"How do you like it?" asked Bob, as they spun through Spalding.
The bishop's face was a fine glowing crimson; his bloodshot eyes glittered like opals; he was intoxicated with movement and with new lights on philosophy.
"I—I should like to go a thousand miles an hour at night," said the bishop. "I think it is wonderful, Bob. Are you Bob, and I a bishop? Where is Spilsborough? Is there a Spilsborough?"
"Steady on!" said Bob. "I say, you're excited!"
"I am," replied the bishop. "I am excited; I feel peculiar. I think I can originate a new philosophy. Why are we doing this?"
"We are trying to find out where Penelope is," said Bob.
"Penelope, Penelope," said the bishop. "Penelope is a vortex. Yes, she is a vortex. Men and women are vortices. I shall study mathematics and apply it to theology."
"Hello!" said Bob, and he stopped almost dead. For Geordie's dust had suddenly died down.
"I'll bet he has a puncture," said Bob. And the bishop sighed and stared about him, as if he were just awakened.
"Where are we?" he asked.