"It's deplorable, ain't it," Bayard chuckled, "how th' Lord outfits his servants in this here country?"
The clergyman laughed.
"That's a chariot of fire, Bruce!" he cried. "Don't you understand?"
"It'd be on fire, if I had it, all right! It ain't fit for nothin' else. Why, Parson, I should think th' devil'd get you sure some of these nights when you're riskin' your neck in this here contraption an' trustin' to your Employer to restrainin' th' wickedness in that pair of unlovely males you call horses!"
"Well, maybe I should get a new rig," the other admitted, still laughing. "But somehow, I'm so busy looking after His strays in this country that I don't get time to think about my own comfort. Maybe that's the best way. If I took time to worry about material discomforts, I suppose I'd feel dirty and worn and hot now, for I've had a long, long drive."
"A drink'd do you a lot of good, Parson," said Bruce, with a twinkle in his eye. "I don't mind drinkin' with you, even if you are a preacher."
"And because I'm a member of the clergy I have to drink with you whether I like it or not, Bruce!"—with a crack of his big hand on Bayard's shoulder. "A bottle of pop would taste fine about now, son!"
"Well, you wait here an' I'll get that brand of sham liquor," said Bruce, turning to start for the saloon.
"Hold on, Bruce. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't feel that I want to let you buy anything for me out of that place. Get me some at the drug store."
The younger man hesitated.