“Crowfoot,” said Frank, “you’re a mascot. You hoodoo the other side when you utter that ear-splitting war-whoop.”
“Dick him like for me to do um,” said the savage.
“And you will do anything for Dick,” said Merry, resting a hand on the shoulder of the Indian who had thrice attempted his life. “For that reason you are my friend.”
The manager of the Minneapolis team pushed his way into the group.
“You’re a rather clever chap, Merriwell,” he said, with an angry sneer on his face. “We owe you something.”
“Don’t mention it!” smiled Frank.
“But I have to mention it. We owe you a good beating.”
“What sort? Same as those toughs tried to give me?”
“Perhaps he’s sore because they failed to get in their work,” flared Hodge.