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My lord the Bishop of Leomster
stood in the pretty garden of Oak-
lands at midnight and sniffed com-
placently at the fresh night air. It
was the second week of his visit to.
his old college chum, Dr. Gibbs, a
medical man with a straggling prac-
tice in a small rural district, and the
absence of pomp and ceremony was
grateful to his wearied nerves.
With a sigh of content the Bishop
walked majestically back to the
house. He turned the handle of the
door, and to his astonishment he
found it was locked. He then remem-
bered that he had left the key of the
patent lock on the study table. '
The long French windows of the
drawing room were also fast, and the
Bishop knitted his brows in thought.
Then he smiled softly, and, walk-
ing round the house, stopped at the
study window. He struck a match
and looked at the sash, where upper
and lower halves met, and from his
waistcoat produced a penknife.
Inserting the broad blade ‘between
the sashes, he pushed carefully. The
catch swung back with a little click,
and the Bishop pushed up the win-
dow.
He had barely lifted one portly leg
over the sill when a strong hand
gripped him from behind by the nape
of his neck.
“Get along in with yer,” hissed a
voice in his ear, “and don’t forget
there’s this be’ind yer.”
The Bishop, sitting perilously on
the windowsill, felt something round
and cold against his neck.
“Now, then, in with yer,” threat-
ened the voice in low tones.
The Bishop gave a little jump to
the floor, and was brought up stand-
ing by the hand on his collar. He
felt, rather than saw, a heavy figure
climbing after him. Twisting himself
painfully, he half turned and saw—a
policeman.
“Oh,” said the Bishop, with a little
gasp, “it’s you,’ constable, is it?
D’you know I thought you were a
burglar, and I suppose you took me
for one?”
“Shut it,” said the policeman, in a
low, curt voice.
“Really, officer, I think you forget
to whom you are talking.” :
“Oh, chuck it,” was the brutal re-
ply. A set of bony knuckles dug deep
into his neck.
The Bishop wriggled impatiently.
“It appears to me you're going be-
yond your duty, constable.”
With a twist the policeman edged
~
Toa
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cesoese
‘him on to a chair and shone a bull’s-
eye into his face.
“You're makin’ me cross, that’s
what you are,” whispered the officer.
“Where’s the rest of the family?
Gorn to bed, or ain’t they at home?”
% "The Bishop tried to push the bull’s-
eye away.
“I think you must have teen drink-
ing,” he said, shortly, “and I feel very
sorry Dr. Gibbs is not at home.”
“Oh, Gibbs ain’t at ’ome,” said the
policeman, slightly raising NES voice;
“and where's ’is man?”
“If there were any one at all in the
house,” said the indignant prelate, “I
should ring the bell and have you
ejected.”
“Open yer mouth so wide agen an’
I'll shove my bull’s-eye down yer
throat,” threatened the policeman.
“Did I ’ear yer say there was no one
in the ’ouse at all?”
“No one,” snorted the Bishop, wrig-
gling in his chair. “Dr. Gibbs was
suddenly called away, and as he
doesn’t expect to be back till morn-
ing he took his chauffeur with him.
And now, my good man,” he added,
conciliatingly, “having convinced you,
I hope, that I am not a burglar, will
you please go?”
The policeman laughed slightly.
“’Ere, I've had enotigh messin’
about; get up and light the gas, and
if yer up to any monkey tricks I'll
blow yer brains out.”
. This appalling threat from an of-
ficer of the law well-nigh asphyxiated
the Bishop, and he started forward
indignantly, almost breaking his
teeth on the muzzle of the revolver.
“Now, then, get on with it.”
With mingled feelings of terror
and wrath the Bishop groped on the
mantel-piece and finally lit the gas.
The light shown on a tall, clean-
shaven constanble holding a lantern
and a revolver.
The loneliness of the country beat,
the Bishop reflected, had perhaps af-
fected this poor fellow’s brain, and he
must be humored.
“There we are,” he said cheerily;
“and now wouldn’t you like to come
and see the greenhouse?”
It would be easy, he thought, to
Jure the man into the conservatory,
. lock him in, and then lustily toll the
firebell in the turret, thus rousing
the neighbors.
“Oh, take a perch,” said the police-
man. “Sit down,” he explained, im-
patiently.
“Now, then,” he continued, remov-
ing his helmet and showing a round,
BEESESESGESECRSAS AGES Ec aS ERY
in
Wagag
close-cropped head, “sure there ain’t
no one else in the ’ouse?”
~ “Not a soul,” groaned the Bishop,
miserably.
“That’s all right, then.
are them things?”
The Bishep looked down at his
gaiters.
“Oh, I always wear them. We all
do, you know,” he stammered, won-
dering if a heavy book suddenly
thrown would disable the visitor.
“Oh, do yer? Well, what are yer
when yer at ‘ome?”
