Preacher. He held his own manfully on the Beavers; but no one had ever
carried him off in a blanket before, So he silently considered the
situation.

When near the boat they came upon more patriarchs. 'Put a bold face on
it,' murmured old Fog. 'Whom do you suppose we have here?' he began,
as they approached. 'Nothing less than your little Preacher; we want
to borrow him for a few days.'

The patriarchs stared.

'Don't you believe it?--Speak up, Preacher; are you being carried
off?'

No answer.

'You had better speak,' said Fog, jocosely, at the same time giving
his captive a warning touch with his elbow.

The Preacher had revolved the situation rapidly, and perceived that in
any contest his round body would inevitably suffer from friend and foe
alike. He was not even sure but that he would be used as a missile, a
sort of ponderous pillow swung at one end. So he replied briskly,
'Yes, I am being carried as you see, dear brethren; I don't care about
walking to-day.'

The patriarchs laughed, and followed on to the boat, laughing still
more when Fog gayly tossed in his load of blanket, and they could hear
the little man growl as he came down. 'I say, though, when are you
going to bring him back, Believer?' said one.