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Mr. Hoopdriver looked as intelligent as he could, but said nothing.
"There's no hurry, sir, none whatever. I came out for exercise, gentle
exercise, and to notice the scenery and to botanise. And no sooner do
I get on the accursed machine, than off I go hammer and tongs; I never
look to right or left, never notice a flower, never see a view, get hot,
juicy, red,--like a grilled chop. Here I am, sir. Come from Guildford in
something under the hour. WHY, sir?"
Mr. Hoopdriver shook his head.
"Because I'm a damned fool, sir. Because I've reservoirs and reservoirs
of muscular energy, and one or other of them is always leaking. It's
a most interesting road, birds and trees, I've no doubt, and wayside
flowers, and there's nothing I should enjoy more than watching them. But
I can't. Get me on that machine, and I have to go. Get me on anything,
and I have to go. And I don't want to go a bit. WHY should a man rush
about like a rocket, all pace and fizzle? Why? It makes me furious. I
can assure you, sir, I go scorching along the road, and cursing aloud at
myself for doing it. A quiet, dignified, philosophical man, that's what
I am--at bottom; and here I am dancing with rage and swearing like a
drunken tinker at a perfect stranger--
"
But my day's wasted. I've lost all that country road, and now I'm on
the fringe of London. And I might have loitered all the morning! Ugh!
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