Outside, in front, the 'Bishop' had laid out a
garden wherein nothing might be found save weeds and empty beer
bottles, dead men denied decent interment. Behind the cabin was the
dust-heap, an interesting and historical mound, an epitome, indeed, of
the 'Bishop's' gastronomical past, that emphasised his descent from
Olympus to Hades; for on the top was a plebeian deposit of tomato and
sardine cans, whereas below, if 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.
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