"Your impudence will be the death of you, John," laughed the landlady.

"That seems a fairly safe prophecy," answered Gentleman Jack--for so his
companions named him--"still, I've heard of one bishop who took to the
road in his leisure hours. He died of a sudden fever, it was said; but,
for all that, he returned one night from a lonely ride across Hounslow
Heath, and was most anxious to conceal the fact that somebody had put a
bullet into him. My bishop may have become ambitious--indeed, I think he
had, for he had intellect enough to understand my meaning and was not in
the least scandalised."

"Then we may yet welcome him at the 'Punch-Bowl,'" said one man. "So
far, this house has entertained no one higher in the church than a Fleet
parson. I see no sin in drinking the bishop's good health and wishing
him the speedy possession of a horse to match his ambition."

"Anyone may serve as a toast," said another; "but could a bishop be good
company under any circumstances, think you?"

"Gad! why not?" asked Gentleman Jack. "He'd Spend his time trying to
square his profession with his conscience maybe, and when a man is
reduced to that, bishop or no bishop, there's humour enough, I warrant."

The health was drunk with laughter, and the air of depression which had
followed the landlady's recital disappeared like clouds from an April
sky. Each one had some story to tell, some item to add to the
accumulated glory of the road.

"Ay, it's a merry life," said the man who had had doubts about the
bishop's company, "and the only drawback is that it comes to an end when