one of them. There ain't any more lively nags in Alaska than these
fellows."

"They must have changed within the last minute, then," smiled the Pony
Rider Boy.

"How so?"

"Why, you were just telling us how gentle they are, then almost in the
same breath you try to convince us that they are regular whirlwinds.
However, we'll let that go. What I do want to know is what sort of
mountain ponies they are. If they turn out not to be good mountain
climbers you may look for some trouble when we get back here."

"Boys, every one of those nags has been brought up in this country. They
can follow a mountain trail like a deerhound, and that's straight. I
wouldn't sell you anything else."

"Oh, no, certainly not," answered Butler. "How much for the
light-colored one?"

"The buckskin?"

"Yes."

"Two hundred and fifty dollars."

"I beg pardon?" asked Tad politely.

"Two hundred and fifty."

"I think you misunderstood me, sir. I didn't want to buy the whole
herd."

"You wanted five ponies?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, there you are. The buckskin will cost you two-fifty and so will
the black. You can have any of the rest for two hundred and they're
cheap hosses at that."

"Lead them out."

"Then you'll take them at that?"

"I haven't said anything about taking them, yet. I said lead them out. I
want to look them over."

The owner smiled, but nodded to his hostler to rope and show the animals
to the young men. Tad examined a dozen head, out of which he got three
ponies, motioning to the hostler to tether them to one side where he
could look them over again.

"What's the matter with the others?" asked the man.

"Various things. Some are wind-broken, two have the distemper, and if
you don't watch out your whole herd will be getting it. I shall be
rather afraid to buy any stock of you on that account. How long have
they had the disease?"

"I didn't know they had it at all," stammered the owner.

"You had better watch them pretty carefully, then. How old is that
buckskin?"

"Just coming four."

"Did somebody tell you that, or did you learn it from your own
observation?" questioned Tad Butler sweetly.

"I reckon I know a hoss's age when I look at his mouth," answered the
man, but not quite with the same assurance that he had made his first
statements. This clear-eyed, quiet young man, he began to understand,
knew a little something about horses, or at least pretended to.

"Then, sir, you have neglected your h