“I’m a bishop.”
“A bishop, are yer?
met a bishop afore.” A broad grin
stole over the policeman’s face.
“Then, me lord bishop, where’s the
silver?” :
He leaned over and leered at the
Bishop, who returned the gaze timid-
ly, till the horrid truth dawned upon
him.
“Then you,” he wAspad. “must be a
burglar, not a policeman?”
“Policeman, me elbow!” was the
contemptuous reply. “ ’E’s asleep in
the ditch, with my old coat spread
over im, and no ’elmet; with a quar-
tern o’ special Scotch inside ’im and
somethin’ in it to make ’im sleep.”
“Then why,” asked the Bishop, in-
stincts of law and order prevailing
over terror—“why are you masquer-
ading in his coat?”
“Why am I wot?”
“I say, why are you masquerading
in his coat?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that,
but I know as I've got ’is coat on
cause it suits me, see? And if you
carn’t see I carn’t ‘elp yer.”
“Well, I think it’s a disgraceful
thing, your coming here disguised
as a Policeman and expecting me to—
Ere, what
I’ve never
10 »
“That’s jest it. Wot I’m expectin’
yer to do is to ’elp me find the silver;
then I shall tie you up nice and tidy
with a bit of ’andkerchief in yer
mouth. Arfter which I shall op off,
and if any one sees me in the road
they'll say, ‘Good evenin’, constable;
fine night, ain’t it?’ and there we
are. Now, then, guv’nor, let’s get
to work.” : :
“No!” almost shouted the Bishop,
clutching the arms of the chair; “I
will not. I absolutely refuse. Now,
once again, will you please go?”
He folded his hands as if to finally
dismiss the subject. ;
The simplicity of the appeal moved
the burglar to derisive laughter.
He picked up the lantern and
moved to the door.
“But,” said the Bishop, horrified,
“you don’t think I'm going with you
to help you rob—?”
“I don’t think—1I know!”
The burglar stepped up ond
gripped him by the collar.
“Now, then, you know the way and
I don’t; so ’'urry up!”
From underneath his coat the man
extracted a green baize bag, which he
pushed into the Bishop’s hands.
Urged by that dreadful grip, the
Bishop groped his way into the hall
and turned to the right.
“Dinin’ room,” whispered the voice
at his back. “’Ere, why don’t yer
look where yer goin’?”
The Bishop retorted sharply that
he had no wish to break his neck.
“Gettin” saucy, are yer? Try
that.” The butt of the revolver de-
scended sharply on the episcopal
head.
The Bishop made a frenzied dash,
and almost fell into the dining room.
Quickly the burglar locked the
door, and, threatening his prisoner
with death if he moved, shone his
bull’s-eye round the room with pro-
fessional switness.
“’0ld the sack, mate,” he said at
length.
“I decline to be a party to your dis-
graceful proceedings.”
“Getting nasty, are yer? I'll talk
to yer in ’arf a minute. ’Alloa! what's
this—whisky? May as well ’ave a
drop.”
He looked for a glass.
“Now, I know what you're think-
in’,” said the burglar, helping himself
liberally; “you’re thinkin’ as I shall
take a drop too much, see?—and then |
you’ll ’ave a look in. Not me, guv’-
nor. I never drink more than once
between meals, so now yer know.”
Nevertheless, he swallowed the raw
whisky without a shudder. Under its
influence he developed a cheery vein.
“Ah,” he said, unbuttoning the un-
accustomed tunic, “this is what I call
’omely. Now, guv’nor, give us a
song. Plenty of time afore your pals
come back. I feel as if I must be
'umored.” :
“A song!” expostulated the Bishop.
“What nonsense! I haven't sung for
years.” ’
“Then it’s about time yer tried.
Give us somethin’ soothin’ and not
too loud.”
“Well, do you know, I don’t think
it would be safe,” said the Bishop,
with a low , cunning that almost
shamed him; “somebody might hear.”
~—
“Artful old cove, you are,” at
length said the burglar, smiling
vacuously; “but blowed if I don’t
think you're right.”
The Bishop involuntarily groaned,
hastily correcting himself with a
yawn.
“Ain’t yer enjoying yerself?” was
the suspicious inquiry.
“Oh, yes; quite so, thanks.”
“Then why don’t yer laugh? I
never saw any one look so miserable.
You're disappointed at not singing
that song, that's wot’s the matter
with you.”
The burglar’s mood had changed,
and the Bishop noted with alarm that
the faster the whisky disappeared the
more saturnine and exacting became
the odious visitor.
“Go on, ’urry up and laugh,” de-
manded the burglar; “settin’ there
lookin’ as if you ’ad the toothache;
‘urry up, laugh!”
He emphasized the order by a
thump of the revolver on the table.
- The Bishop smiled in a nervous,
fleeting manner.
