The Sky Pilot in No Mans Land | Page 9

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.
"Hello!" Barry called out. "It isn't the season yet for chicken. I say, Mr.
Duff," he shouted, "it isn't the chicken season, you know."

"Better leave him alone," said Sandy.
"But it isn't the season yet! It is against the law!" protested Barry
indignantly.
Meantime Stewart Duff was closing up cautiously behind Slipper.
"Forward, old boy! Ste-e-e-ady! Forward!" The dog refused to move.
"Forward, Slipper!"
Still the dog remained rigid, as if nailed to the ground.
"On, Slipper!"
Slowly the dog turned his head with infinite caution half round toward
his master, as if in protest.
"Hello, there!" shouted Barry, "you know--"
Just as he called there was on all sides a great whirring of wings. A
dozen chicken flew