footpath. The excitement never flagged. So far he had never passed or

been passed by anything, but as yet the day was young and the road was

clear. He doubted his steering so much that, for the present, he had

resolved to dismount at the approach of anything else upon wheels. The

shadows of the trees lay very long and blue across the road, the morning

sunlight was like amber fire.

At the cross-roads at the top of West Hill, where the cattle trough

stands, he turned towards Kingston and set himself to scale the little

bit of ascent. An early heath-keeper, in his velveteen jacket, marvelled

at his efforts. And while he yet struggled, the head of a carter rose

over the brow.

At the sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver, according to his previous

determination, resolved to dismount. He tightened the brake, and the

machine stopped dead. He was trying to think what he did with his right

leg whilst getting off. He gripped the handles and released the brake,

standing on the left pedal and waving his right foot in the air.

Then--these things take so long in the telling--he found the machine was

falling over to the right. While he was deciding upon a plan of action,

gravitation appears to have been busy. He was still irresolute when he

found the machine on the ground, himself kneeling upon it, and a vague

feeling in his mind that again Providence had dealt harshly with his

shin. This happened when he was just level with the heathkeeper. The man

in the approaching cart stood up to see the ruins better.

The Wheels of Chance