- “If yer makes them faces at me,”
said the burglar, sourly, “d’yer know
wot’ll ’appen? I shall put a bullet
through yer and bury yer in the
flowerbed. Gimme the whisky!”
“But you asked me to laugh,”
pleaded the Bishop, wondering
whether an open cheque would per-
suade the scoundrel to depart.
“Told yer to laugh, did I?” said
the burglar, throwing one leg over
the other. “Then suppose yer make
me laugh for a change. D’yer know
any funny stories?” :
“Not one,” was the prompt and dis-
couraging reply.
The burglar leaned over and picked
up the revolver.
“A funny story, I said, and it’s gol
to be one as’ll make me laugh, see?”
The Bishop’s soul sank within him,
and in his anguish he could only
think of the multiplication table.
“That story don’t seem to be com-
in’ along,” was the grim reminder.
Then in a muddled way there came
to the flustered Bishop the indistinct
memory of something about a curate
and an egg.
“Well,” he began hesitatingly,
with one eye on the window, “there
was once a curate—"
“Where?” asked the
densely. :
burglar,
“—and he went to Stay with a
bishop—"
“Along o’ you?”
“No, no, another bishop.”
“One o’ your pals, I s’pose. All
right, get on with it.”
~ “And in the morning he had an
egg—"
; “Wot for?”
“Why, for breakfast, ot course,”
continued the Bishop, crossly, won-
dering what on earth came next.
“Well, why didn’t yer say so? And
wot I want to know is w’en I'm goin’
to laugh!”
“Yes, yes, I'm coming to that.
Now, the egg was not a good one,
but the curate was too polite to say
so—7"
“’E must ’ave been a cuckoo—
beg parding, go on.”
“Suddenly the bishop looked over
and said—"
“ ’Arf a minute—’00’s egg was it?”
“The bishop’s—no, the curate’s of
course. Well, the bishop leaned over
and said, ‘I’m afraid your egg is not
a good one.’ ”
The reconteur paused and gtoped
inwardly for the curate’s repartee.
The burglar looked up with a start
and gazed ferociously at the unhappy
Bishop, who continued hurriedly:
“ ‘Well, no, my lord,” replied the
curate; ‘I’m afraid it’s rather bad in
parts.” ”
The burglar looked at him with a
blank face, then he drew the whisky
over, helped himself liberally and
addressed the bishop more in tones of
sorrow than anger.
“That’s wot I call takin’ a great
liberty,” he said, solemnly. “I arsk
you in a friendly way to tell me a
funny story”—he lurched slightly
forward and recovered himself—“and
that’s wot ’appens. Take off yer
boots.”
The Bishop moved Retvously in
his chair and tried to avoid the focus
of the unsteady revolver.
“Boots!” came the command.
“Take ’em off! Yer’'ve got to dance
ter me now. Dance, d’yer ’ear?”
“But—>
“Take ’em, off!”
With tears of vexation in his eyes
the Bishop stooped and unlaced his
boots.
“An’ now, inter the middle of the
room and dance to me like—like a
bootiful fairy,” he added, as an en-
couraging smile.
“I absolutely refuse. »
“Absolu—” The burglar tried to
repeat the word, and thinking better
of it, went on: “Like a bootiful
fairy, and if yer say another word
yver’ll ’ave to take off yer leggin’s,
too.”
With sick Soshalr in his heart the
Bishop moved into the middle of the
room and stood timorously in his
stockined feet.
“Like a bootiful fairy,” was the re-
peated order, emphasized by the wav-
ing revolver.
Then the Bishop gave tive little
Y
hops, feeling that he was degraded
forever.
“Not ‘a bit like a fairy,” said the
‘burglar, shaking his head solemnly.
“Music, that’s wot yer want, music.”
He tried to whistle, but, failing
ignominiously, endeavored to renew
his powers with whisky.
“Not a bit o’ good.
yourself.”
The Bishop huskily whistled the
first few bars of a voluntary and
pirouetted laboriously.
“That’s better,” said the burglar,
approvingly. “Now we'll ‘ave it just
a little bit ’igher.”
Only the thought of a distant fam-
ily prevented the Bishop throwing
himself on the waving revolver and
risking sudden death.
“Try agen and don’t stop, and keep
on whistlin’.” :
Setting his teeth, and feeling that
suicide were preferable, the Bishop
bounded into the air and curved his
legs into unseemly attitudes.
“Oncore! Oncore!”
The dancer, in desperation, thought
of ‘throwing himself backward
through the window, when, out of
the corner of one eye, Le saw a
motorcar gliding up the drive.
With a wild joy in his heart he
pirouetted to the table. Then almost
with one movement he seized the
water bottle, sent it crashing through
the window, and with a wild shriek
for help flung himself on the burglar.
When, a few seconds later, Dr.
