“Gol darn my punkins!” exclaimed Ephraim Gallup, joyously. “This is more fun than a darg-fight! Never see nothing like it before! Let me git a rap at that ball!”
But when he made a run for it, his long legs got tangled with his bat, and he was tripped with such suddenness that he flipped into the air as if sent with a spring, turned over and dropped on the back of his neck.
An Indian struck the ball, however, and it did not touch the ground.
“Say!” snorted the Vermonter, as he sat up and glared around, “p’int me aout the critter what done that!”
No one paid any attention to him, so he got up, secured his bat, and waited for a chance to get at the ball without running after it.
Crack! crack! crack!—the bats were rapping the little ball in quick succession, and the players and spectators were feverish with excitement.
The Indians were betting madly on the outcome of the game, and the white witnesses were taking “chances” on it.
Dan Carver, cool and serene, was covering everything that came his way, backing Swiftwing’s side.
Frank was watching an opportunity to get in a good “drive.” He observed that the most of the Indian players knocked the ball into the air, and he fancied that a drive that would place it might be successful.
His opportunity came at last.