A MOMENT OF PERIL.
The old Indian sat down and resumed smoking.
“Heap good!” he grunted, as Dick came in. “Make um strikin’ man go
swish-swish. ’Nother one send um up easy ball, you ketch him slick.
All right so! Injun Heart heap get into gear.”
Old Joe was beginning to pick up current slang.
Inza Burrage was signaling from the bleachers, and Frank started over
at once.
“Bring your brother!” she exclaimed, as soon as Merry was near. “I
want to speak to him.”
So Frank went back for Dick, who came over quietly.
Inza descended to the front of the bleachers, followed by Elsie, who
saw Bart approaching.
“I’m so glad to see you again, Frank!” exclaimed the dark-eyed girl,
her cheeks glowing, as she gave him her hand.
“And I to see you, Inza!” he returned, giving her hand a warm
pressure and looking deep into her eyes. “This is a great surprise.
I did not think of seeing you here. You must have had it nicely
arranged.”
“Didn’t we?” she exclaimed. “And this is your brother? He is
splendid, Frank.”
Merry introduced Dick, who lifted his cap, smiled into Inza’s dark
eyes, and gave her his hand. At the touch of their hands it seemed as
if a bond of sympathy was established between them.
In the meantime Bart was speaking with Elsie, who betrayed her
happiness in her voice and manner. Up on the bleachers a man was
talking to a big dog.
“Sec him, Nero!” said the man, pointing to Dick. “Look at him, boy!
That’s the one.”
The dog growled.
“Ha!” muttered the man. “Now you’ve got your eye on him!”
Again a growl.
“He’s a tramp,” said the man. “A tramp, Nero. Do you understand?”
The dog growled fiercely and seemed eager to break away, but his
master restrained him.
“Not now, boy,” he said. “Wait. He doesn’t look like a tramp, but he
is. You know what to do to tramps, don’t you, boy?”
The animal showed his teeth in something like a snarl.
“Steady! Hold your temper now, Nero, but watch him--watch him! That’s
all.”
By this time it was necessary for the three players to hurry back to
the bench, as John Swiftwing already had two strikes called against
him.
The dog strained and started when Dick walked away, but the man held
him in restraint.
Swiftwing finally hit the ball, but it went into the hands of
Skelding, who made a pretty throw to first, and the young Indian was
out.
Frank Merriwell was the next batter. He had a favorite bat, but, by
some mischance, it was not in the pile, and he was compelled to take
another stick.
Morgan smiled as Merry came up.
“Don’t hit it too hard,” he said. “Be satisfied with a two-bagger.”
Merry did not retort, but merely smiled a bit. Dade started with a
high one, but Frank did not bite, and a ball was called. Then came an
out drop that was wide of the plate. It was another ball.
Dade followed with a straight drop, which Merry let pass, but the
umpire called a strike. An in shoot forced Frank back.
“Three balls!” said the umpire.
“Got him in a hole!” cried Ready. “He can’t put it over, Merry.”
Perhaps Dade did not wish to put it over, for the following pitch was
a bad one, and Frank was sent to first on four balls.
Rattleton was the batter to follow, a fact known to Morgan. Harry
was not a sure hitter, but he was one who hit at the most unexpected
times. Morgan knew him pretty well, and he proceeded to work him.
Frank signed that he would go down on the second ball, and Harry
slashed at it, though it was a bad one.
Merry showed what fast base-running was then, as he was forced to do
his best and slide at the finish. He came up to the bag in handsome
style, a moment before Packard could touch him with the ball.
“How easy--oh, how easy!” sang Ready. “Don’t you like the way he does
it? Isn’t he a peach?”
It was a lucky thing that Merry stole the base, for Rattleton hit
weakly to Morgan, who could have made it a double play had there been
a chance. Rattleton was thrown out at first. Two men were out, and
Dick Merriwell was the hitter.
“Fan him, Dade!” urged Mason.
Morgan fancied the task would be simple, and he sent in the ball with
plenty of speed.
Mulloy dropped the first one, permitting it to roll away from him to
the right. Frank seized the opportunity to go to third. Barney leaped
after the ball, got it, and threw to third, but again Frank made a
handsome slide and was safe.
This was fast base-running, and it set the spectators to cheering
loudly. The Yale crowd broke into a cheer in unison, while Inza and
Elsie waved their banners.
Dick set his teeth. He had struck at the first one, but he realized
he was not swift enough, the ball having passed before he swung.
Morgan did not feel at all worried, for he fancied Dick would be an
easy out. The boy realized that he would not be able to swing hard
at the ball and hit it, on account of Morgan’s great speed, so he
gripped his bat firmly and gave it a short, sharp jerk when the next
ball was pitched.
