CHAPTER XXIV.
MERRY’S CHUMS.
When the chagrined and defeated Elrich, together with his worthy companion, had departed from the corridor, Frank Merriwell lost no time in offering his hand to the handsome young Indian who had intervened in time to save Dick from further molestation.
“Swiftwing!” Merry exclaimed, in deep satisfaction. “I am glad to see you.”
The face of the Indian remained grave, but deep in his eyes shone a light that told his unspeakable emotions.
“Frank Merriwell,” he said, in a deep, well-modulated voice, “once I thought never to look on your face again, but fate has permitted us to meet once more.”
Frank thought of the farewell message written him by the Carlisle Indian almost a year before, in which Swiftwing had expressed the affection and admiration that his tongue had never spoken. Their hand lingered in contact, and then Hodge offered to shake.
Bart had never liked Swiftwing much, but now he was truly glad to see the young Indian.
Old Joe Crowfoot stood there like a mummy, his keen black eyes watching all that took place.
“It’s a great piece of luck,” said Merry. “You are the man to fill out our baseball-team.”
“It is not luck,” said Swiftwing. “Crowfoot came to me and told me you had been searching for me.”