easy enough. But he had taken a fancy to the machine: he decided
not to abandon it yet.

Obviously it was better to keep to the roads, where the engine
would at any rate be less surprisingly conspicuous, and where it
would leave no trail. So he made a long circuit across meadows
and pastures, carrying a devilish clamour into the quiet Sunday
afternoon. Regaining a macadam surface, he set oil at random,
causing considerable annoyance to the motoring public. Finding
that his cutaway coat caused jeers and merriment, he removed it;
and when any one showed a disposition to inquire, he explained
that he was doing penance for an ill-judged wager. His
oscillating perch above the boiler was extraordinarily warm, and
he bought a gallon jug of cider from a farmer by the way.
Cheering himself with this, and reviewing in his mind the queer
experiences of the past months, he went thundering mildly on.

At first he had feared a furious pursuit on the part of the
Bishop, or even a whole college of bishops, quickly mobilized for
the event. He had imagined them speeding after him in a huge
motor-bus, and himself keeping them at bay with lumps of coal.
But gradually he realized that the Bishop would not further
jeopardize his dignity, or run the risk of making himself
ridiculous. Mr. Poodle would undoubtedly set the township road
commissioner on his trail, and he would be liable to seizure for
the theft of a steam roller. But that could hardly happen so
quickly. In the meantime, a plan had been forming in his mind,
but it would require darkness for its execution.

Darkness did not delay in coming. As he jolted cheerfully from