Basil Bearover's usually florid face turned pale, and the man actually staggered.

The horse tossed its head, wrinkled its upper lip, and seemed to grin.

"That gave the big bear a jolt," he apparently observed.

Bearover's companion was a husky-looking young Irishman, and he now seemed on the point of taking flight. He was even paler than Bearover, and his teeth actually chattered together.

"Holy saints!" he gasped. "The divvil is in the beast! It spakes."

"Don't get excited," smiled Merry. "I told you d.i.c.k was an educated horse. I think I've proved my statement. Now, d.i.c.k, my boy, you'll follow Bart and Pansy round to the stable and permit Toots to look after you. I'll see you at the usual hour this afternoon and give you your lessons in algebra and Latin. Be a good boy, d.i.c.k. Trot along. Ta! ta!"

"Ta! ta!" answered the horse, as it turned away. "Look out for the big bear. He thinks he's a sharper, but he's only a common lobster."

With a whisk of his tail and a flirt of his heels, d.i.c.k followed Pansy and disappeared round the corner toward the stable.

Basil Bearover pulled himself together and took a deep breath.

"Say," he huskily remarked, "have you a little something bracing round this place? I'd like a small nip of whisky after that."

"I'm sorry," answered Frank, "but I don't keep it in the house. I haven't a drop of liquor of any kind round the place."

"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 d.i.c.k 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."

Bearover fibbed, for, although he had finally hit upon the truth, it was an afterthought conjured up by the laughter of the spectators.

"Do yer mean to say the horse didn't spake?" demanded the Irishman. "I heard it meself--I tell ye I heard it meself!"

"That's all right, McCann!" rasped the big man. "Perhaps you've never seen a good ventriloquist do a turn, but I have. That horse can't talk any more than a cow or a dog or any other dumb creature can."

"Vale," observed Hans Dunnerwurst, who stood Bear, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pocket, "it took it a long time to found you oudt. Dot hoss peen a good 'rithmeticker uf he coot talk or not. Yah!"

"You've had your fun with me, Mr. Merriwell," said Bearover, ignoring the Dutchman; "but I hope to have a little sport with you later. I've driven over from Wellsburg this morning for the express purpose of seeing you."

"What can I do for you, sir?" asked Merry.

"I understand you have a baseball team here."

"Do you mean my Farnham Hall team?"

"I don't know what you call it."

"Well, I have a ball team made up of youngsters. They are able to put up quite a game."

"What sort of youngsters?"

"Boys--my pupils at the Hall."

"But I ain't referring to that kind of a team. I mean your regular team--I mean the one you play on."

"Oh, that's different."

"You've got such a team here, ain't ye?"

"As you see, a lot of my friends are visiting here just now. I can't say that we have a regular organized team."

"They told us in Wellsburg you had, and that's why I took the trouble to come here. I'm manager of the Rovers, the strongest independent team of this country. We're making a tour by automobile and playing the best teams we can get up against. I have a big seven-seated car at Wellsburg, and that machine, together with this one, carries my men from place to place. We made arrangements to play Wellsburg to-day and to-morrow. We were to have a guarantee of three hundred dollars and sixty per cent. of the gate receipts. When we gut into Wellsburg last night we found that the team had disbanded and the manager skipped out. That leaves us without a game to-day and to-morrow. We're looking for a game. This is Mike McCann, captain of my team."

The young Irishman nodded and touched his cap brim.

"Go on," invited Merriwell.

"I've always had a desire to meet you," continued Bearover. "You have a big reputation as a baseball man. I'd like to play you in Wellsburg for a purse."

"Evidently you're out for the dust," said Frank.

"It takes money to run a team."

"Your team is composed of professionals, isn't it?"

"They're all salaried players."

"Just a bit out of our cla.s.s. We're straight amateurs."

Besides the chauffeur, a rather sad-faced, somber-looking man was sitting in the car. This man now arose with a languid air and stepped out.

"I told you how it would be, Bearover," he said, with a slight drawl.

"Merriwell has made his reputation by defeating second-cla.s.s amateur teams. I didn't think he'd have the sand to play a nine like the Rovers."