"Oh, over the wall. We're highwaymen, and we've got a way of our own."
"Indeed. And where's David now?"
"Oh, he's over there, all muddy, tryin' to clean himself. He's a deal worse than me," said Sandy cheerfully.
"He must indeed be bad, then. What do you propose to do?"
"That's it. We can't get back to the pantry window now our way's gone," said artless Sandy. "Not in at all, not wivout knockin' at the door. I did think p'raps"—persuasively—"you cud come and knock."
"I see. And then?"
"Then, when you was talkin' to father, we cud slip in. Don't fink father would see—not to notice."
"How long have you been highwaymen?" the Bishop asked.
"On'y about a week—and this is a sickener," said Sandy disgustedly. "We was ghosts for a bit at first—till a woman screeched so we nearly got caught, stupid fing!"
And the Bishop, remembering certain reports that had been made to him, was pleased with his acumen in refusing to call in the police.