you stirred the heap, might be found a
nobler stratum of terrines, once savoury with _foie gras_ and
Strasbourg _pate_, of jars still fragrant of fruits embedded in
liqueur, of bottles that had contained the soups that a divine loves--
oxtail, turtle, mulligatawny, and the like. Upon rectory, glebe, and
garden was legibly inscribed the grim word--ICHABOD.

"He means what he says," growled Dick. "So far as he's concerned I'm
dead."

"You ought to be," said the 'Bishop,' "but you aren't; what are you
going to do?"

This question burned its insidious way to Dick's very vitals. What
could he do? Whom could he do? After a significant pause he caught the
'Bishop's' eye, and, holding his pipe as it might be a pistol, put it
to his head, and clicked his tongue.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' feebly.

The two smoked on in silence. The Rev. Tudor Crisp reflected
mournfully that one day a maiden aunt might withdraw the pittance that
kept his large body and small soul together. This unhappy thought sent
him to the demijohn, whence he extracted two stiff drinks.

"No," said Dick, pushing aside the glass. "I want to think, to think.
Curse it, there must be a way out of the wood. If I'd capital we could
start a saloon. We know the ropes, and could make a living at it,
more, too, but now we can't even get one drink on credit. Why don't
you say something, you stupid fool?"

He spoke savagely. The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheery
happy days of youth. He could see himself at school, in the playing
fields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs. Other
figures were in the picture, but he held the centre of the stage. God
in heaven, what a fool he had been!

The minutes glided by, and the 'Bishop' refilled his glass, glancing
from time to time at Dick. He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but the
whisky warmed him into speech.

"Look here," he said with a spectral grin, "what's enough for one is
enough for two. We'll get along, old man, on my money, till the times
mend."

Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at the
squat, ungainly 'Bishop.'

"You're a good chap," he said quietly. "Shake hands, and-good-bye."

"Why, where are you going?"

"Ah! Who knows? If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later."

Crisp stared at the speaker in horror. He had reason to know that Dick
was reckless, but this dare-devil despair apalled him. Yet he had wit
enough to attempt no remonstran