road to Barchester, and was almost half way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city.  This would, at any rate, bring the walk within a practicable distance.  Mr Crawley was instantly placed upon his guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects the trap.  Had he been told that farmer Mangle was going all the way to Barchester, nothing would have induced him to get into the cart.  He would have felt sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to pity him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner have started to walk to London than have put a foot upon the step of the cart.  But this lift half way did look to him as if it were really fortuitous.  His wife could hardly have been cunning enough to persuade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the trap would have been suspected had the bait been more full.  But I fear—­I fear the dear good woman had been thus cunning—­had understood how far the trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her prey.

On the following morning he consented to get into farmer Mangle’s cart, and was driven as far as Framley Mill.  ’I wouldn’t think nowt, your reverence, of running you over to Barchester—­that I wouldn’t.  The powny is so mortal good.,’ said farmer Mangle in his foolish good-nature.

‘And how about your business here?’ said Mr Crawley.  The farmer scratched his head, remembering Mrs Crawley’s injunctions, and awkwardly acknowledged that to be sure his own business with the miller was very pressing.  Then Mr Crawley descended, terribly suspicious, and went on his journey.

‘Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming back?’ said the farmer Mangle.  But Mr Crawley would make no promise.  He bade the farmer not wait for him.  If they chanced to meet together on the road he might get up again.  If the man really had business at Framley, how could he have offered to go on to Barchester?  Were they deceiving him?  The wife of his bosom had deceived him in such matters before now.  But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop.  He took great glory from the thought that he would go before the bishop with dirty boots—­with boots necessarily dirty—­with rusty pantaloons, that he would be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an object to be wondered at by all who should see him, because the misfortunes which had been unworthily heaped upon his head; whereas the bishop would be sleek and clean and well-fed—­pretty with all the prettinesses that are becoming to a bishop’s outward man.  And he, Mr Crawley, would be humble, whereas the bishop would be proud.  And the bishop would be in his own armchair—­the cock in his own farmyard, while he, Mr Crawley, would be seated afar off, in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him—­a man called thither to undergo censure.  And yet he would take the bishop in his grasp and crush him—­crush him—­crush him!  As he thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far before him into the air, and there and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination.  Yes, indeed!  He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for him a second time.  And as this passed through his mind, he forgot his wife’s cunning, and farmer Mangle’s sin, and for the moment he was happy.