It did not seem that he struck hard enough to kill a fly, but the
ball went off the bat on a line, and was a clean hit over the
infield, bringing Frank home.
Morgan was angry, and he could not help showing it. When the ball
came in to him, he threw it down at his feet and walked round the
pitcher’s plate. The ball rolled a short distance away, and then
there was a shout.
Dick Merriwell had seized the opportunity to try for second.
Morgan leaped for the ball, got it, whirled, sent it to Packard. It
was a bad throw, and the ball went far out into the field.
Dick did not stop, but kept straight on for third, running as fast as
he could, which was like a young deer.
Unfortunately the ball went straight to Gallup, who picked it up
cleanly and threw to third. Gallup was a phenomenal thrower, and the
ball sailed to third on a line.
Skelding took it just as Dick went forward in a headlong slide. Even
then the boy slid round Gene, and to many it seemed that he was safe,
but the umpire cried:
“Out at third!”
Frank made a protest, but the decision stood, and that made the third
man out. The score was tied, however.
It seemed that Dick was winded after that hard run, and it was
necessary for him to go into the box and begin pitching at once.
“Now they’ll pound him out!” exclaimed the man with the dog. “See if
they don’t!”
Dick, however, was scarcely breathing harder than usual. His training
had made him hard as iron, and he could stand the strain of severe
and sudden exertion without showing it.
Hodge knew his business pretty well, and he found difficulty in
adjusting the body-protector, which made time for Dick to fully
recover, in case he needed it.
The best batters of the Mysteries were up against the boy, Mason
leading off. The young pitcher sent the first ball over with a jump,
and Mason missed it.
“One strike!”
Then followed a high in shoot, but Hock had his eyes open, and let it
pass. The third one was too high, which made the second ball.
It seemed that Dick followed this with another high one, but the
ball took a sharp drop and fell across the shoulders of the batter.
“Two strikes!”
Immediately Mason objected, but the umpire silenced him instantly.
Still keeping the ball high, the boy used an in shoot, but it was not
over.
“Three balls!”
“He’s got to put it over!” exclaimed the man with the dog.
Dick did put it over, but the jump on the ball was too much for the
calculation of Mason, who missed it again and was out.
“That looks like batting him out of the box!” cried one of the Yale
men.
There was not a word from the man with the dog.
Dick knew well enough that Starbright must be a hitter, although the
big Yale man had not hit safely the first time up.
Again Frank gave the boy a sign, and again Dick worked the batter
carefully and in a heady manner, at last forcing him to hit a weak
one down to first. Browning got the ball and easily reached the base
ahead of the runner.
Two men were out, and the Yale crowd broke loose in a joyous manner.
Mulloy felt that it was necessary for him to do something, and yet he
declined to be pulled by a wide out.
“No ye don’t, me bhoy!” muttered the Irish youth. “Get ’em over av ye
ixpict me to swing.”
Dick did put one over, but it looked high, and came down with a sharp
drop.
Barney was deceived, and he growled when the umpire called a strike
on him. Following this, Dick used a swift, high, straight one, and
Mulloy hit it, although it would have been a ball had he let it pass.
It was a clean hit past second. Gamp fielded it in to second in a
hurry, preventing Barney from getting two bases.
“Now it starts!” muttered the man with the dog.
Gallup walked out in an awkward manner. He had hit the ball hard
before, and he felt confident of doing so again. But the boy used the
jump ball to start with, and Ephraim was surprised when he failed to
hit anything more solid than the empty air.
Then Dick wasted a ball in trying to “pull” the batter, but sent the
next one over the inside corner.
“Two strikes!”
“It’s all over!” cried Jack Ready. “You can’t hit him, Gallup, and
you may as well go back to the farm.”
Dick took his time about pitching the ball again. He was on the verge
of making the delivery when there came a cry of alarm.
Across the field a big dog was rushing straight at the boy pitcher,
his eyes gleaming, and his mouth open. Dick turned and saw the dog
coming. For a moment he stood there, evidently wondering if the
animal was coming at him, and then he drew back the hand that held
the ball.
“Look out!” roared the voices of men, as they rose to their feet in
the grand stand and on the bleachers. “The dog is mad!”
Then Dick threw the ball, swift as a bullet, straight into the open
mouth of the dog.
The creature had been on the verge of leaping at the throat of the
boy, but the speed of the ball checked him somewhat.
The ball seemed to become wedged in the dog’s jaws, and Dick easily
stepped aside and avoided the creature.
