“You’re five thousand in, with the five hundred added.”
“I reckon. But what’s this? There’s the boy Mescal was after, and he’s got a companion. Look at them! What are they going to do?”
Dick Merriwell and Old Joe Crowfoot were advancing toward the home plate.
CHAPTER XXIX.
HITS THAT DID NOT COUNT.
Frank Merriwell made a signal, and his men came trotting in from the field.
But the eyes of the spectators were on the strangely handsome boy and the wrinkled old Indian, the latter having his dirty red blanket wrapped about his shoulders. At the home plate, to which the boy seemed to lead the Indian, they stopped.
Some boys on the bleachers began to whoop like a whole pack of redskins. Unheeding everything, Old Joe slowly walked round the rubber plate, then stopped, extended his hands over it and made some queer signs, as if he were weaving a spell. A hush had fallen on the curious crowd.
Finally the aged Indian stooped and solemnly placed the flat of his hand upon the plate, as if blessing it. This done, he turned, and, accompanied by the boy, walked toward the bench. Again the urchins began to whoop, and the crowd laughed.
The umpire appeared and advanced onto the field. The Reds, of course, had their choice of innings, and they decided to go to bat first.
Merriwell’s men were bunched about their leader, who was speaking to them in low tones.