Of the Bishop’s Quandary
rascals will be here shortly. And that, too,” he added, with a smiling blink, “upon the top of yourself, my friend.”
“A fig for your rascals!” said I. “They are lucky if they get them a pair of horses within five miles of Wretford this night.” The Bishop frowned. “The night is bleak and wild,” I continued, “and the snow is piled in deep drifts upon the highways. If your coachman has the road by heart”
“He is a stranger to these parts,” interrupted the Bishop.
“Why, then,” says I, “he will reach your lordship by cock-crow, if he reach at all. Or rather, we shall stumble upon his body in some gutter by the way.”
“Your suggestions are drawn black, Ryder,” sighed the Bishop.
“As black as the night, or my own heart, your lordship,” said I gaily.
“And you would propose?” he asked, after a pause.
“An inn close by, at which you might sup and repose with warmth and comfort. A bottle
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