“I know it!” she cried, her cheeks beginning to glow, as she warmed to the defense of her red champion. “He showed it in his face. Mr. Merriwell knows him. He has been East to the Indian school at Carlisle, and he is educated. He had the manners of a gentleman, and I believe he has a true and good heart.”
“That shows how little you Eastern people know of Indians. All the education they may have will not make them anything but what they are—and that is bad all the way through.”
“I will not believe that, sir!”
Carver smiled.
“I do not expect you to believe it. Eastern people seldom do.”
“John Swiftwing has the making of a splendid man in him. He plays on the Carlisle football team, and Frank says he is one of their best players. He is like a tiger in a game.”
“I don’t doubt it. Football is a savage’s game at best, and it allows him to work off some of his savage traits. He goes into the struggle as he would go into a battle, and he rejoices in beating down and trampling on all who oppose him. His heart at such a time is a perfect inferno of fury, and, give him a deadly weapon, he would not hesitate to murder. With his bare hands he has little chance to kill. Oh, yes, football is a splendid game for savages!”
It was Merriwell’s turn to smile.
“Mr. Carver,” he said, quite calmly, “you are showing how very ignorant you are about football. It’s a man’s game, and only men of nerve, as well as skill and strength, can play it.”
Carver’s brow darkened for a moment and then cleared.