"Willocks!" said his friend with scorn. "There's where you're wrong. Do you know why he cut Slipper out of the Blue Ribbon? Because he wouldn't range a mile away. Darned old fool! What's the good of a point a mile away! Keeps you running over the whole creation, makes you lose time, tires yourself and tires your dog; and more than that, in nine cases out of ten you lose your bird. Give me a close ranger. He cleans up as he goes, keeps your game right at your hand, and gets you all the sport there is."

"Who beat you, Stewart, in the trials?"

"That bitch of Snider's."

"Man! Stewart, that's a beautiful bitch! I know her well. She's a beautiful bitch!" Sandy began to show enthusiasm.

"Oh, there you go! That's just what those fool judges said. 'Beautiful dog! Beautiful dog!' Suppose she is! Looks ain't everything. They're something, but the question is, does she get the birds? Now, Slipper there got three birds to her one. Got 'em within range, too."

"Ah, but Stewart, yon's a good bitch," said Sandy.

"Look here!" cried his friend, "I have bred more dogs in the old country than those men ever saw in their lives."

"That may be, Stewart, but yon's a good bitch," persisted Sandy.

For a mile more they discussed the merits of Slipper and of his rivals, Sandy with his semi-humorous chaff extracting quiet amusement from his friend's wrath, and the latter, though suspecting that he was being drawn, unable to restrain his passionate championship of his dog.

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."

"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."

"No--thank you,--I should--crowd you,--all right behind here. Beastly business--this asthma. Worse when--the pollen--from the plants--is floating--about--so they say. I don't know--nobody does--I fancy." They drove on, bumping over the stones, Barry gradually getting back his wind. The talk of the men in the front seat had fallen again on dogs, Stewart maintaining with ever increasing vehemence his expert knowledge of dogs, of hunting dogs, and very especially of setter hunting dogs; his friend, while granting his knowledge of dogs in general, questioning the unprejudiced nature of his judgment as far as Slipper was concerned.

As Duff's declarations grew in violence they became more and more elaborately decorated with profanity. In the full tide of their conversation a quiet voice broke in:

"Too many 'damns.'"

"What!" exclaimed Duff.

"I beg your pardon!" said Sandy.

"Too many 'damns,'" said Barry, looking quietly at Duff.

"Dams? Where?" said Duff, looking about.

"Beaver dams, do you mean?" enquired Sandy. "I don't see any."

"Too many 'damns,'" reiterated Barry. "You don't need them. You really don't need them, you know, and besides, they are not right. Profanity is quite useless, and it's wicked."

"Well, I'll be damned!" said Stewart in a low voice to his friend. "He means us."

"And quite right, too," said Sandy solemnly. "You know your English is rotten bad. Yes, sir," he continued, turning round to Barry, "I quite agree with you. My friend is quite unnecessarily free in his speech."

"Yes, but you are just the same, you know," said Barry. "Not quite so many, but then you are not quite so excited."

"Got you there, old sport," grunted Duff, highly amused at Sandy's discomfiture. But to Barry he said, "I guess it's our own business how we express ourselves."

"Yes, it is, but, pardon me, not entirely so. There are others in the world, you know, and you must consider others. The habit is a bad habit, a rotten habit, and quite useless--silly, indeed."

Duff turned his back upon him. Sandy, giving his friend a nudge, burst into a loud laugh.

"You are right, sir," he said, turning to Barry. "You are quite right."

At this point Slipper created a diversion.

"Hello!" said Duff. "Say! Look at him!" He pointed to the dog. "Ain't he a picture!"

A hundred yards away stood Slipper, rigid, every muscle, every hair taut, one foot arrested in air.

"I'll just get those," said Duff, slipping out of the buckboard and drawing the gun from beneath the seat. "Steady, old boy, steady! Hold the lines, Sandy."

He moved quickly toward the dog who, quivering with that mysterious instinct found in the hunting dog, still held the point with taut muscles, nose and tail in line.