er Warboise of yours can write passable
English."

"Warboise? Warboise never wrote that--never in his life."

Master Blanchminster passed a hand over his forehead.

"It's Copas's handwriting!" announced Mr. Colt, who had drawn close
and, unpermitted, was staring over the Bishop's shoulder at the
manuscript.

The Bishop turned half about in his chair, slightly affronted by this
offence against good manners; but Mr. Colt was too far excited to
guess the rebuke.

"Turn over the page, my lord."

As the Bishop turned it, on the impulse of surprise, Mr. Colt pointed
a forefinger.

"There it is--half-way down the signatures! 'J. Copas,' written in
the same hand!"

CHAPTER VIII.

A PEACE-OFFERING.

"'Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak!
Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week!'"

Quoted Brother Copas from one of his favourite poems. This was in
the kitchen, three days later, and he made one of the crowd edging,
pushing, pressing, each with plate in hand, around the great table
where the joints stood ready to be carved and distributed. For save
on Gaudy Days and great festivals of the Church, the Brethren dine in
their own chambers, not in Hall; and on three days of the week must
fend for themselves on food purchased out of their small allowances.
But on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays they fetch it from
the kitchen, taking their turns to choose the best cuts. And this
was Thursday and, as it happened, Brother Copas stood first on the
rota.

The rota hung on the kitchen wall in a frame of oak canopied with
faded velvet--an ingenious and puzzling contrivance, somewhat like
the calendar prefixed to the Book of Common Prayer, with the names of
the Brethren inserted on movable cards worn greasy with handling.
In system nothing could be fairer; but in practice, human nature
being what it is, and the crowd without discipline, the press and
clamour about the table made choosing difficult for the weaker ones.

"Brother Copas to choose! Brother Clerihew to divide!"

"Aye," sang out Brother Copas cheerfully, "and I'll take my time
about it. Make room, Woolcombe, if you please, and take your elbow
out of my ribs--don't I know the old trick? And stop pushing--you
behind there! . . . 'Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, wasps in a
bottle.'--Mrs. Royle, ma'am, I am very sorry for your husband's
rheumatism, but it does not become a lady to show this indecent
haste."

"Indecent?" shrilled Mr