"That's Geordie Smith," he said. "That's Geordie getting out. I could tell his legs a mile off. Where's my man?"
But the man didn't come, and Geordie was back in his car. He went off sweetly.
"The north road," said Bob. "I'm sure he'll take it. He's going quick. We can't wait for my man."
He grabbed the steering-wheel, shifted the lever, and the car moved off on the first speed.
"I'll—I'll go a little way with you," said the bishop.
"You'll have to unless you jump," replied Bob. "I'll keep in sight if I die for it."
This encouraged the bishop very much, of course, and it is possible that he might have jumped if he had not caught sight of the dean and a minor canon, who were staring hard at him with their mouths as wide open as the grotesque muzzle of a Gothic gargoyle.
"I'll not jump," said the bishop, and he waved his hand to Mr. Dean. "No, I'll not jump before the dean if I die for it."
Before he knew it, they were out on the road, and the dust of the yellow car in front was like the pillar of smoke to the Hebrews in the desert. Bob let her out to the second speed, and the bishop gasped.
"We go very quick," he said.