"But we're strangers——"
"That's the only excuse for your suggestion. There are no strangers in the West in that sense of the word."
"So hospitable—so generous—so utterly natural!" beamed the Professor to his sister. "I suppose there's a livery here—with a nice buggy and a gentle horse that I can rent for two or three months."
Inspector Barker stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
"There are liveries—yes—but they won't let you have a horse for that long." He looked up suddenly. "Let me supply you. I've a couple of horses out there eating their heads off. It's cheaper for us to hire the few times we need them. But for goodness' sake, leave the buggy out. This is not a country for driving—not if you can ride. But perhaps your sister——"
"Isabel," declared the Professor proudly, "is a centauress." He added with a deprecatory grin: "I've never been on a horse in my life."
"Amos is going to learn some day," said Isabel hopefully. "Aren't you, Amos? Perhaps this is his chance—out on the boundless prairie."
"Miss Bulkeley," Stamford warned, "I wouldn't speak of the prairie as boundless. They'll think you're a poetess—and try to unload on you a parcel of worthless real estate. We're just hungry for people like that out here. But," he added dryly, "I don't believe they'll succeed."
"Is it a compliment, Mr. Stamford?" she asked gaily.
"No," he replied solemnly, "it's the truth."