He was happy, bright, and eager. "There’s a motor-car coming," whispered the bishop. Bob jumped. "I say, it’s yellow like Pen’s big new one," he said. And the car stopped in front of the post-office ten yards away. Bob grabbed the bishop’s arm. "That’s Geordie Smith," he said. "That’s Geordie getting out. I could tell his legs a mile off. Where’s my man?" But the man didn’t come, and Geordie was back in his car. He went off sweetly. "The north road," said Bob. "I’m sure he’ll take it. He’s going quick. We can’t wait for my man." He grabbed the steering-wheel, shifted the lever, and the car moved off on the first speed. "I’ll—I’ll go a little way with you," said the bishop. "You’ll have to unless you jump," replied Bob. "I’ll keep in sight if I die for it." This encouraged the bishop very much, of course, and it is possible that he might have jumped if he had not caught sight of the dean and a minor canon, who were staring hard at him with their mouths as wide open as the grotesque muzzle of a Gothic gargoyle. "I’ll not jump," said the bishop, and he waved his hand to Mr. Dean. "No, I’ll not jump before the dean if I die for it." Before he knew it, they were out on the road, and the dust of the yellow car in front was like the pillar of smoke to the Hebrews in the desert. Bob let her out to the second speed, and the bishop gasped. "We go very quick," he said. "Oh, not at all," replied Bob. "I don’t want to go fast. If Geordie thinks he’s being followed, he’ll go sixty miles an hour, and I don’t think I can do more than forty-five in this." "Can’t you?" asked the bishop. "I’m almost glad you can’t." "Is this the great north road?" asked Bob. "No," said the bishop, "it’s the road to Crowland and Spalding. I’ve often driven on it, but never so fast as this." Geordie’s car drew ahead, and Bob put his car on the third speed. "Bob!" cried the bishop, as he clutched the sides of his seat. "Bob!" "Yes?" "Isn’t this an illegal speed?" "Rather," said Bob. "I cannot aid and abet you in going at it, then," said the bishop, as firmly as he could. "I must request you to be legal." Bob kept his eyes ahead. "Please don’t talk," he roared, "or I shall have an accident. You must remember I’m not at all experienced." What could the poor bishop do? He groaned and sat very tight indeed, and, seeing the landscape eaten up by this monster at the rate of thirty miles an hour, came to the conclusion that there was nothing stable in the universe, not even theology. And about a mile ahead of them rose a pillar of dust.