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"
"That may be, Stewart, but yon's a good bitch," persisted Sandy.
For a mile more they discussed the merits of Slipper and of his rivals,
Sandy with his semi-humorous chaff extracting quiet amusement from his
friend's wrath, and the latter, though suspecting that he was being
drawn, unable to restrain his passionate championship of his dog.
At length Sandy, wearying of the discussion, caught sight of a figure
far before them on the trail.
"Who is that walking along there?" he enquired.
Together they ran over the names of all who in this horse country were
unfortunate enough to be doomed to a pedestrian form of locomotion.
"Guess it's the preacher," said Duff finally, whose eyes were like a
hawk's.
"He's been out at my place Sunday afternoon," said Sandy, "but I haven't
met him myself. What sort is he?"
"Don't ask me. I sometimes go with the madame to church, but generally I
fall asleep. He's no alarm clock."
"Then you can't tell what sort of a preacher he is," said Sandy with a
twinkle in his eye.


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