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. “You can't hear much when you are asleep.”
“I hear enough to know that he's no good as a preacher. I hear they're going to fire him.”
“I tell you what it is, Stewart,” said Sandy, “I don't believe you would know a good sermon if you heard one.”
“What's that you say? I've heard the best preachers in the country that breeds preachers, in the country where preachers grow like the berries on the bramble bushes. I know preaching, and I like good preaching, too.”