Frank held out his hand.
“Shake, Swiftwing!” he cried. “I am delighted to see you, although you nearly killed me once on a tackle. Without question, you are the fiercest tackler and the best football player Carlisle has on her team. If she had ten more men like you, she’d wipe up the earth with every Eastern college.”
A gleam shot from the eyes of the other, and he accepted Frank’s hand.
“You speak as if you mean it,” he said, “and I thank you.”
“I do mean it,” declared Frank. “Why, all the Eastern papers said so! You showed yourself a wonder. You play football as if your life depended on it.”
“Yes. It is the only white man’s game worth playing.”
“I can’t agree with you there. I consider baseball superior.”
Swiftwing shook his head.
“No,” he said; “it is too tame. Football is like a battle, and it makes one’s blood tingle.”
“Well, I wish to thank you for your ready intervention in behalf of this young lady, who is a friend of mine. Permit me to introduce you. Miss Burrage, this is Mr. Swiftwing, a Carlisle student.”