“Oh, come off, Stewart! You may be a good judge of dogs, but I'm blowed if I am going to take you as a judge of preachers.”
“The same qualities in all of them, dogs, horses, preachers,” insisted Duff.
“How do you make that out?”
“Well, take a horse. He must be a good-looker. This preacher is a good-looker, all right, but looks ain't everything. Must be quick at the start, must have good action, good style, staying power, and good at the finish. Most preachers never know when to finish, and that's the way with this man.”
“Are you going to take him up?” inquired Sandy, for they were now close upon the man walking before them.
“Oh, I guess not,” replied Duff. “I haven't much use for him.”
“Say, what's the matter with him? He looks rather puffed out,” said Sandy. “Better take him up.”
“All right,” replied Duff, pulling up his bronchos. “Good day. Will you have a ride? Mr. Barry Dunbar, my friend Mr. Bayne.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Bayne,” said Barry, who was pale and panting hard. “Thanks for the lift. The truth—is—I'm rather—done up. A touch of asthma—the first—in five years. An old trouble of mine.”
“Get up here,” said Sandy. “There's room for three in the seat.”