"It would be unseemly for me to present my own claims in this
project. Quimbleton, you are the one--you have the gift of the
tongue."

"I would rather have the gift of the bung," whispered Quimbleton
resolutely as they were ushered into the inner sanctum.

The dreaded Bishop sat at an immense ebony flat-topped desk. The
room was furnished like his mind, that is to say, sparsely, and
without any southern exposure. A peculiarly terrifying feature of
the scene was that the top of the desk was completely bare, not a
single paper lay on it. Remembering his own desk in the newspaper
office, Bleak felt that this was unnatural and monstrous. He
noticed a breathoscope on the mantelpiece, with its sensitive
needle trembling on the scaled dial which read thus:--

As he watched the indicator oscillate rapidly on the dial, and
finally subside uncertainly at zero, he thanked heaven that they
had indulged in no psychic grogs that day.

The Bishop's black beard foamed downward upon the desk like a
gloomy cataract. Quimbleton for a moment was almost abashed, and
regretted that he had not thought to whitewash his own dingy
thicket.

Bishop Chuff's piercing and cruel gaze stabbed all three. He
ignored Theodolinda with contempt. His disdain was so complete
that (as the unhappy girl said afterward) he seemed more like a
younger brother than a father. There were no chairs: they were
forced to stand. In a small mirror fastened to the edge of his