"My son Baptiste shall go and show monsieur the way."
"All right. It don't make any difference to me if he is a Baptist. I'm a Methodist myself, and there ain't much difference, I guess. So just tell the Baptist to hurry up and we'll set out. What's his name?"
"My son's name?"
"Yes."
"Did I not say it was Baptiste?"
"Oh, that's his name, is it? I thought it was his religion. Funny name, ain't it? But that makes no difference."
Baptiste was soon ready, and the two set out together. The guide found it rather difficult to follow Mr. Tarbox in his eccentric remarks, but they got on very well together, and after a time stood on the fatal ledge.
"Here it was the poor boy fell off," said Baptiste.
"I don't believe it," said Mr. Tarbox. "The boy wasn't a fool, and he couldn't have fell unless he was—it was that skunk, Sharpley, that pushed him off."
"Monsieur Sharpley was deeply grieved. How could he push him off?"