It really was most annoying. There he stood, so close that we could almost touch him, and yet separated from us by a gulf only to be bridged by the end of his burial service.
"we met podbury."
The Doctor became illogical and childish about it. When I had dragged him away from these last sad rites, he gave it as his opinion that any other bishop would have stopped, just for a moment at least, and been friendly and enthusiastic, if only in an undertone.
“He may get thousands of opportunities to bury people, but he will never have a chance of seeing you again,” said my brother. Then he added, as an afterthought, “And very probably you will never get another opportunity of talking to an Irish bishop.”
After that he sneered at the local medical practitioner, and said that likely enough the deceased would not have died at all in proper hands.
Then a thought struck me, the horror of which reduced my brother to absolute despair. I said:
“Perhaps the Bishop is interring Podbury. In that case everybody you know on this island will be busy, and we shan’t get any hospitality, or punch, or anything.”
“Just my luck if he is,” answered the Doctor gloomily. He then kept absolute silence for half-an-hour, during which time we walked to the Roseau River and beheld many black laundresses out in mid-stream washing clothes. Turning from this spectacle, he spoke again and said:
“Our present state of suspense is destroying me. I’ve a terrible presentiment that they were burying Podbury. If so, we’re done all round. I’m going right away to Podbury’s now. I shall see in a moment by the blinds if the worst has happened.”