"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;