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.
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