“Of course not,” said he, all his ill-humor having returned. “That fellow, the bishop, is in our camp and in Clyde’s bed. Clyde foolishly gave him his bed because he said the cook-tent was too cramped for a man to stay in it all day.”
“Why need he stay?” asked Mrs. Archibald. “Has he taken cold? Is he sick?”
“No indeed,” said Raybold. “If he were sick we might send for a cart and have him taken to Sadler’s, but the trouble is worse than that. His clothes, in which he foolishly jumped into the water, have shrunken so much that he cannot get them on, and as he has no others, he is obliged to stay in bed.”
“But surely something can be done,” said Mrs. Archibald.
“No,” he interrupted, “nothing can be done. The clothes have dried, and if you could see them as they hang up on the bushes, you would understand why that man can never get into them again. The material is entirely unsuitable for out-door life. Clyde proposes that we shall lend him something, but there are no clothes in this party into which such a sausage of a man could get himself. So there he is, and there, I suppose, he will remain indefinitely; and I don’t want to bring my sister to a camp with a permanently occupied hospital bed in it. As soon as I agreed to Corona’s coming I determined to bounce that man, but now—” So saying, Mr. Raybold rose, folded his arms, and knit his brows, and as he did so he glanced towards the spot where Margery and Clyde had been sitting, and perceived that the latter had departed, probably to get some more birch bark; and so, with a nod to Mrs. Archibald, he sauntered away, bending his steps, as it were accidentally, in the direction of the young lady left alone.
When Mr. Archibald heard, that evening, of the bishop’s plight and Raybold’s discomfiture, he was amused, but also glad to know there was an opportunity for doing something practical for the bishop. He was beginning to like the man, in spite of his indefiniteness, so he went to see the bedridden prelate who was neither sick nor clerical, and with very little trouble induced him to take a few general measurements of his figure.
“It is so good of you,” said the delighted recumbent, “that I shall not say a word, but step aside in deference to your conscience, whose encomiums will far transcend anything I can say. You will pardon me, I am sure, if I make my measurements liberal. The cost will not be increased, and to live, move, and breathe in a suit of clothes which is large enough for me is a joy which I have not known for a long time. Shoes, did you say, sir? Truly this is generosity supereminent.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Archibald, laughing, “and you also shall have a new hat. I will fit you out completely, and if this helps you to make a new and a good start in life, I shall be greatly gratified.”
“Sir,” said the bishop, the moisture of genuine gratitude in his eyes, “you are doing, I think, far more good than you can imagine, and pardon me if I suggest, since you are going to get me a hat, that it be not of clerical fashion. If everything is to be new, I should like everything different, and I am certain the cost will be less.”
“All right,” said Mr. Archibald. “I will now make a list of what you need, and I will write to one of my clerks, who will procure everything.”