MERRY’S CHUMS.
When the chagrined and defeated Elrich, together with his worthy
companion, had departed from the corridor, Frank Merriwell lost no time
in offering his hand to the handsome young Indian who had intervened in
time to save Dick from further molestation.
“Swiftwing!” Merry exclaimed, in deep satisfaction. “I am glad to see
you.”
The face of the Indian remained grave, but deep in his eyes shone a
light that told his unspeakable emotions.
“Frank Merriwell,” he said, in a deep, well-modulated voice, “once I
thought never to look on your face again, but fate has permitted us to
meet once more.”
Frank thought of the farewell message written him by the Carlisle
Indian almost a year before, in which Swiftwing had expressed the
affection and admiration that his tongue had never spoken. Their hand
lingered in contact, and then Hodge offered to shake.
Bart had never liked Swiftwing much, but now he was truly glad to see
the young Indian.
Old Joe Crowfoot stood there like a mummy, his keen black eyes watching
all that took place.
“It’s a great piece of luck,” said Merry. “You are the man to fill out
our baseball-team.”
“It is not luck,” said Swiftwing. “Crowfoot came to me and told me you
had been searching for me.”
“Then I have Crowfoot to thank?”
“Old Joe, him tell you he bring Swiftwing,” said the old fellow quietly.
“And you have kept your promise.”
“Not for you,” Old Joe asserted. “For Dick.”
“Dick, he----”
“He make Old Joe promise.”
“But I thought----”
“You thought I did not care,” said the boy. “And yet you had snatched
me from beneath the hoofs of a herd of cattle.”
“Which was no more than a fair return for the times that you kept Old
Joe from letting daylight through me.”
“Joe thought he would be doing me a favor; that was why he tried to
shoot you twice.”
“Merriwell,” said Carson, “it strikes me that you have your
baseball-team.”
“Right!” exclaimed Hodge. “Now we’ll take some of the conceit out of
the Denver Reds.”
“I have not played the game since I left you last year,” said
Swiftwing. “I shall be entirely out of practise.”
“We have time to get into practise some,” Merry explained. “We’ll try
to do so without delay. Where is the White Dove, Swiftwing?”
“She became tired of our life, far from the friends she had known,”
explained the young Indian. “It is not strange, for she has the blood
of the white man in her veins. I saw she was getting restless and
unhappy. At first she would not tell me why, but I discovered her
secret. Then I sent her back to Badger’s ranch, where she shall stay
till she wants to come to me again.”
“And you,” said Frank, smiling a little, “despite your resolve to
become a hermit and mingle no more with men, I rather fancy you fell
to longing for the excitement of the diamond and the tumult of the
gridiron. Is it not true, John?”
“Sometimes I think of it,” the young Indian confessed. “It is like
nothing else, and once a man has played the games and loved them, he
may never quite forget.”
“That’s the truth,” nodded Carson.
They took the elevator and went up to Merry’s room, Frank insisting
that Crowfoot should come along. Old Joe would not have accompanied
them, however, had not Dick urged him to do so.
“Smoke?” questioned the wrinkled Indian, as soon as he was inside
Merriwell’s handsomely furnished suite, which was one of the best in
the hotel.
“As much as you like,” nodded Merry, flinging wide open a window.
The old savage gravely squatted on the floor, bringing forth his long
black pipe and filling it with tobacco. When he had lighted it he sat
there, puffing away in silence, while the others talked.
Of course, there was much to talk about, and the conversation was
moving briskly when Ready and Rattleton drifted in. Jack struck a pose
when his eyes fell on Swiftwing.
“What is this I behold?” he cried dramatically. “Is it my noble friend
of the war-path? Whoop! It is! It are! It am! Come to me arms, my noble
ghost-dancer, and let me fold you, like a long-lost brother, in a fond
embrace.”
Then he pranced forward and clasped the hand which Swiftwing gravely
submitted. The young Indian was accustomed to the exuberant ways of
Ready, and took no offense.
“And here is that gentle young gazelle, Joseph Crowfoot, Esquire,” said
Ready, making a grand bow. “Chief, I salute you.”
“Ugh!” grunted Old Joe, as he continued smoking, without paying any
further attention to Jack.
Then Ready saw Carson, rubbed his eyes, looked again, pinched himself,
and exclaimed:
“Ho! ha! Also he! he! Likewise ho! ho! This is another jolly little
surprise. Here is me old side-partner, the cow-puncher! Pard, this is a
sight for lame eyes! You dear old maverick, how is your general health?”
“It’s first-class, Ready,” laughed Berlin, as he shook hands with Jack.
“I don’t think it ever was better.”
“Isn’t that perfectly lovely!” gurgled Ready. “You have happened along
just in time to get into the round-up. In the words of the poet, ‘What,
oh, what, is so jolly as the sight of a bosom friend whom you can touch
for a beautiful green bank-note?’ I may want to borrow a dollar or ten
to-morrow, Carson.”
“When did you gind this fang--I mean, find this gang?” asked Rattleton
of Frank.
“Swiftwing, Crowfoot, and Carson happened along,” Merry explained.
“It’s dead lucky for us, as we have been challenged by the Denver Reds
to play ball, and we were two men short.”
Rattleton had met Swiftwing, and he shook hands with the young Indian,
while Ready was chattering away to Carson. Then he grasped the hand of
the young college man.
Soon the door opened to admit Gamp, Browning, and Carker, who, of
course, were equally surprised.
“Gug-gug-gashfry!” laughed the New Hampshire youth. “This is just like
old tut-tut-times!”
“Trouble! trouble!” murmured Browning wearily. “I scent baseball in the
air, and that means my finish. I’ll melt and run into a grease-spot
during this hot weather.”
“Baseball, at best,” said Carker, “is a rather cruel sport in many
ways. It is the triumph of the weak over the strong, which is a sad
thing to contemplate under any circumstances.”
“Hush!” said Merriwell, lifting his hand. “Be still, everybody!”
They obeyed, and, after a moment, Rattleton asked:
“What is it?”
“I fancied I heard the rumble of Carker’s pet earthquake,” answered
Merry gravely.
Greg flushed, then exclaimed:
“That’s all right, Merry; but the time is coming when you will hear and
feel something more than a distant rumbling and a faint tremor. The
time is coming when----”
“Will--you--let--up!” shouted Greg’s college friends, in unison, and
the ardent young Socialist relapsed into despairing silence.