No one interrupted the old fellow, for all were interested in the singular performance. A few small boys hooted and whooped, while many laughed; but to nothing of this sort did the Indian pay the least attention.
Crowfoot’s movements quickly became fierce and violent, till it seemed most amazing that a man of his years could go through them. His singing was a shriek, and then, of a sudden, it stopped. With heaving breast, the painted fellow turned and walked toward the bench of the visiting players.
Dick Merriwell was standing there, and straight to the boy advanced the Indian. Dick met him, and the old savage grasped the hand of the lad.
After looking into Dick’s eyes, the Indian lifted his face skyward and uttered a yell that startled and amazed many who heard it. It was the confident war-cry of his tribe, and it meant that he felt sure of victory.
When this yell had pealed from his lips, Old Joe lightly touched Dick on the cheeks and forehead, following which he struck the boy a sharp blow on both his right and left arm.
“Go!” he said. “Heap much strong to beat!”
Then Merriwell’s team went onto the field, Dick entering the box.
Hank Dowling laughed his satisfaction, softly, grimly.
“Look at that, Charley!” he said. “See the kid they have been forced to put in Merriwell’s place.”
“They’ll kill that boy in one inning,” asserted Bates.