pupils had turned upon him and were giving him a bad time. Above
all he could hear the clear war-cry of Miss Airedale and the
embittered yells of Mr. Poodle. Then from the quaking edifice
burst Bishop Borzoi, foaming with wrath, his clothes much
tattered, and followed by Mr. Poodle, Mr. Airedale, and several
others. They cast about for a moment, and then the Bishop saw
him. With a joint halloo they launched toward him.

There was no time to lose. He fled down the shady path between
the trees, but with a hopeless horror in his heart. He could not
long outdistance such a runner as the Bishop, whose tremendous
strides would surely overhaul him in the end. If only he had
known how to drive a car, he might have commandeered one of the
long row waiting by the gate. But he was no motorist. Miss
Airedale could have saved him, in her racing roadster, but she
had not emerged from the melee in the chapel. Perhaps the Bishop
had bitten her. His blood warmed with anger.

It happened that they had been mending the county highways, and a
large steam roller stood a few hundred feet down the road, drawn
up beside the ditch. Gissing knew that it was customary to leave
these engines with the fire banked and a gentle pressure of steam
simmering in the boiler. It was his only chance, and he seized
it. But to his dismay, when he reached the machine, which lay
just round a bend in the road, he found it shrouded with a huge
tarpaulin. However, this suggested a desperate chance. He whipped
nimbly inside the covering and hid in the coal-box. Lying there,
he heard the chase go panting by.

As soon as he dared, he climbed out, stripped off the canvas, and