"Be Heaven!" exclaimed the Irishman. "I nade a drink meself."
Bearover placed a hand on his companion's shoulder.
"Tell me, McCann," he said, "did you hear that horse speak? I must have dreamed it. I must be getting in a bad way."
"It was no dream, Mr. Bearover," was the answer. "I heard it meself. The baste talked as plain as any man could spake."
"Jerusalem!" exploded the stout stranger, as if struck by an idea. "That animal ought to make a fortune for its owner. What'll you take for that horse, Mr. Merriwell?"
"You can't buy him, sir," was the quiet answer. "Do you think I'd be heartless enough to sell Dick after spending all this time in educating him and getting him trained to such a high point of perfection? Why, it would break the poor creature's heart."
"I'll give you a thousand dollars for him," offered the man, thrusting a hand into his breast pocket and producing a pocketbook.
"Put up your money," said Frank. "I tell you that you can't buy him. Why, if I should sell that horse to you, just as likely as not he'd be so disgusted and angry that he'd never speak again. You know it's no small matter for a horse to talk. It isn't natural for them. It could only be produced by a mighty effort, and the most natural thing in the world would be for the creature to relapse into dumbness if transferred to another owner."
Bearover looked disappointed as he slipped the pocketbook back into its resting place. Glancing around, he observed that the young man near at hand and the young ladies on the veranda were all smiling and laughing as if highly amused. Their suppressed merriment gave him a resentful feeling, and suddenly his face flushed, while an expression of anger came into his small eyes.
"You're purty smart, young man—purty smart," he said. "You think you fooled me, don't ye? Well, you didn't. I happen to know how you done the trick. You're a ventriloquist. The horse didn't talk. I was jest testing you to see if you would try to soak me by selling the critter to me."