“We were doing a bit of cross-country running,” Merriwell said quietly. Billy McQuade was flashing him queer looks which he interpreted as warnings, but he took no heed of them. “As I said, I’ll expect to make good any damage, and I’m very sorry the accident occurred. My name is Frank Merriwell, junior, and you’ll find me at the McQuades’ residence, if you want me.”
The man flung Billy a hard look, then laughed sneeringly.
“Mebbe I will and mebbe I won’t,” he jeered. “They ain’t goin’ to have a residence very long, I reckon. I s’pose he put you up to scarin’ that hoss, eh?”
“He did not!” cried Merry indignantly. The insinuation made him angry clear through. Billy flung him an imploring glance, but he was a chip of the old block, and showed it in his next words.
“I don’t know who you are, my friend, but you’ve got a disposition that I wouldn’t like to be let loose with. We’ve caused an accident, or, rather, I have, and I’ve apologized and offered to do all in my power to make it right.
“Instead of throwing slurs and curses into the atmosphere, it’d be a whole lot more decent if you’d try to act white. I don’t blame you for being mad. I’d probably be mad myself in the same circumstances. But that’s no reason for your acting in this way.”
The stranger gave him a black look, then moved off.
“Humph!” he grunted sarcastically. “I guess you’re like your dad, if all I’ve heard say is correct. Let’s see what damage was done. I reckon the buggy was smashed up.”
Merriwell and Billy McQuade followed him to where the horse stood. The man went over the buggy, then examined the horse.
“Ain’t nothing busted,” he said, almost regretfully, it seemed. “But you kids are too gay, runnin’ around the country in them duds. It’s goin’ to be stopped.”