“You blessed old soldier of fortune!” chuckled Tucker. “How I admire you! If I was not fearful you would rise up and take my scalp, I would slap you familiarly on the back.”
“Back ’gainst wall,” reminded old Joe, sucking at the gurgling pipe. “Rheumatiz in back. Anybody slap-um Shangowah on back, he get in heap much trouble.”
“We’re stopping at a small hotel called the Sunset House,” said young Joe. “I knew some of the big hotels might object—or the guests might—if my grandfather should seek accommodations in them.”
“The Sunset House?” said Dick. “Why, that’s where Harrison’s ball team is putting up.”
“Yes,” nodded young Joe, “they’re there. To-morrow they play with the Springs’ nine, and my grandfather wishes to see the game.”
“They will not play with the Springs’ nine to-morrow.”
“Why not? That’s what brought them here.”
“But that game has been called off.”
“Too bad,” mumbled old Crowfoot. “Joe he get so he like-um baseball heap much. He like-um to see one more game.”
“Well, you’ll have the chance,” smiled Dick, “for to-morrow Harrison’s Outlaws will play a team picked up by yours truly, Richard Merriwell, and your grandson is going to be in that game as a member of my nine.”