“My name is Bayne, from Red Pine, Mr. Innes. I am interested in knowing what sort of a chap your preacher is. He comes out to our section, but I never met him till to-day.”
“Oh, he's no that bad,” said Innes cautiously.
“Not worth a cent,” said a little, red headed man standing near. “He can't preach for sour apples.”
“I wadna just say that, Mr. Hayes,” said Innes.
“How do you know, Innes?” retorted Hayes. “You know you fall asleep before he gets rightly started.”
“I aye listen better with ma eyes shut.”
“Yes, and snore better, too, Mac,” said Hayes. “But I don't blame you. Most of them go to sleep anyway. That's the kind of preacher he is.”
“What sort of a chap is he? I mean what sort of man?”
“Well, for one thing, he's always buttin' in,” volunteered a square-built military looking man standing near. “If he'd stick to his gospel it wouldn't be so bad, but he's always pokin' his nose into everything.”
“But he's no that bad,” said Innes again, “and as for buttin' in, McFettridge, and preachin' the gospel, I doubt the country is a good deal the better for the buttin' in that him and his likes have done this past year. And besides, the bairns all like him.”