'Hoy, mister, stop,' called a voice. Gethryn turned. A man was running up the road towards him. He arrived panting. 'What's up?' said the Bishop. 'You've got a puncture,' said the man, pointing an accusing finger at the flattened tyre. It was not worth while killing the brute. Probably he was acting from the best motives. 'No,' said Gethryn wearily, 'it isn't a puncture. I always let the air out when I'm riding. It looks so much better, don't you think so? Why did they let you out? Good-bye.' And feeling a little more comfortable after this outburst, he wheeled his bicycle on into Anfield High Street. Minds in the village of Anfield worked with extraordinary rapidity. The first person of whom he asked the way to the Junction answered the riddle almost without thinking. He left his machine out in the road and went on to the platform. The first thing that caught his eye was the station clock with its hands pointing to five past four. And when he realized that, his uncle's train having left a clear half hour before, his labours had all been for nothing, the full bitterness of life came home to him. He was turning away from the station when he stopped. Something else had caught his eye. On a bench at the extreme end of the platform sat a youth. And a further scrutiny convinced the Bishop of the fact that the youth was none other than Master Reginald Farnie, late of Beckford, and shortly, or he would know the reason why, to be once more of Beckford. Other people besides himself, it appeared, could miss trains. Farnie was reading one of those halfpenny weeklies which--with a nerve which is the only creditable thing about them--call themselves comic. He did not see the Bishop until a shadow falling across his paper caused him to look up. It was not often that he found himself unequal to a situation. Monk in a recent conversation had taken him aback somewhat, but his feelings on that occasion were not to be compared with what he felt on seeing the one person whom he least desired to meet standing at his side. His jaw dropped limply, _Comic Blitherings_ fluttered to the ground. The Bishop was the first to speak. Indeed, if he had waited for Farnie to break the silence, he would have waited long. 'Get up,' he said. Farnie got up. 'Come on.' Farnie came. 'Go and get your machine,' said Gethryn. 'Hurry up. And now you will jolly well come back to Beckford, you little beast.' But before that could be done there was Gethryn's back wheel to be mended. This took time. It was nearly half past four before they started. 'Oh,' said Gethryn, as they were about to mount, 'there's that money. I was forgetting. Out with it.' Ten pounds had been the sum Farnie had taken from the study. Six was all he was able to restore. Gethryn enquired after the deficit. 'I gave it to Monk,' said Farnie. To Gethryn, in his present frame of mind, the mere mention of Monk was sufficient to uncork the vials of his wrath.