A CHALLENGE.
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 Dick was an educated
horse. I think I've proved my statement. Now, Dick, 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, Dick. 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, Dick 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 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."
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 class. 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-class amateur
teams. I didn't think he'd have the sand to play a nine like the
Rovers."
"Who is this gentleman?" asked Frank.
"This is Casper Silence, the backer of the Rovers," explained Bearover.
"Mr. Silence, Mr. Merriwell."
"How do," nodded Silence, as he adjusted his nose glasses and surveyed
Frank from head to foot. "I presume the report that you're a back number
may have some truth in it. A great many pitchers use themselves up in
their prime. You look all right, but I take it your arm is gone."
"Well, now," retorted Frank, "you place me in a rather embarrassing
position, Mr. Silence. I don't feel like cracking up myself, you know."
"Waugh!" snorted Buck Badger, unable to keep still longer. "I certain
opine you're still in the ring, Merry. I judge it wouldn't take you
long to show this gent that you're no back number."
"You're a prosperous young man," said Silence, still addressing Frank.
"Such being the case, if you have a team here, why not play us in
Wellsburg for a small purse? If you're the wizard we've heard you are,
you can make a little money while you're having the enjoyment of a game.
A purse of five hundred dollars would be all right. It would suit us.
We'll play you to-morrow. What do you say?"
"I say no, sir," answered Frank. "If we were to play you for such a
purse, we would immediately become professionals, like yourselves. We
have no desire to be classed as professionals, and therefore I decline
your proposition."
"Just as I thought," nodded Silence. "I've seen amateurs before who took
refuge behind such an excuse. Well, if you'll not play us for a purse,
will you play us with the agreement that the winning team takes the
entire gate proceeds?"
"Not in Wellsburg."
"Eh? Why not in Wellsburg?"
"Because I have a better baseball ground yonder within sight of this
house. Because at the present time I have a house party here, and we're
not looking for baseball games. If your team of Rovers will come here
and meet us on my field, we'll give you a game to-morrow, I think. What
do you say, boys?"
"You pet my life ve vill!" shouted Dunnerwurst.
"By gum, that'll suit me!" came from Gallup.
"I'm with you, Merry!" said Carson.
"You know you can depend on me!" rumbled Browning.
"Begorra, it will suit me clane down to the ground!" came from Mulloy.
"Waugh!" exploded Badger. "You can bank on the whole bunch of us, Frank.
That's whatever!"
"But what inducement have we to come here?" demanded Bearover. "This is
a little dried-up country town, and we couldn't turn out a hundred and
fifty people to see that game. We've gut to make expenses somehow."
"If you decide to play us here, and the weather's favorable, I'll
guarantee a thousand paid spectators. It's a safe guarantee, and in all
probability there'll be two or three thousand persons here. I'll have
the game announced by the Wellsburg _Herald_. I'll see that it is
advertised in the neighboring towns. We do not depend on Bloomfield
alone for our spectators. They come in from all the surrounding towns.
We'll play with the understanding that the winning team takes the entire
gate receipts. If we win, we'll donate the money to some charitable
purpose. If you win, you may do whatever you please with it."
"Will you make a written guarantee that there'll be at least a thousand
paid admissions?" asked Bearover.
"With the weather favorable," assented Frank.
The manager of the Rovers turned to Silence.
"What do you say, Casper?" he asked. "We haven't any game for to-morrow,
and we can't arrange one unless we accept this man's terms."
Silence shrugged his shoulders, lighted a cigarette, and stepped back
into the car.
"Go ahead, Bearover," he drawled. "Make any arrangements you please."
"All right, Merriwell," said the manager, "we'll play you. Draw up that
agreement in regard to the gate receipts, and we'll sign it."