Merry instantly let go of Dan Carver’s wrist, saying:
“I thank you, sir.”
The Indian who had been knocked down had regained his feet by this time. He paused, swaying a bit unsteadily, and glared in a drunken way at Inza and her rescuer, then he turned and staggered away, disappearing around the station.
“The horrid beast!” exclaimed Miss Abigail, who had lifted her parasol, as if to strike him, while she stiffly stood her ground. “Indians are not good for anything anyway. You never can make anything decent out of them, no matter how hard you try.”
“I believe that is what all white folks think,” said the young man who had knocked the drunken savage down. “They may be right.”
There was a trace of bitterness in the words and the tone in which they were spoken.
Frank stared hard at the rescuer, and then, stepping forward, cried:
“I believe I know you! I am sure I do! Why, you are John Swiftwing, and I have played football against you!”
The youth with the swarthy face looked at Frank, and then bowed gravely.
“I am John Swiftwing,” he acknowledged; “and I remember you. You are a Yale man, and your name is Merriwell.”