| 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 |
| 1 | 65 | 130 | 195 | 260 |
|
Until one can ride with one hand, and search for, secure, and use a
pocket handkerchief with the other, cycling is necessarily a constant
series of descents. Nothing can be further from the author's ambition
than a wanton realism, but Mr. Hoopdriver's nose is a plain and salient
fact, and face it we must. And, in addition to this inconvenience, there
are flies. Until the cyclist can steer with one hand, his face is
given over to Beelzebub. Contemplative flies stroll over it, and trifle
absently with its most sensitive surfaces. The only way to dislodge them
is to shake the head forcibly and to writhe one's features violently.
This is not only a lengthy and frequently ineffectual method, but one
exceedingly terrifying to foot passengers. And again, sometimes the
beginner rides for a space with one eye closed by perspiration, giving
him a waggish air foreign to his mood and ill calculated to overawe
the impertinent. However, you will appreciate now the motive of Mr.
Hoopdriver's experiments. He presently attained sufficient dexterity
to slap himself smartly and violently in the face with his right hand,
without certainly overturning the machine; but his pocket handkerchief
might have been in California for any good it was to him while he was in
the saddle.
Yet you must not think that because Mr. Hoopdriver was a little
uncomfortable, he was unhappy in the slightest degree. In the background
of his consciousness was the sense that about this time Briggs would be
half-way through his window dressing, and Gosling, the apprentice, busy,
with a chair turned down over the counter and his ears very red, trying
to roll a piece of huckaback--only those who have rolled pieces of
3
6
Page
Quick Jump
|