"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