“Thank you,” said the bishop, and rubbed his nose. Then he eyed Bob curiously. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. That made Bob feel awful, but he couldn’t retract. The truth as he saw it!—He felt as if he were chained to the wheel of fate—the truth as he saw it, though the heavens fell!
“Of course, that’s only my poor insignificant opinion,” he murmured miserably.
“Every man’s opinion is entitled to respect,” said the bishop.
“Yes, sir,” replied Bob, more miserably still.
The bishop continued to study him. “You interest me, Mr. Bennett.”
“Do I?” said Bob. “I’m rather interesting to myself just now.”
“You evidently agree with the author of The Outside of the Pot?”
“That’s it.” Weakly.
“Well, cheer up,” said the bishop, and walked away.
Later in the day the judge might have been heard to say to the bishop that “that young Bennett cub is a good-for-nothing jackanapes”—from which it might be inferred Bob had somehow managed to rub the judge’s ermine the wrong way.