utomatically upon Mr. Airedale's ear. The surplice,
which Mr. Poodle was still holding, parted with a rip, and Gissing
was free. With a yell of defiance he tore through the vestry and round
behind the chapel.

He could not help pausing a moment to scan the amazing scene, which had
been all Sabbath calm a few moments before. From the long line of motor
cars parked outside the chapel incredible chauffeurs were leaping,
hurrying to see what had happened. The shady grove shook with the
hideous clamour of the bell, still wildly tolled by the frantic sexton.
The sudden excitement had liberated private quarrels long decently
repressed: in the porch Mrs. Retriever and Mrs. Dobermann-Pinscher were
locked in combat. With a splintering crash one of the choir-pups
came sailing through a stained-glass window, evidently thrown by some
infuriated adult. He recognized the voice of Mr. Towser, raised in
vigorous lamentation. To judge by the sound, Mr. Towser's pupils had
turned upon him and were giving him a bad time. Above all he could
hear the clear war-cry of Miss Airedale and the embittered yells of Mr.
Poodle. Then from the quaking edifice burst Bishop Borzoi, foaming
with wrath, his clothes much tattered, and followed by Mr. Poodle, Mr.
Airedale, and several others. They cast about for a moment, and then the
Bishop saw him. With a joint halloo they launched toward him.

There was no time to lose. He fled down the shady path between the
trees, but with a hopeless horror in his heart. He could not long
outdistance such a runner as the Bishop, whose tremendous strides would
surely overhaul him in the end. If only he had known how to drive a car,
he might have commandeered one of the long row waiting by the gate. But
he was no motorist. Miss Airedale could have saved him, in her racing
roadster, but she had not emerged from the melee in the chapel. Perhaps
the Bishop had bitten her. His blood warmed with anger.

It happened that they had been mending the county highways, and a large
steam roller stood a few hundred feet down the road, drawn up beside the
ditch. Gissing knew that it was customary to leave these engines with
the fire banked and a gentle pressure of steam simmering in the boiler.
It was his only chance, and he seized it. But to his dismay, when he
reached the machine, which lay just round a bend in the road, he found
it shrouded with a huge tarpaulin. However, this suggested a desperate
chance. He whipped nimbly inside