” he muttered.  “Another peculiar accident, and only two days before our game with Chichester!  See Dr. Bentley about your wrist at his office this afternoon.  I’m beginning to think, Prescott, that it’s a fortunate thing for you that the medical director is paid out of the fund.  You’d bankrupt an ordinary citizen if you’re going to keep on having these tumbles.”

Dr. Bentley’s verdict was that, while the wrist was not in a condition that need bother men much in ordinary callings, yet, as a pitcher’s wrist, it would need rest and care.

“I’ve just got the tip that I’m to pitch in the Chichester game,” said Dave, coming to his chum that afternoon.

“Yes; Doe thinks I ought to look after this wrist—–­that it wouldn’t stand extraordinary strain during the next few days.  But, Dave, old fellow, watch out!  Keep your eye on the sidewalks near your home.  Don’t prowl in lonely places after dark.  Act as if you were made of glass until you get on the field at the Chichester game.”

Darrin glanced shrewdly at his friend, then nodded.