Casey could not remember, just at the moment, what story he had already told of his accident.

He stuttered--a strange thing for an Irishman to do, by the way--and retreated into The Club, where they dared not follow.
"H'lo, Casey! Give yuh a chance to win back some of your losin's, if you're game to try it again," called a man from the far end of the room.
Casey swore and hobbled back to him, let himself stiffly down into a chair and dropped his crutches with a rattle of hard wood.

Being a cripple was growing painful, besides being very inconvenient.

The male half of Lund had practically suspended business that day to hover around him and exchange comments upon his looks.

Casey had received a lot of sympathy that day, and only the fact that he had remained sequestered behind the curtained arch that cut across the rear of The Club saved him from receiving a lot more.