“A scrap between those two would be worth watching,” cried Perry, his eyes sparkling. “They wouldn’t be likely to meet,” said his uncle; “one lived in the north on the frozen plains, the other preferred warmer climates and forested lands.” “Talking of fighting, I was in the Museum the other day,” said Perry, “when a terrific thunderstorm came up, and it got almost as dark in there as if it were night. A terrific flash of lightning came, and in the blaze, I had a sudden start, as though one of the skeletons had moved. The crash of thunder that followed seemed like a thousand beasts roaring all together. And I had a quick feeling of wonder as to what would happen if all those monsters should suddenly become alive and start ructions with each other.” “It would be exciting, certainly,” said the professor. “I’d want my camera,” rejoined Perry eagerly. “Would you?” said the professor. “I’d run!” [Illustration: _Courtesy of American Museum of Natural History._ THE MAMMOTH TUSK HE FOUND.] [Illustration: _Courtesy of American Museum of Natural History._ UNCOVERING A FROZEN MAMMOTH. Scene on Museum expedition to Alaska, where, near Eschscholtz Bay, a carcass was found, with some skin, masses of hair and wool, and of flesh and fat preserved. Note heavy mosquito veil worn by excavator.] CHAPTER X THE THREE-TOED HORSE “Which it’s none o’ my funeral,” said a voice over Antoine’s shoulder, as he stood on the platform of a small station in Wyoming, waiting for Perry’s arrival, “an’ if you turns me down cold, I won’t shoot none, but what in thunder do you want with a buck-eyed, fly-eaten pinto like that?” “To ride him,” said Antoine, laconically. The cow-puncher snorted. “Ride him! Why, pard, I’ve seen horned toads that could wiggle their legs a tarnation sight faster, an’ any self-respectin’ Gila Monster c’d beat him at a beauty show. Which I ain’t criticizin’ none, you understand, I’m just expressin’ my feelin’s.” Antoine looked quietly at the broncho beside which the cowboy was standing. “I would not enter yours at a beauty show,” he retorted. “An’ I s’pose you’d be ekally scornful about him in a race? You might like to make a little bet on it?” “No, no,” Antoine replied. “I would not bet against him in a race. He would run too well.” “What makes you opine he can run?” “I know he can run,” the young paleontologist answered. “He must run. A horse with a pelvis placed as high as that, small body well tucked in, and those long, sloping pasterns must be a racer. There is Arabian blood in that horse.” The cowboy deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand and eyed the speaker with considerable respect. “This is pre-cisely the nine-millionth time I’ve acted like a locoed mule,” he admitted with candor. “I had you all doped out as tenderfoot, an’ when it comes to pony talk, you’re holdin’ a straight flush against my pair o’ deuces.”