"Mebbe," says the preacher, "you can favour me with a few hints on the art of settin' a—whoa! hawss! And if you please, we will go more gradual 'cause the motion is pitching my po' kidneys up through my neck. Whoa! Yow!"
Jim broke away at a trot, sitting side-saddle to enjoy the preacher, who jolted beside him like a sack of dogs.
"Stranger," says he, "the trail is where my men are waiting yonder. To the left it goes to Lordsburgh, to the right it runs straight to Bryant's and on to Holy Cross. Good morning, sir," and he left on the dead run.
"My deah young friend," the preacher wailed at him. "Whoa! Whoa, now! I've got mislaid! I place myself in yo' hands."
Jim reined.
"Well, where do you want to go?"
"I want to find a wild, a sinful young man by the name of du Chesnay. He's the Honourable James du Chesnay. Perhaps you know him?"
"Partly. Well, what's your business with him?"
"I suffer," says the preacher, "from clergyman's sore throat—ahic! Permit me, seh, to ride with you while I explain my business."
"As you please." They had gained the trail, and Jim swung into it with the preacher, calling back to his riders to keep within range astern.