At the inn they gave him biscuits and cheese and a misleading pewter

measure of sturdy ale, pleasant under the palate, cool in the throat,

but leaden in the legs, of a hot afternoon. He felt a man of substance

as he emerged in the blinding sunshine, but even by the foot of the down

the sun was insisting again that his skull was too small for his brains.

The hill had gone steeper, the chalky road blazed like a magnesium

light, and his front wheel began an apparently incurable squeaking. He

felt as a man from Mars would feel if he were suddenly transferred to

this planet, about three times as heavy as he was wont to feel. The two

little black figures had vanished over the forehead of the hill. "The

tracks'll be all right," said Mr. Hoopdriver.

That was a comforting reflection. It not only justified a slow progress

up the hill, but at the crest a sprawl on the turf beside the road, to

contemplate the Weald from the south. In a matter of two days he had

crossed that spacious valley, with its frozen surge of green hills, its

little villages and townships here and there, its copses and cornfields,

its ponds and streams like jewelery of diamonds and silver glittering

in the sun. The North Downs were hidden, far away beyond the Wealden

Heights. Down below was the little village of Cocking, and half-way up

the hill, a mile perhaps to the right, hung a flock of sheep grazing

together. Overhead an anxious peewit circled against the blue, and every

now and then emitted its feeble cry. Up here the heat was tempered by

a pleasant breeze. Mr. Hoopdriver was possessed by unreasonable

contentment; he lit himself a cigarette and lounged more comfortably.

Surely the Sussex ale is made of the waters of Lethe, of poppies and

The Wheels of Chance