Frank's words and manner seemed to scorch the Mexican for a moment, but he quickly recovered, snapping his fingers.
"Like most Americans, you quail and grow sick at the sight of a little blood," he sneered. "We hear about the courage of Americans, and, of course, some of them are brave; but I doubt the courage of any man who gets sick over the sight of a little good, red blood."
"Gentlemen," cried Hatch, in dismay, "I hope you are not going to——"
"Don't worry, Arthur," interrupted Frank. "It is plain that Mendoza and I hold quite different views. It is the difference between two races. There will be no further discussion."
Mendoza sprang up.
"You are right," he admitted; "it is the difference between my people and your people. We do not understand each other. If I have been hasty in anything, forget it. I presume Señor Merriwell is right—from his standpoint. Let it pass."
Hatch was relieved.
"Let's go out for a little air," he suggested. "I wish to show Merriwell round the place."
"A lovely place," nodded the Mexican lad. "The home of my good friend Arthur Hatch, who, although an American, is a man I do not believe would turn squeamish at sight of a little blood."
Frank was quite willing and ready to go out.