On the bleachers Old Joe Crowfoot was grimly smoking his pipe, but by his side sat an excited boy, whose face was flushed and whose eyes shone.
“They didn’t get a run, did they, Joe?” asked the boy eagerly.
“Ugh!” grunted the Indian. “Don’t know. White man’s game. Injun don’t know him.”
“But they did hit the ball,” said Dick, in disappointment. “I didn’t think Frank would let them do that.”
“He throw um ball pretty quick,” said Joe.
“He’s afraid to do his best, I’m sure,” said Dick. “He’s afraid Hodge can’t catch it.”
“Hodge he heap big catch,” asserted Crowfoot. “Not afraid of stick when it swing. Him good.”
“We got out of a bad hole that time, fellows,” said Frank, as the team gathered at the bench. “If we keep on playing ball like that we’ll win this game.”
“Those fellows will know better than to chance such takes—take such chances,” said Rattleton.
“How is your hand, Bart?” asked Merry.