You tried, didn't you?
ROBERT. So I did, not 'arf! Thought if I kicked up an 'ell of a
shindy they'd think some big bug was comin'; and then when they'd
be all smiles an' bowin' an' scrapin', in pops me, real low!
[ROGERS enters. On seeing them at the table, he is apparently
troubled with his inside.]
ROGERS. Oh, my 'oly Evings!
MANSON. Who is it, Rogers?
ROGERS [awed]. It's the Bishop of Lancashire!
MANSON [imperturbably]. Shew him in, Rogers.
ROGERS. Beg pardon, Mr. Manson . . .
MANSON. I said, shew him in.
Quick, Rogers. Keep a bishop waiting!
ROGERS. Well, I'm jiggered!
[He is; and goes out.]
ROBERT. 'Ere! Did 'e say _bishop_?
MANSON. Yes.
ROBERT. Comin' 'ere? Now?
[MANSON nods his head to each inquiry.]
Well, I ain't agoin' ter leave my sossingers, not if 'e was a
bloomin' archangel, see!
[ROGERS, still jiggered, ushers in JAMES PONSONBY MAKESHYFTE, D.D.,
the Most Reverend the Lord Bishop of Lancashire. He looks his
name, his goggles and ear-trumpet lending a beautiful perfection to
the resemblance.
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