"You countrymen will have to kill off a few of your skittish horses," observed a stout, sandy-mustached man, one of the two who had left the car. "If you don't, they're liable to kill you."
"I don't think there's any great danger of that as long as a man knows how to handle them properly," said Frank, as he patted the neck of his own horse. "Dick was afraid of automobiles, but I've succeeded in eliminating that fear, and you can see how he behaves now."
"You never can be sure what a horse will do," returned the stout man. "There never was one yet that had an ounce of brains. They're all fools."
"Do you think so?" smiled Merriwell. "Of course you have a right to your opinion, but I don't believe many people will agree with you. I've seen horses which were more intelligent than many men."
"Bah! bah!" retorted the stranger. "They can't reason. They can't think. All they know is enough to eat and work. The best horse in the country is none too good to pull a plow."
A queer twinkle flashed in Frank's eyes.
"Perhaps I can convince you of your mistake, sir," he said. "I don't happen to know your name, but——"
"My name is Basil Bearover. This young man here"—with a jerk of his thumb toward Badger—"informs me that you are Frank Merriwell."
"Yes, I'm Frank Merriwell, Mr. Bearover. We were speaking of horses. Now I'll admit that Pansy yonder hasn't been properly educated. In time I hope to improve her greatly. In time I hope to teach her to perform a few simple mathematical problems, although I doubt if she'll ever be able to talk."
"Huh?" blurted Bearover. "Mathematical fudge! Able to talk? What sort of rot are you trying to give me, young man?"