“Mebbe so,” he mumbled. “Old Joe see game once. See men throw balls like bullet at ’nother man. ’Nother man hit it with big stick. Then everybody run, crowd yell, one who hit ball make quick foot race round in circle back to place where he start. There he scoot-um head first on ground. Somebody throw ball to feller who grab it and hit-um man on ground ’tween shoulders. Everybody yell: ‘Kill umpire.’ Old Joe he get out knife and start to do it. Next thing everybody jump on old Joe, kick him stiff. What make-um holler ‘kill umpire’ if no want him killed?”
“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Buzzsaw. “You certainly was going to be obliging.”
“No understand it,” sighed Crowfoot sadly. “Take-um knife from old Joe, kick-um him, put-um bracelets on him, yank him to lockup. Next day judge fine-um him twenty-five dol’ and costs—say ’cause he break peace. He no break anything. He all broke up himself.”
“Well, just come out to the game to-morrow,” urged Stover, “and you’ll see us eat a lot of kids up.”
“Eat um—eat um kids?”
“I mean the fellers on the opposite team.”
“You eat um?” repeated Crowfoot in a puzzled way. “You like-um baseball players to eat?”
“He’s speaking figuratively, Powhatan,” exclaimed Gentle Willie. “He means that we’ll beat the everlasting stuffing out of them. We can beat anything that plays the game, and a chesty, conceited youngster by the name of Dick Merriwell had the nerve to challenge us to play. What do you think of that!”
“Heap much nerve,” nodded Crowfoot, swaying slightly on his chair. “Old Joe come. He have great fun to watch you beat-um young fool Merriwell. Mebbe you no beat.”
“It will be a cinch,” said South-paw. “I’m going to pitch.”