CHAPTER XXVII.
A HOMESICK BOY.
The sights of New York filled Dick Merriwell with wonder and awe. Brought up in the peace and quietude of Pleasant Valley, under the shadow of the snow-capped Rockies, the rush and roar of the great city overwhelmed the boy at first. The tall buildings filled him with fear, the rush and racket of the elevated trains shocked him, the whiz of the clanging surface cars sent cold shivers over his body.
Although he did not confess it, he was seized by a great longing to fly from the mighty city and return to his quiet home near Lake Sunshine. The feeling smote upon his heart with a pain that took away his strength and made him sick. He thought of Felicia far away, and longed to look into her bright eyes again—longed to feel her caressing arms flung about him.
But he had given up everything that once was his to go with Frank and do what Frank desired, and he fought against the terrible homesickness. No one seemed to read him like Old Joe Crowfoot, the withered Indian, who loved him with the affection of a devoted animal.
If Old Joe sickened and longed for the mountains and plains, he kept the fact concealed beneath a calm demeanor and a stoical countenance. But he found the boy quite alone in the solitude of his room in the hotel, and placed a wrinkled hand on his shoulder, saying with surprising softness:
“Heap bad feel now—git over him bimeby. Old Joe him know. You wait.”
“Oh, Joe!” gasped the boy, starting and trembling. “I did not hear you come in.”
“Injun Heart lose all Joe he teach um to know. Always must hear. Never be ketched surprise.”
“But I was thinking, and I——”
“Better not think more of that. Heap bad. Forget.”