Of the Bishop’s Quandary
which, though it becomes me little to brag of it, carries me forward in my business without much trouble. The purses were flung out (one, as I live, at the Bishop), the window was closed, and the horses were slapping down the hill, ere the Bishop’s face had lost its frown or his tongue found words. I turned and met him squarely, but I was in a sweat to keep from laughing. He bit his lip, and at the sight of his discomfiture, I could contain myself no longer, but broke into merriment. He was most horribly taken aback, I vow. But “This is unseemly, Ryder,” was all he said; repeating it sharply then and there, “This is unseemly.”
I gave him some foolish retort, for I was cackling like a hen, and, steering his horse round quickly, he started down the hill at a leisurely pace. But he had not gone very far ere I was on him, and catching at the reins of his horse, I gave him the barrel at his eye.
“Nay, nay, my lord,” says I, “’tis discourteous to take such brief leave of a friend and companion. You shall have your share, honourably enough. Dismiss your dudgeon.
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