Cunningham glared at Merry, longing to put his hands on the cool youth who dared talk to him thus plainly.
“That’s sassy!” he growled.
“But it’s true, Mr. Muldoon.”
“Well, I don’t ’low everybody to tell me the truth, so yo’ had better be careful in the future.”
“As long as it is my misfortune to be in your society, I shall not hesitate to tell you the truth, sir.”
Frank was gently stroking the muzzles of the horses and patting their necks while he talked, and the animals became calmer and calmer beneath his touch.
“Well, yo’ are a mighty queer chap!” blurted Cunningham, who was beginning to realize that he did not understand Merriwell at all.
“Splice that rein somehow,” said Frank, “and we’ll go on, for I have no time to waste.”
When the horses were thoroughly quieted, Cunningham found a piece of stout twine in his pocket. Merriwell had a jack-knife that was also a handy kit of tools, and with these the rein was securely spliced, Frank doing most of the work.
“Yo’ are clever at some things,” the ruffian was forced to confess; “an’ I judge yo’ don’t scare very easy.”