Onto the diamond came Old Joe Crowfoot. Like a leaping panther he
went at the dog, flung himself on the animal, and grasped it by the
neck.
Old Joe’s hand rose with something bright in it. It fell with a swift
movement, and a long knife was buried to the hilt in the side of the
dog.
Old Joe did not need to strike again, for his eye had been accurate
and his stroke sure. Pierced to the heart by the keen knife, the dog
was flung aside by the Indian to fall in its death throes on the dirt
of the diamond.
Crowfoot calmly wiped the blood-stained knife on his buckskin
trousers.
The excitement was great at that moment. A number of the players,
armed with bats, rushed out; but their aid was not needed, for the
dog was dying.
“Ugh!” grunted Old Joe. “Heap ugly dog! Him want to bite somebody. No
want to bite some more.”
A man came rushing across from the bleachers. It was the dog’s
master, and he was furious in his rage.
“That dog was worth five hundred dollars!” he snarled. “I’ll shoot
the old skunk who killed him!”
He pulled a revolver and tried to get at Old Joe, who watched him
quietly, seeming not at all alarmed.
Two policemen hurried up.
Frank Merriwell had placed himself between the owner of the dead dog
and Crowfoot.
“Put up that pistol!” commanded Frank.
“I’ll shoot him!” raged the man. “He has killed Nero!”
Then he saw the policemen hurrying forward, and he suddenly decided
to put the revolver away; but he called to the officers and demanded
that the slayer of the dog be arrested.
“He carries concealed weapons!” declared the man.
“Better drop that,” spoke Frank, in a low tone. “You have a revolver
on your person, and I shall make a charge against you if you kick up
trouble.”
“The dog must have been mad,” said one of the policemen.
“Of course he was,” exclaimed several of the players. “It’s great
luck he didn’t get at the boy.”
“Methinks Joseph Crowfoot, Esquire, is deserving of a gold medal,”
said Jack Ready. “He is a very handy old gentleman with a carver.”
“But he has no right to carry concealed weapons,” said one of the
officers. “We shall have to arrest him.”
“Even so, and I will cheerfully pay his fine,” came from Ready.
“But first make sure he has concealed weapons on his person,” said
Frank Merriwell.
“He had a knife.”
“It was in his hand when he went after the dog.”
“He must have it about him now.”
“It is easy enough to decide that point. Search him.”
Old Joe was standing with his arms folded on his breast, apparently
not at all concerned by the hubbub.
One of the officers advanced and grasped him by the shoulder, saying:
“Hand over that knife!”
“No got knife,” was the scornful answer.
“Hand it over!” sharply and threateningly commanded the policeman.
“No got knife,” repeated the redskin.
“Don’t lie! I saw you have it.”
“No got it.”
“If you don’t hand it over, I shall search you.”
Joe stood straight as a mountain pine, his beady black eyes full of
defiance.
“Not got it,” was his reiteration.
“Come,” growled the officer. “I’ll take you up here and search you.”
The Indian did not object, but, when he was taken into a room beneath
the grand stand and searched, the knife was not found upon him.
“What have you done with it?” demanded the puzzled and angry
policeman.
“No got it,” was all he could force Joe to say in answer.
“But you had it.”
“Ugh!” grunted the redskin.
Frank Merriwell came to Joe’s relief.
“You have found no concealed weapon on him, officer,” said Merry.
“Won’t it be best to let him go? You know he did a good job, and
saved somebody from getting hurt by that dog.”
“What is he traveling round here for, anyhow?” asked the cop, unable
to recover from his anger.
“He is the mascot of our team,” Merry exclaimed. “He is also a friend
to my brother.”
“But he has no right in a civilized country. I ought to run him in
and see that he’s properly cared for.”
“I will see that he is properly cared for, Mr. Officer. Leave him to
me.”
“What if the owner of the dog makes a complaint against him?”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he hasn’t, and he knows he will get into trouble if he does.”
Frank had hit the nail on the head. The owner of the dog realized he
had been heard when he pointed out Dick Merriwell to the huge animal,
and he was afraid to carry the matter too far. Although furious at
the death of the dog, he soon decided to withdraw and keep still, for
the time, at least.
Frank talked privately to the officer for a few moments, promising
Crowfoot should face any complaint made, and the policeman decided
not to arrest the old Indian then.
The umpire had called time as soon as he could, and the game was
not resumed until Merriwell and Old Joe appeared, followed by the
policeman, and walked out to the bench, where the Indian sat down.
Then the crowd cheered for the aged Indian, but he seemed not to hear
their shouting. With perfect nonchalance he proceeded to refill and
relight his pipe.