Gibbs and his chauffeur, bursting
open the window, dashed into the
room, they saw my lord the Bishop
of Leomster sitting astride a man in
policeman’s uniform and belaboring
him with a bread basket.
The burglar was soon secured.
“Now,” said the Bishop, grimly,
“we’ll put this gentleman into the
car and drive him to the police sta-
tion—if you have one anywhere near
this benighted spot, Gibbs.”
The burglar, who was firmly tied
to a chair, looked up and grinned.
You whistle
“Lemme go, guv'nor, and I'll say
nothin’ about the dancin’.”
“Don’t let him speak to me,
Gibbs,” commanded the Bishop, “or I
shall strike him, bound as he is.”
He nevertheless held a hurried con-
sultation with Dr. Gibbs, and the
chauffeur, having received some hur-
ried instructions, left the room.
In a few moments the man re-
turned with the village ‘policeman,
looking very much ashamed of him-
self and wearing an old black jacket.
“I didn’t know nothin’ till I woke
up, sir,” he explained to Gibbs.
An exchange of garments was soon
made, and then Gibbs turned to the
chauffeur.
“Now, Ellis, put this man in the
car”—he pointed to the burglar—
“drive him out thirty miles as hard
as you can, and then put him down—
there’ll be no traffic at this time in
the morning.”
“So long,” said the burglar, as he
was being led away. “If you was a
bit slimmer, guv’nor, you’d dance bet-
ter. Now, then, ’'Oratio, lead on!”
. The Bishop looked earnestly at the
breadknife and then turned away
with clenched fists.
When the policeman had sidled out
of the room, Gibbs turned to his
friend:
“Now, then, old man, tell us all
about it.”
Next Sunday the little village
church was crowded to hear the
Bishop of Leomster read the lessons.
To this day the congregation can-
not understand why Dr. Gibbs sud-
denly took up his hat and left, while
the prelate flushed and coughed over
a verse which stated that there was
much dancing.—Frank Howel Evans,
in the Stand Magazine.
mm ———
WORDS OF WISDOM.
"Pity melts the mind to love.—Dry-
den.
Eaten bread is soon forgoften.—
Irish.
He is lifeless that is faultless.—
Latin.
Whom the cap fits, let him wear it.
— Latin.
He serves all who dares be true.—
Emerson.
Good and bad make up a city.—
Portuguese.
The handsomest flower is not the
sweetest.—Spanish.
No one is a fool always; everyone
sometimes.—French.
Let him who is just become justi-
fied still more.—Bible.
Riches serve a wise man, but com-
mand a fool.—French.
Nothing overcomes passion sooner
than silence.—French. :
Much water runs by the mills while
the miller sleeps.—Danish.
Seasons may roll, but the true soul
burns the same where'er it goes.—
Moore.
Habit may be either a blessing or
a curse, therefore one should be care-
ful in forming one’s ‘habits. —Times-
Union. /
He who is his own monarch con-
tentedly sways the scepter over him-
self, not envying the glory to the
crowned heads of the earth. — Sir
Thomas Browne.
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An Animal Sanctuary.
About a mile away from Ahmebadad,
in the Bombay presidency, there is a
small lake called Kankaria, where all
animal life is strictly preserved. The
fishes are almost tame, and will come
‘close to the edge to be fed, and a tur-)
tla will take food out of one’s hand. —
Strand Magazine.
Saved Old Lady’s Hafr.
“My mother used to have a very
bad humor on her head which the
doctors called an eczema, and for it I
had two different doctors. Her head
was very sore and her hair nearly all
fell out in spite of what they both
did. One day her niece came in and
they were speaking of how her hair
was falling out and the doctors did it
no good. She says, ‘Aunt, why don’t
you try Cuticura Soap and Cuticura
Ointment?’ Mother did, and they.
helped her. In six months’ time the
itching, burning andscalingof herhead
was over and her hair began growing.
To-day she feels much in debt to Cu-
ticura Soap and Ointment for the fine
head of hair she has for an old lady
of seventy-four. « :
“My own case was an eczema in
my feet. As soon as the cold weather
came my feet would itch and burn
and then they would crack open and
bleed. Then I thought I would flee
to my mother’s friends, Cuticura Soap
and Cuticura Ointment. 1 did for
four or five winters, and now my feet
are as smooth as any one’s. Ells-
worth Dunham, Hiram, Me., Sept. 30,
1909.” fi
Old, But Ever New.
A man recently died in the west
and his relatives telegraphed the flor-
ist to make a wreath with the in-.
scription, “Rest in Peace,” on both
sides, and if there is room, “We shall
meet in heaven.”. It was a handsome
piece that turned up at the funeral,
and the ribbon bore the inscription,
“Rest in peace on both sides and if
there is room we shall meet in hea-
ven.”
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