The speaker was a young Indian of evident intelligence.
Frank was willing and ready to take part in the footrace, and he immediately accepted the invitation.
“I know I shall be pitted against Swiftwing,” he thought, “and it is liable to be the race of my life, for he can run like the wind. I will beat him—or die!”
A straight course of nearly a quarter of a mile was prepared, and the spectators ranged up on either side near the finish.
There were five starters, four of whom were Indians. Merriwell was the only white persons who had been invited to take part.
The Indians were stripped for the race, as they had been in taking part in other sports.
Frank brought out a pair of running shoes, and these he put on. He removed his sweater and stripped down to a light, sleeveless undershirt.
As they stood side by side, Swiftwing spoke to Frank.
“Much depends on this race,” he said—“much more than you can know. Beat me, Merriwell, if you can. You will be sorry if you fail.”
All this was very mysterious, but Frank returned: