 CHAPTER 30 The Rescue Expedition And now to tell of those energetic Chevaliers, Widgery, Dangle, and Phipps, and of that distressed beauty, Thomas Planktignit, well known in society, so the paragraphs said, as Ms. Milton. We left them at Midhurst Station, if I remember rightly, waiting in a state of fine emotion for the chichester train. It was clearly understood by the entire rescue party that Ms. Milton was bearing up bravely against almost overwhelming grief. The three gentlemen outdid one another in sympathetic expedience. They watched her gravely, almost tenderly. The substantial Widgery tugged at its moustache and looked his unspeakable feelings at her with those dog-like brown eyes of his. The slender Dangle tugged at his moustache and did what he could with unsympathetic grey ones. Phipps, unhappily, had no moustache to run any risks with, so he folded his arms and talked in a brave, indifferent, bearing up tone about the London, Brighton, and the South Coast Railway, just to cheer the poor woman up a little. And even Ms. Milton really felt that exalted melancholy to the very bottom of her heart, and tried to show it in a dozen little delicate, feminine ways. "'There is nothing to do until we get the chichester,' said Dangle. "'Nothing,' said Widgery, and a sighed in her ear. "'You really ate scarcely anything, you know.' "'Their trains are always late,' said Phipps, with his fingers along the edge of his collar. "'Dangle, you must understand,' was a sub-editor and reviewer, and his pride was to be Thomas Planktignit's intellectual companion. Widgery, the big man, was manager of a bank and a mighty golfer, and his conception of his relations to her never came into his mind without those charming old lines. Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. His name was Douglas, Douglas Widgery. And Phipps, Phipps was a medical student still, the heart of a man of the world. She was kind to them all in her way, and insisted on their being friends together in spite of a disposition to reciprocal criticism they displayed. Dangle thought Widgery a Philistine, appreciating but coarsely the merits of a soul untrammeled, and Widgery thought Dangle lacked humanity, would talk insincerely to say a clever thing. Both Dangle and Widgery thought Phipps a bit of a cub, and Phipps thought both Dangle and Widgery a couple of thundering bounders. They would have got to Chichester in time for lunch, said Dangle in the train. After, perhaps. And there's no sufficient place on the road. So soon as we get there, Phipps must inquire at the chief hotels to see if anyone answering to her description has lunched there. Oh, I'll inquire, said Phipps, willingly. I suppose you and Widgery will just hang about. He saw an expression of pain on Miss Milton's gentle face and stopped abruptly. No, said Dangle. You shan't hang about, as you put it. There are two places in Chichester where tourists might go, the Cathedral and remarkably fine museum. I shall go to the Cathedral and make an inquiry or so, while Widgery. The museum, very well. And after that, there's a little thing or two I thought of myself, said Widgery. To begin with, they took Miss Milton in a kind of procession to the Red Hotel and established her there with some tea. You are so kind to me, she said, all of you. They signified that it was nothing and dispersed to their inquiries. By six they returned, their zeal a little damp without news. Widgery came back with Dangle. Phipps was the last to return. You're quite sure, said Widgery, that there isn't any flaw in that inference of yours. Quite, said Dangle, rather shortly. Of course, said Widgery, they're starting for mid-hurst on the Chichester Road, doesn't absolutely bind them not to change their minds. My dear fellow! It does! Really it does! You must allow me to have enough intelligence to think of crossroads. Really you must! There aren't any crossroads to tempt them. Would they turn aside here? No. Would they turn there? Many more things are inevitable than you fancy. We shall see it once, said Widgery, at the window. Here comes Phipps, for my own part. Phipps, said Miss Milton, is he hurrying? Does he look? She rose in her eagerness, biting her trembling lip and went towards the window. Who knows, said Phipps, entering? Da, said Widgery. None, said Dangle. Well, said Phipps, one fellow had got hold of a queer story of a man in bicycling clothes who was asking the same question about this time yesterday. What question, said Miss Milton, in the shadow of the window? She spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. Why, have you seen a young lady in a grey bicycling costume? Dangle caught at his lower lip. What's that? He said, yesterday, a man asking after her then. What can that mean? Heaven knows, said Phipps, sitting down wearily. You'd better infer. What kind of man, said Dangle? How should I know? In bicycling costume, the fellow said. But what height? What complexion? Didn't ask, said Phipps. Didn't ask? Nonsense, said Dangle. Ask him yourself, said Phipps. He's the Osler chap at the White Heart, short, thicket set, fellow with a red face and a crusty manner, leaning up against the gate post, smells of whisky. Go and ask him. Of course, said Dangle, taking his straw hat from the shade over the stuffed bird on the chiffonier and turning towards the door. I might have known. Phipps' mouth opened and shut. You're tired, I'm sure. Mr. Phipps, said the lady soothingly, let me ring for some tea for you. It suddenly occurred to Phipps that he had lapsed a little for his chivalry. I was a little annoyed. At the way, he rushed me to do all this business. He said, but I'd do it a hundred times as much if it would bring you any nearer to her. Pause. I would, like a little tea. I don't want to raise any false hopes, said Widgery, but I do not believe they even came to Chichester. Dangle's a very clever fellow, of course, but sometimes these inferences of his. Chuck! said Phipps suddenly. What is it? said Miss Milton. Something I've forgotten. I went right out from here, went to every other hotel in the place, and never thought. But never mind, I'll ask when the waiter comes. You don't mean. A tap, and the door opened. Tea, ma'am? Yes, ma'am, said the waiter. One minute, said Phipps, was a lady in grey, a cycling lady. Stopped here yesterday. Yes, sir, stopped the night, with her brother, sir, a young gent. Brother! said Miss Milton, in a low tone. Thank God! The waiter glanced at her, and understood everything. A young gent, sir, he said, very free with his money. Give the name of Beaumont. He proceeded to some rambling particulars, and was cross-examined by Wydry on the plans of the young couple. Haven't! Where's haven't? said Phipps. I seem to remember it somewhere. Was the man tall? said Miss Milton intently, distinguished looking, with a long flex and mustache, and a spoke with a drawl. Well, said the waiter, and thought. This mustache, ma'am, was scarcely long, scrubby more, and young looking. About thirty-five, he was? No, ma'am, more like five and twenty, not that. Dear me, said Miss Milton, speaking in a curious, hollow voice, fumbling for her salts, and showing the finest self-control. It must have been her younger brother, must have been. That will do, thank you, said Wydry, officiously, feeling that she would be easier under this new surprise if the man were dismissed. The waiter turned to go, and almost collided with Dangle, who was entering the room, panting excitedly, and with a pocket handkerchief held to his right eye. Hello, said Dangle. What's up? What's up with you, said Phipps. Nothing, an altercation, merely, with that drunken osler of yours. He thought it was a plot to annoy him, that young lady in grey was mythical. Judge from your manner, I've got a piece of raw meat to keep over it. You have some news, I see. Did the man hit you, asked Wydry? Miss Milton rose and approached Dangle. Cannot I do anything? Dangle was heroic. Only tell me your news, he said, round the corner of his handkerchief. It was in this way, said Phipps, and explained, rather sheepishly. While he was doing so, with a running fire of commentary from Wydry, the waiter brought in a tray of tea. A timetable, said Dangle promptly, for haven't. Miss Milton poured two cups, and Phipps and Dangle partook in pass-over form. They caught the train by a hares-brit, so to haven't, and inquiries. Dangle was puffed up to find that his guess of haven't was right. In view of the fact that beyond haven't, the South Hampton Road has a steep hill continuously on the right-hand side, and the sea on the left, he hit up on a magnificent scheme for heading the young folks off. He and Miss Milton would go on to Fairham. Wydry and Phipps should elate one each at the intermediate stations of Khajom and Porchester, and come on by the next train if they had no news. If they did not come on, a wire to the Fairham post office was to explain why. It was Napoleonic, and more than consoled Dangle for the open derision of the haven't streetboys and the handkerchief which still protected his damaged eye. Moreover, the scheme answered to perfection. The fugitive escaped by a hares-brit. They were outside the golden anchor at Fairham, and preparing to mount as Miss Milton and Dangle came round the corner from the station. It's her, said Miss Milton, and would have screamed. Hissed, said Dangle, gripping the lady's arm, removing his handkerchief in his excitement, leaving the piece of meat over his eye, an extraordinary appearance which seemed unexpectedly to calm her. Be cool, said Dangle, glaring under the meat. They must not see us. They will get away else. Were there flies at the station? The young couple mounted and vanished round the corner of the Wichester Road. Had it not been for the publicity of the business, Miss Milton would have fainted. Save her, she said. Ah! A conveyance, said Dangle, one minute. He left her in a most pathetic attitude with her hand pressed to her heart and rushed to the golden anchor. Dog cart in ten minutes emerged. The meat had gone now, and one saw the cooling puffiness over his eye. I will conduct you back to the station, said Dangle. Hurry back here and pursue them. You will meet Widgery and Phipps and tell them I am in pursuit. She was whirled back to the railway station and left there on a hard, blistered, wooden seat in the sun. She felt tired and dreadfully ruffled and agitated and dusty. Dangle was, no doubt, most energetic and devoted, but for a kindly, helpful manner commend her to Douglas Widgery. Meanwhile, Dangle, his face golden in the evening sun, was driving, as well as he could. A large black horse harnessed into a thing called a gig, north-westward towards Wichester. Dangle, barring his swollen eye, was a refined-looking little man, and he wore a deer-stalker cap and was dressed in dark gray. His neck was long and slender. Perhaps you know what gigs are, huge, big, wooden things, and very high, and the horse, too, was huge and big and high, with knobby legs, a long face, a hard mouth and a whacking trick of pacing. Smack, smack, smack, it went along the road, and hard by the church it shied vigorously at a hooded perambulator. The history of the rescue expedition now becomes confused. It appears that Widgery was extremely indignant to find Miss Milton left about upon the pharum platform. The day had irritated him somehow, though he had started with the noblest intentions, and he seemed glad to find an outlet for justifiable indignation. He's such a spasmodic creature, said Widgery, rushing off, and I suppose we're to wait here until he comes back. It's likely he's so egotistical, is Dangle, always wants to mismanage everything himself. He means to help me, said Miss Milton, a little reproachfully touching his arm. Widgery was hardly in the mood to be mollified at once. He need not prevent me, he said, and stopped. It's no good talking, you know, and you are tired. I can go on, she said, bright did. If only we find her. While I was cooling my heels and cajum, I brought a county map and produced and opened it. Here, you see, is the road out of Erem. He proceeded with the calm deliberation of a businessman to develop a proposal of taking train forthwith to Wichester. They must be going to Wichester, he explained. It was inevitable. Tomorrow, Sunday, Wichester, a cathedral town, road going nowhere else of the slightest importance. But Mr. Dangle, he will simply go on until he has to pass something, and then he will break his neck. I have seen Dangle drive before. It's scarcely like a dog cart, especially a hired dog cart, will overtake bicycles in the cool of the evening. Rely upon me, Miss Milton. I am in your hands, she said, with pathetic littleness looking up at him, and for the moment he forgot the exasperation of the day. The two ships, during this conversation, had stood in a somewhat depressed attitude, leaning on a stick, feeling his collar, and looking from one speaker to the other. The idea of leaving Dangle behind seemed to him an excellent one. We might leave a message at the place where he got the dog cart, he suggested, when he saw their eyes meeting. There was a cheerful alacrity about all three at the proposal. But they never got beyond boatly, for even as their train ran into the station, a mighty rumbling was heard. There was a shouting overhead. The guard stood, astonished, on the platform, and phips, thrusting his head out of the window, cried, There he goes! and sprang out of the carriage. Miss Milton, following an alarm, just saw it. From woodry it was hidden. Botley station lies in a cutting. Overhead was the roadway, and across the lemon yellows and flushed pinks of the sunset, there were a great black mass, a horse like a long nose chest knight, the upper works of a gig, and a dangle in transit from front to back. A monstrous shadow aped him across the cutting. It was the event of a second. Dangle seemed to jump, hang in the air momentarily, and vanish, and after a moment's pause came a heart-trending smash, then the two black heads running swiftly. Better get out, said Phips to Miss Milton, who stood fascinated in the doorway. In another moment all three were hurrying up the steps. They found dangle, hatless, standing up with cut hands extended, having his hands brushed by an officious small boy. A broad, ugly road ran downhill in a long vista, and in the distance was a little group of botley inhabitants holding the big black horse. Even at that distance they could see the expression of conscious pride on the monster's visage. It was as wooden face a horse as you can imagine. The beasts in the Tower of London, on which the men in armour are perched, are the only horses I've ever seen at all like it. However, we are not concerned now with the horse, but with dangle. Hurt, asked Phips eagerly, leading. Mr. Dangle, cried Miss Milton, clasping her hands. Hello, said dangle, not surprised in the slightest. Glad you've come. I may want you, bit of a mess I'm in, eh? But I've caught him, at the very place I expected to. Caught them, said Widgery, where are they? Up there, he said, with a backward motion of his head. About a mile up the hill, I left them. I had to. I don't understand, said Miss Milton, with the wrapped, painful look again. Have you found Jesse? I have. I wish I could wash the gravel out of my hands somewhere. It was like this, you know, came on them suddenly, round a corner, horse shied at the bicycles. They were sitting by the roadside, botanizing flowers. I just had time to shout, Jesse Milton, we've been looking for you! And then that confounded brute bolted. I didn't dare turn round. I had all my work to do to save myself being turned over, as it was, so long as I did, I mean. I just shouted, Return to your friends, all will be forgiven! And off I came, clatter, clatter, whether they heard, Take me to her, said Miss Milton, with intensity, turning towards Widgery. Certainly, said Widgery, suddenly becoming active. How far is it, dango? Mile and a half, or two miles. I was determined to find them, you know. I say, though, look at my hands. But I beg your pardon, Miss Milton. He turned to Phipps. Phipps, I say, where shall I wash the gravel out, and have a look at my knee? There is the station, said Phipps, becoming helpful. Dango made a step, and a damaged knee became evident. Take my arm, said Phipps. Where can we get a conveyance? asked Widgery, of two small boys. The two small boys failed to understand. They looked at one another. There's not a cab, not a go-card in sight, said Widgery. It's a case of a horse, a horse. My kingdom for a horse. Thus a horse, Irrant Yander, sang one of the small boys with the movement of the hand. Don't you know where we can hire traps? asked Widgery, after glaring harshly at the boy for ten seconds or so. Or a cart, or anything, asked Miss Milton. John Uker's got a cart, but no one can't iron carts. He got drunk and smashed the sharps half of them, said the larger of the small boys, patiently averting his face and staring down at the road and making a song of it. And so under my fodder, for his leg us broke. Not a cart, even. Evidently, what shall we do? It occurred to Miss Milton that if Widgery was the man for courtly devotion, Dangle was infinitely reddier of resource. I suppose, she said timidly, perhaps if you were to ask Mr. Dangle. And then all the guilt came off Widgery. He answered quite rudely. Confounded Dangle! Hasn't he messed us up enough? He must needs drive after them in a trap to tell them we're coming. And now you want me to ask him? Her beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears. He stopped abruptly. I'll go and ask Dangle, he said shortly, if you wish it. And went striding into the station and down the steps, leaving her in the road under the quiet inspection of the two little boys and with a kind of ballad refrain running through her head. Where are the knights of the olden time and feeling tired to death and hungry and dusty and out of curl and, in short, a murder woman? CHAPTER XXXI It goes to my heart to tell of the end of that day, how the fugitives vanished into immensity, how there were no more trains, how botly stared unsympathetically with a palpable disposition to derision, denying conveyances, how the landlord of the Heron was suspicious, how the next day was Sunday, and the hot summer's day had crumpled the collar of Phipps and strained the skirts of Miss Milton and dimmed the radiant emotions of the whole party. Dangle, with sticking plaster and a black eye, felt absurdity of the pose of the wounded knight and abandoned it after the faintest efforts. Recriminations never, perhaps, held the foreground of the talk, but they played like summer lightning on the edge of the conversation, and deep in the hearts of all was a galing sense of the ridiculous Jesse, they thought, was most to blame, apparently to the worst, which would have made the whole business tragic, was not happening. Here was a young woman, young woman, do I say, a mere girl, had chosen to leave a comfortable home in Serbaton, and all the delights of a refined intellectual circle, and had rushed off trailing us after her, posing hard, mutually jealous, and now tired and weatherworn, to flick us off at last, mere mud from her heel, into a detestable village on a Saturday night, and she had done it, not for love and passion, which are serious excuses one may recognize, even if one must reprobate, but just for a freak, just for a fantastic idea, for nothing, in fact, but the outraging of common sense. Yet with all, such was our restraint, that we talked of her still as one misguided, as one who burdened us with anxiety, as a lamb, a stray, and Miss Milton, having eaten, continued to show the finest feelings on the matter. She sat, I may mention, in the cushioned basket chair, the only comfortable chair in the room, and we sat on incredibly hard horsehair things, having anti-massacres tied to the backs by means of lemon-colored bows. It was different from those dear old talks at Serbaton, somehow. She sat facing the window, which was open, the night was so tranquil and warm, and the dim light, for we did not use the lamp, suited her admirably. She talked in a low voice, that told you she was tired, and she seemed inclined to state a case against herself in the matter of a soul untrammeled. It was such an evening, as might live, in a sympathetic memoir, but it was a little dull while it lasted. I feel, she said, that I am to blame, I have developed. That first book of mine, I do not go back upon a word of it, mind, but it has been misunderstood, misapplied. It has, said Widery, trying to look so deeply sympathetic as to be visible in the dark, deliberately misunderstood. Don't say that, said the lady, not deliberately. I try and think that critics are honest, after their lights. I was not thinking of critics, but she, I mean, she paused in interrogation. It is possible, said Dangle, scrutinizing his sticking plaster. I write a book, and state a case. I want people to think, as I recommend, not do as I recommend. It is just teaching, only I make it into a story. I want to teach new ideas, new lessons to promulgate ideas. Then, when the ideas have been spread abroad, things will come about. Only now it is madness to fly in the face of the established order. Bernard Shaw, you know, has explained that with regards to socialism. We all know that to earn all that you consume is right, and that living on invested capital is wrong. Only we cannot begin while we are so few. It is those others. Precisely, said Widery, it is those others. They must begin first. And meanwhile you go on banking. And if I didn't, someone else would. And I live on Mr. Milton's lotion, while I try to gain a footing in literature. Try, said Phipps, you have done so. And that's different, said Dangle at the same time. You were so kind to me, but in this matter, of course, Georgina Griffiths, in my book, lived alone in a flat in Paris and went to life classes and had men visitors, but then she was over twenty-one. Jessica is only eighteen and girlish for that, said Dangle. It alters everything, that child, it is different with a woman, and Georgina Griffiths never flaunted her freedom on a bicycle in country places, in this country, where everyone is so particular. Fancy sleeping away from home. It's dreadful. If it gets about, it spells ruin for her. Ruin, said Widery. No man would marry a girl like that, said Phipps. It must be hushed up, said Dangle. It always seems to me that life is made up of individuals, of individual cases. We must weigh each person against his or her circumstances. The general rules don't apply. I often feel the force of that, said Widery. Those are my rules, of course, my books. It's different altogether different, said Dangle. A novel deals with a typical case, and life is not so typical, said Widery, with immense profoundity. Then, suddenly, unintentionally, being himself, most surprised and shocked of any in the room, Phipps yawned. The failing was infectious, and the gathering having, as you can easily understand, talked itself weary, dispersed on trivial pretenses, but not to sleep immediately. Directly, Dangle was alone, he began, with infinite disgust, to scrutinize his darkling eyes, for he was a neat, minded little man in spite of his energy. The whole business, so near a capture, was horribly vexatious, and going back to Ferrum was certain to be disagreeable. Phipps sat on his bed for some time, examining with equal disgust a collar he would have thought incredible for Sunday twenty-four hours before. Miss Milton fell amusing on the mortality of even big, fat men with dog-like eyes, and Widery was unhappy because he had been so cross to her at the station, because so far he did not feel that he had scored over Dangle. Also, he was angry with Dangle, and all four of them, being souls living very much upon the appearance of things, had a painful, mental, middle distance of bodily, derisive, and suspicious, and a remoter background of London, humorous, and serbitant speculative. Were they really, after all, behaving absurdly? If they were not behaving absurdly, why was it they were also irritated and ashamed? O.R.G. Recording by Wally The Wheels of Chance by H.G. Wells Chapter 32 Mr. Hoop Driver, Night Arendt As Mr. Dangle had witnessed, the fugitives had been left by him by the side of the road about two miles from Botley. Before Mr. Dangle's appearance, Mr. Hoop Driver had been learning with great interest that mere roadside flowers had names, star flowers, wind stars, St. John's Swarth, Willow Herb, Lords and Ladies, Bachelor's Buttons, most curious names some of them. The flowers are all different in South Africa, you know. He was explaining, with a happy fluke of his imagination to account for his ignorance. Then suddenly, heralded by clattering sounds and a gird of wheels, Dangle had flared and thundered across the tranquillity of the summer evening. Dangle, swaying and gesticulating behind a corrimantic black horse, had hailed Jesse by her name, had backed towards the hedge for no ostensible reason, and vanished to the accomplishment of the fate that had been written down for him from the very beginning of things. Jesse and Hoop Driver had scarcely time to stand up and seize their machines, before this tumultuous, this swift and wonderful passing of Dangle was achieved. He went from side to side of the road, was even than the riding forth of Mr. Hoop Driver it was, and vanished round the corner. He knew my name, said Jesse. Yes, it was Mr. Dangle. That was a bicycle's did that, said Mr. Hoop Driver simultaneously, and speaking with a certain compulsive concern. I hope you won't get hurt. That was Mr. Dangle, repeated Jesse, and Mr. Hoop Driver hurt this time with a violent start. His eyebrows went up spasmodically. What, someone you know? Yes, Lord. He was looking for me, said Jesse. I could see. He began to call to me before the horse shied. My stepmother has sent him. Mr. Hoop Driver wished he had returned the bicycle after all. For his ideas were still a little hazy, about Beckhamill and Mrs. Milton. Honesty is the best policy, often, he thought. He turned his head this way and that. He became active. After us, huh? When he'll come back, he's gone down that hill, and he won't be able to pull up for a bit. I'm certain. Jesse, he saw, had wheeled the machine into the road and was mounting. Still staring at the corner that had swallowed up Dangle, Hoop Driver followed suit. And so, just as the sun was setting, they began another flight together, riding now towards Bishop's Waldham. With Mr. Hoop Driver in the post of danger, the rare, ever and again looking over his shoulder and swerving dangerously as he did so. Occasionally, Jesse had to slacken her pace. He breathed heavily and hated himself because his mouth fell open. After nearly an hour's hard riding, they found themselves uncaught at Winchester, not a trace of Dangle nor any other danger was visible as the road into the dusky yellow-lit street. Though the baths had been fluttering behind the hedges and the evening star was bright, while there were still two miles from Winchester, Mr. Hoop Driver pointed out the dangers of stopping in such an obvious abiding place and gently but firmly insisted upon replenishing the lamps and riding on towards Salisbury. From Winchester, roads branched in every direction, and to turn abruptly westward was clearly the way to throw off the chairs. As Hoop Driver saw the moon rising broad and yellow through the twilight, he thought he should revive the effect of that ride-out of Wagner. But somehow, albeit the moon and all atmospheric effects were the same, the emotions were different. They rode in absolute silence and slowly, after they had cleared the outskirts of Winchester. Both of them were now nearly tired out. The level was tedious and even a little hill burden, and so it came about in the hamlet of Valenstock. They were beguiled to stop and ask for accommodation in an exceptionally prosperous-licking village inn. A plausible landlady rose to the occasion. Now, as they passed into the room where their supples were prepared, Mr. Hoop Driver caught a glimpse through a door ajar and floating in a reek of smoke. Of three and a half faces, for the edge of the door cut one down, and an American clock covered table with several glasses and a tankard. And he also heard a remark. In a second before he heard that remark, Mr. Hoop Driver had been a proud and happy man, to particularize a baronet's hair incognito. He had surrendered the bicycles to the odd man of the place with infinite easy dignity, and had bowingly opened the door for Jesse. Who's that? Then he imagined people saying. And then someone pretty well off, judged by the bicycles. Then the imaginary spectators would fall a talking of the fashionableness by sighting, how judges and stockbrokers and actresses and, in fact, all the best people rode. And how that it was often the fancy of such great folk to shun the big hotels, the adulation of urban crowds, and the sake incognito, the chaotic quaintnessness of village life. Then maybe they would think of a certain nameless air of distinction about the lady who had stepped across the doorway, and about the handsome, flaxen mustached, blue-eyed cavalier who had followed her in, and they would look one to another, tell you what it is, one of the village elders would say, just as they do in novels, voicing the thought of all in a low impressive tone. There was such a thing as entertaining baronets on who wears, not to mention no higher things. Such, I say, had been the filmy, delightful stuff in Mr. Hoop Driver's head the moment before he heard that remark. But the remark toppled him headlong. What the precise remark was, need not concern us. It was a casual piece of such satire as Streffan Delightson. Should you be curious, dear lady, as to its nature, you have merely to dress yourself in a really modern cycling costume. Get one of the fee-blessed looking of your mentor's coat you, and ride out next Saturday evening to any public house where healthy, homely people gather together. Then you will hear quite a lot of the kind of thing Mr. Hoop Driver heard. More possibly than you will desire. The remark I must add implicated Mr. Hoop Driver. It indicated an entire disbelief in his social standing. At a blow it shattered all the gorgeous imaginative fabric his mind had been rejoicing in. All that foolish happiness vanished like a dream, and there was nothing to show for it, as there is nothing to show for any spiteful remark that has ever been made. Perhaps the man who said the thing had a gleam of satisfaction at the idea of taking a complacent-looking fool down a peg. But it is just as possible he did not know at that time that his stray shot had hit. He had thrown it as a boy throws a stone at a bird, and it not only demolished a foolish happy-concite, but it wounded. It touched Jesse Grossly. She did not hear it. He concluded from her subsequent bearing. But during the supper they had in a little private dining-room, though she talked carefully, he was preoccupied. Waves of indistinct conversation and now-and-then laughter came in from the impaler through the alargoniums in the open window. Hoop Driver felt it must all be in the same strain at her expense and his. He answered her abstractedly. She was tired. She said and presently went to her own. Mr. Hoop Driver, in his courtly way, opened the door for her and bowed her out. He stood listening and fearing some new offence as she went upstairs, and around the bend where the barometer hung beneath the stuffed birds. Ben, he went back to the room and stood on the hearth rug before the paper fireplace ornament. Cats, he said in a scathing undertone, as a fresh burst of laughter came floating in. All through supper he had been composing, stinking repartee, a blistering speech of denunciation to be presently delivered. He would rate them as a noble man should. Call themselves Englishmen? Indeed, and insult a woman, he would say. Take the names and addresses perhaps, threaten to speak to the Lord of the Manor, promise to let them hear from him again, and sow out with consternation in his wake. It really ought to be done. Teach them better, he said fiercely, and tweaked his moustache painfully. What was it? He revived the objectionable remark for his own exasperation, and then went over the head's office speech again. He coughed, made three steps towards the door, then stopped, and went back to the hearth rug. He wouldn't, after all. Yet was he not a knight errant? Should such men go unreproved, unchecked, by wandering baronets incognito? Magnanimity? Look at it in that way. Charles Manit once noticed? No, merely a cowardly subterfuge. He would, after all. Something within him protested that he was a hot-headed ass, even as he went towards the door again. But he only went on the more resolutely. He crossed the hall, by the bar, and entered the room from which the remark had proceeded. He opened the door abruptly, and stood scowling on them in the doorway. He'll only make a mess of it, remarked the internal skeptic. There were five men in the room altogether, a fat person with a long pipe and a great number of chins in an armchair by the fireplace. Who wished Mr. Hoopdrive a good evening very affably? A young fellow smoking a cutty and displaying crossed legs with gaiters. A little, bearded man with a toothless laugh, a medallaged, comfortable man with bright eyes, who wore a velvety jacket, and a fair young man, very gentle, in a yellowish-brown, ready-made suit, and a white tie. Hmm! said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking very stern and harsh. And then, in a forbidding tune, as one who consented to no liberties, good evening. Very pleasant, if you have been having, said the fair young man with the white tie. Very, said Mr. Hoopdriver, slowly, and taking a brown armchair, he planted it with great deliberation where he faced the fireplace inside town. Let's see, how did that speech begin? Very pleasant roads about here, said the fair young man with the white tie. Very, said Mr. Hoopdriver, eyeing him darkly, have to begin, somehow. The roads about here are all right, and the weather about here is all right. But what I have come in here to say is, there's some damned unpleasant people, damned unpleasant people. Oh! said the young man with the gaiters, apparently making a mental inventory of his pearl buttons as he spoke. How's that? Mr. Hoopdriver put his hands on his knees, and stuck out his elbows with extravangularity. In his heart he was raving at his idiotic folly, and thus bearding these lines. Indisputably, there were lines. But he had to go through with it now. Heaven sent his breath, which was already getting a truffle spasmodic, did not suddenly give out. He fixed his eye on the face of the fat man with the chins, and spoke in a low, impressive voice. I came here, sir, said Mr. Hoopdriver, and paused to inflate his cheeks with a lady. Very nice lady, said the man with the gaiters, putting his head on one side to admire a pearl button that had been hiding beneath the curvature of his calf. Very nice lady, indeed. I came here, said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a lady. We saw you did, bless you, said the fat man with the chins, in a curious, wheezy voice. I don't see there is anything so very extraordinary in that. One think we hadn't eyes. Mr. Hoopdriver coughed. I came here, sir. We have heard that, said the little man with the beard, sharply and went off into an amiable chuckle, annoyed by heart. Said the little man, elaborating the point. Mr. Hoopdriver temporarily lost his thread. He glared malignantly at the little man with the beard, and tried to recover his discourse. A pause. You were saying, said the fair young man with the white tie, speaking very politely, that you came here with a lady. A lady meditated the gaiter-gazer. The man in velveteen, who was looking from one speaker to another, with keen bright eyes, now laughed as though a point had been scored and stimulated Mr. Hoopdriver to speak. I fixing him with an expectant regard. Some dirty cad, said Mr. Hoopdriver, proceeding with his discourse, and suddenly growing extremely fierce, made a remark as we went by this door. Steady on, said the old man with many chins. Steady on. Don't you go on calling us names, please? One minute, said Mr. Hoopdriver. It wasn't I began calling names. Who did? said the man with the chins. I'm not calling any of you dirty cad. Don't run away with that impression. Only some person in this room made a remark that, sure, he wasn't fit to wipe boots on. And with all due difference to such gentleman as our gentleman, Mr. Hoopdriver looked around for moral support. I want to know which it was. Meaning? Said the fair young man in the white tie. That I'm going to wipe my boots on him straight away, said Mr. Hoopdriver, reverting to anger, if, with a slight catch in his throat, than which threat of personal violence, nothing had been further from his thoughts on entering the room. He said this because he could think of nothing else to say, and stuck out his elbows, traculately to hide the thinking of his heart. It is curious how situations run away with us. Hello, Charlie! Said the little man, and my eye, said the owner of the chins. You are going to wipe your boots on him? Said the fair young man in the tone of mild surprise. I am, said Mr. Hoopdriver, with emphatic resolution, and glad in the young man's face. That's fair and reasonable, said the man in the velveteen jacket. If you can. The interest of the meeting seemed transferred to the young man in the white tie. Of course, if you can't find out which it is, I suppose you are prepared to wipe your boots in a liberal way on everybody in the room? Said this young man in the same tone of impersonal question. This gentleman, the champion lightweight. Own up, Charlie! Said the young man with the gaiters, looking up for a moment. Don't go out dragging in your bettors. It's fair and square. You can't get out of it. Was it this jet? Began Mr. Hoopdriver. Of course, said the young man in the white tie, when it comes to talking of wiping boots. I am not talking. I am going to do it! Said Mr. Hoopdriver. He looked around at the meeting. There were no longer antagonists. There were spectators. He would have to go through with it now. But this tone of personal aggression on the maker of the remark had somehow got rid of the oppressive feeling of Hoopdriver contra-mandum. Apparently he would have to fight someone. Would he get a black eye? Would he get very much hurt? Pray goodness it wasn't that sturdy chap in the gaiters. Should he rise and begin? What would she think if he brought a black eye to breakfast tomorrow? Is this the man? Said Mr. Hoopdriver with a businesslike calm and arms more angular than ever. Eat him. Said the little man with the beard. Eat him straight off. Steady on. Said the young man in the white tie. Steady on a minute. If I did happen to say. You did, did you? Said Mr. Hoopdriver. Backing out of it, Charlie. Said the young man with the gaiters. Not a bit. Said Charlie. Charlie, we can pass a bit of a joke. I am going to teach you to keep your jokes to yourself. Said Mr. Hoopdriver. Very well. Said the shepherd of the flock of chins. Charlie is a bit too free with his jokes. Said the little man with the beard. It's downright disgusting. Said Hoopdriver. Falling back upon his speech. A lady can't ride a bicycle in the country road. A wear or dress a little out of the ordinary, but every dirty little greaser must needs go shouting insults. I didn't know the young lady would hear what I said. Said Charlie. Surely one can speak friendly to one's friends? How was I to know the door was open? Mr. Hoopdriver began to suspect that his antagonist was, if possible, more seriously alarmed at the prospect of violence on himself and his parrots rose again. These sherps ought to have a thorough lesson. Of course you knew the door was open. He retarded indignantly. Of course you thought we should hear what you said. Don't go telling lies about it. It's no good you're saying things like that. You have had your fun and you meant to have your fun. And I mean to make an example of you, sir. Ginger beer. Said the little man with the beard in a confidential tone to the velveteen jacket. He is regular up this hot weather, busting its bottles its everywhere. What's the good of scrapping about in a public house? Said Charlie appealing to the company. A fair fight without interruptions? Now I wouldn't mind if the gentlemen saw this post. Evidently the man was horribly afraid. Mr. Hoopdriver grew truculent. Where you like? Said Mr. Hoopdriver. Just wherever you like. You insulted the gent. Said the man in velveteen. Don't be a blooming funk, Charlie. Said the man in gaiters. Why, you got a stone of him? If you got an ounce? What I say is this. Said the gentleman with the excessive chins trying to get a hearing by banking his chair arms. If Charlie goes saying things, he ought to back them up. That's what I say. I don't mind his saying such things at all. But he ought to be prepared to back them up. I'll back them up all right. Said Charlie with extremely bitter emphasis on back. If the gentleman likes to come Tuesday week. Rut. Chapter Hoopdriver. Now. Here, here. Said the owner of the chins. Never put off till tomorrow, Charlie. What you can do today? Said the man in the velveteen coat. You got to do it, Charlie. Said the man in gaiters. It's no good. It's like this, said Charlie. Appealing to everyone except Hoopdriver. Here's me. Got to take in her ladyship's dinner tomorrow night. How should I go with a black eye? And going round with a carriage? With a split lip? If you don't want your face spoiled, Charlie, why don't you keep your mouth shut? Said the man in gaiters. Exactly. Said Mr. Hoopdriver driving it home with great fierceness. Why don't you shut your ugly mouth? It's as much as my situation's. What? Protested Charlie. You should have thought of that before. Said Mr. Hoopdriver. There's no occasion to be so thundering hot about it. I only meant the thing joking, said Charlie, as one gentleman to another. I'm very sorry if the gentleman's annoyed. Everybody began to speak at once. Mr. Hoopdriver twirled his misstache. He felt that Charlie's recognition of his gentleness was at any risk. The man in gaiters' gaiters. How should I go with a black eye? I've got to take in her ladyship. I've got to take in her ladyship. I've got to take in her ladyship. I've got to take in her ladyship. His kindness was at any rate a redeeming feature. But it became his cause to ride hard and heavy over the routed to sea. He shouted some insulting phrase over the tumult. He shouted some insulting phrase over the tumult. You're the regular abject. The man in gaiters was saying to Charlie. More confusion. He shouted to Charlie. Only don't think I'm afraid. Not of a spent leg cuffs like him. Shout at Charlie. Because I ain't. Change of front. That whom-driver a little startled, where are we going? Don't sit there and be abusive," said the man in velveteen. He offered to hit you, and if I was him, I would hit you now. All right, then," said Charlie, with a sudden change of front, and springing to his feet. If I must, I must. Now then. At that whom-driver the child of fate rose to, with a horrible sense that his internal monitor was right. Things had taken a turn. He had made a mess of it, and now there was nothing for it as far as he could see, but to hit the man at once. He and Charlie stood six feet apart with a table between both very breathless and fierce. A valgo fight in a public house, and, with what was only two-probably a footman, got heavens. And this was the dignified, scornful remonstrance? How did yous had it all happened? Go round the table at him, I suppose. But before the brawl could achieve itself, the man-engaters intervened. Not here, he said, stepping between the antagonists. Charlie's artful said the little man with the beard. Buller's yard said the man with the gaiters, taking the control of the entire affair with the easy readiness of an accomplished practitioner. If the gentleman don't mind, Buller's yard, it seemed, was the very place. We'll do the thing regular and decent, if you please. Then before he completely realized what was happening, Hope Driver was being marched out through the back premises of the inn to the first and only fight with fists that was ever to glorify his life. Outwardly so far as the intermittent moonlight showed, Mr. Hope Driver was quietly but eagerly preparing to fight. But inwardly he was a chaos of conflicting purposes. It was extraordinary how things happened. One remark had trod so closely on the heels of another, that he had had the greatest difficulty in following the development of the business. He distinctly remembered himself walking across from one room to the other, a dignified even an aristocratic figure, framed with considered eloquence, intent upon a scathing remonstrance to these wretched yokels regarding their manners. Then incident had flickered into incident until here he was, out in a moonlit lane, a slight dark figure in a group of larger, indistinct figures marching in a quite business-like way toward some unknown horror at Boulas Yad's. Fists! It was astonishing. It was terrible. In front of him was the pallid figure of Charles, and he saw that the man-engaters held Charles kindly but firmly by the arm. Fists blasted rot, Charles was saying, getting up a fight just for a thing like that? All very well for him, he's got his holidays, he has a no-blessed dinner to take up tomorrow night like I have, no need to throw my arm, is there? They went into Boulas Yad through the gates. There were sheds in Boulas Yad, sheds of mystery that moonlight could not solve, a smell of cows, and a pump stood out clear and black, throwing a clear black shadow on the white-washed wall, and here it was his face was to be battered to a pulp. He knew this was the uttermost folly to stand up here and be pounded, but the way out of it was beyond his imagining. Yet afterwards, could he ever face her again? He patted his Norflock jacket and took his ground with his back to the gate. How did one square, so? Suppose one were to turn and run even now, run straight back to the inn and lock himself into his bedroom, they couldn't make him come out anyhow, he could prosecute them for a salt if they did. How did one sit about prosecuting for salt? He saw Charles with his face ghastly white unto the moon, squaring in front of him. He got a blow on the arm and gave ground, Charles pressed him, then he hit with his right and with the violence of despair, it was a hit of his own devising, an impromptu, but a chance to coincide with the regulation hook hit at the head. He perceived with a leap of exaltation that the thing his fist had met was the jarbone of Charles. It was the sole gleam of pleasure he experienced during the fight, and it was quite momentary. He had hardly got home upon Charles before he was struck in the chest and whirled backward. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping his feet. He felt that his heart was smashed flat, got dumb, said somebody, dancing toe in hand somewhere behind him. As Mr. Hoop Driver staggered, Charles gave a loud and fear-compelling cry. He seemed to tower over Hoop Driver in the moonlight, both his fists were whirling. It was annihilation coming, no less. Mr. Hoop Driver ducked, perhaps, and certainly gave ground to the right, hit and missed. Charles swept round to the left, missing generously. A blow glanced over Mr. Hoop Driver's left ear, and the flanking movement was completed. Another blow behind the ear. Heaven and earth spun furiously round Mr. Hoop Driver, and then he became aware of a figure in a light suit, shooting violently through an open gate into the night. A man in gator sprang forward past Mr. Hoop Driver, but too late to intercept the fugitive. There were shouts, laughter, and Mr. Hoop Driver, still solemnly squaring, realized the great and wonderful truth. Charles had fled. He Hoop Driver had fought, and by all the rules of war had won. That was a pretty cut, under the joy you gave him. The toothless little man with a beard was remarking, in an unexpectedly friendly manner. The fact of it is, said Mr. Hoop Driver, sitting beside the road to Salisbury, and with the sound of distant church bells in his ears, I had to give the fellow a lesson, simply had to. It seems so dreadful that you should have to knock people about, said Jesse. These louts get unbearable, said Mr. Hoop Driver, if no one then didn't give them a lesson. Well, a lady cyclist in the roads would be an impossibility. I suppose every woman shrinks from violence, said Jesse. I suppose men are braver, in a way, than women. It seems to me, I can't imagine, how one could bring oneself to face a room full of rough characters, pick out the bravest, and give him an exemplary thrashing. I quelled the idea. I thought only queers, guardsmen did things like that. It was nothing more than my duty, as a gentleman, said Mr. Hoop Driver, but to walk straight into the face of danger. Its habit, said Mr. Hoop Driver, quite modestly, flaking off a particle of cigarette ash that had settled on his knee. End of section 12. Chapter 33 The Abasement of Mr. Hoop Driver On Monday morning the two fugitives found themselves breakfasting at the Golden Pheasant in Blandford. They were in the course of an elaborate doubling movement through Dorseture towards Ringwood, where Jesse anticipated an answer from her schoolmistress friend. By this time they had been nearly sixty hours together, and you will understand that Mr. Hoop Driver's feelings had undergone a considerable intensification and development. At first Jesse had been only an impressionist sketch upon his mind, something feminine, active and dazzling, something emphatically above him, cast into his company by a kindly fate. His chief idea at the outset, as you know, had been to live up to her level by pretending to be more exceptional, more wealthy, better educated, and above all better born than he was. His knowledge of the feminine mind was almost entirely derived from the young ladies he had met in business, and in that class, as in military society and among gentlemen servants, the good old tradition of a brutal social exclusiveness is still religiously preserved. He had an almost intolerable dread of her thinking him a bounder. Later he began to perceive the distinction of her idiosyncrasies. Coupled with a magnificent want of experience was a splendid enthusiasm for abstract views of the most advanced description, and her strength of conviction completely carried Hoop Driver away. She was going to live her own life with emphasis, and Mr. Hoop Driver was profoundly stirred to similar resolves. So soon as he grasped the tenor of her views, he perceived that he himself had thought as much from his earliest years. Of course he remarked in a flash of sexual pride, a man is freer than a woman, and the colonies, you know, there isn't half the conventionality you find in society in this country. He made one or two essays in the display of unconventionality, and was quite unaware that he impressed her as a narrow-minded person. He suppressed the habits of years, and made no proposal to go to church. He discussed church going in a liberal spirit. It's just a habit, he said, just a custom. I don't see what good it does you at all, really, and he made a lot of excellent jokes at the chimney-pot hat, jokes he had read in the Globe turnovers on that subject. But he showed his gentle breeding by keeping his gloves on all through the Sunday's ride, and ostentatiously throwing away more than half a cigarette when they passed to church his congregation was gathering for afternoon service. He cautiously avoided literary topics except by way of compliment, seeing that she was presently to be writing books. It was on Jesse's initiative that they attended service in the old-fashioned gallery of Blandford Church. Jesse's conscience, I may perhaps tell you, was now suffering the severest twinges. She perceived clearly that things were not working out quite along the lines she had designed. She had read her Olive Shreiner and George Edgerton and so forth with all the want of perfect comprehension of one who is still emotionally a girl. She knew the thing to do was to have a flat and to go to the British Museum and write leading articles for the daily papers until something better came along. Jeff Bechamel, detestable person, had kept his promises instead of behaving with unspeakable horridness, all would have been well. Now her only hope was that liberal-minded woman, Miss Murgle, who a year ago had sent her out highly educated into the world. Miss Murgle had told her at parting to live fearlessly and truly, and had further given her a volume of Emerson's essays and Motley's Dutch Republic to help her through the rapids of adolescence. These feelings for her stepmother's household at Serbaton amounted to an active detestation. There are no graver or more solemn women in the world than these clever girls whose scholastic achievement has retarded their feminine coquettery. In spite of the advanced tone of Thomas Plantagenet's anti-marital novel, Jesse had speedily seen through that amiable woman's amiable defenses. The variety of pose necessitated by the core of men annoyed her to an altogether unreasonable degree. To return to this life of ridiculous unreality, unconditional capitulation to conventionality was an exasperating prospect. Yet what else was there to do? You will understand, therefore, that at times she was moody, and Mr. Hoop driver respectfully silent and attentive, and at times inclined to eloquent denunciation of the existing order of things. She was a socialist Hoop driver, Lernt, and he gave a vague intimation that he went further, intending thereby no less than the horrors of anarchism. He would have owned up to the destruction of the Winter Palace indeed had he had the faintest idea of where the Winter Palace was, and had his assurance amounted to certainty that the Winter Palace was destroyed. He agreed with her cordially that the position of women was intolerable, but checked himself on the verge of the proposition that a girl ought not to expect a fellow to hand down boxes for her when he was getting the swap from a customer. It was Jesse's preoccupation with her own perplexities, no doubt, that delayed the unveiling of Mr. Hoop driver all through Saturday and Sunday. Once or twice, however, there were incidents that put him about terribly, even questions that savored of suspicion. On Sunday night for no conceivable reason an unwanted wakefulness came upon him. Unaccountably he realized he was a contemptible liar. All through the small hours of Monday he reviewed the tale of his falsehoods, and when he tried to turn his mind from that the financial problem suddenly rose upon him. He heard two o'clock strike, and three. It is odd how unhappy some of us are at times when we are at our happiest. CHAPTER XXXIV Good morning, Madam, said Hoop driver, as Jesse came into the breakfast-room of the golden pheasant on Monday morning, and he smiled, bowed, rubbed his hands together, and pulled out a chair for her, and rubbed his hands again. She stopped abruptly, with a puzzled expression on her face. Where have I seen that before, she said? The chair, said Hoop driver, flushing. No, the attitude. She came forward and shook hands with him, looking the while curiously into his face. And, Madam? It's a habit, said Mr. Hoop driver guiltily, a bad habit, calling ladies, Madam. You must put it down to our colonial roughness. Out there up country, you know. The ladies, so rare, we call them all, Madam. You have some funny habits, brother Chris, said Jesse. Before you sell your diamond shares and go into society, as you say, and stand for parliament, what a fine thing it is to be a man. You must cure yourself, that habit of bowing as you do, and rubbing your hands and looking expectant. It's a habit. I know, but I don't think of the good one. You don't mind my telling you. Not a bit, I'm grateful. I'm blessed or afflicted, with a trick of observation, said Jesse, looking at the breakfast table. Mr. Hoop driver put his hand to his moustache, and then thinking this might be another habit, checked his arm, and stuck his hand into his pocket. He felt juiced awkward to use his private formula. Jesse's eye wandered to the armchair, where a piece of binding was loose, and possibly to carry out her theory of an observant disposition, she turned and asked him for a pin. Mr. Hoop driver's hand flittered instinctively to his lapel, and there, planted by habit, were a couple of stray pins he had impounded. What an odd place to put pins, exclaimed Jesse, taking it. It's Andy, said Mr. Hoop driver. I saw a chap in a shop do it once. You must have a careful disposition, she said, over her shoulder, kneeling down to the chair. And the center of Africa, up country, that is. One learns to value pins, said Mr. Hoop driver, after a perceptible pause. There weren't over many pins in Africa. They don't lie about on the ground there. His face was now in a fine red glow. Where would the draper break out next? He thrust his hands into his coat-pockets, then took one out again, furtively removed the second pin, and dropped it behind him gently. It fell with a loud ping on the fender. Happily she made no remark being preoccupied with the binding of the chair. Mr. Hoop driver, instead of sitting down, went up to the table and stood against it with his fingertips upon the cloth. They were keeping breakfast a tremendous time. He took up his rolled serviette, looked closely and scrutinizingly at the ring, and put his hand under the fold of the napkin and examined the texture, and put the thing down again. Then he had a vague impulse to finger his hollow wisdom tooth, happily checked. He suddenly discovered he was standing as if the table was a counter, and sat down forthwith. He drummed with his hand on the table. He felt dreadfully hot and self-conscious. Breakfast is late, said Jesse, standing up. Isn't it? Conversation was slack. Jesse wanted to know the distance to Ringwood. Then silence fell again. Mr. Hoop driver, very uncomfortable and studying and easy-bearing, looked again at the breakfast-things, and then idly lifted the corner of the tablecloth on the ends of his fingers, and regarded it. Fifteen-three, he thought privately. Why do you do that? said Jesse. What? said Hoop driver, dropping the tablecloth convulsively. Look at the cloth like that. I saw you do it yesterday, too. Mr. Hoop driver's face became quite a bright red. He began pulling his mustache nervously. I know, he said. I know. It's a queer habit, I know. But out there, you know, there's native servants, you know. And it's a queer thing to talk about, but one has to look at things to see, don't you know, whether they're quite clean or not. It's got to be a habit. How odd, said Jesse. Isn't it? mumbled Hoop driver. If I were a Sherlock Holmes, said Jesse, I suppose I could have told you were a colonial from little things like that. But anyhow I guessed it, didn't I? Yes, said Hoop driver, in a melancholy tone. You guessed it. Why not seize the opportunity for a neat confession, and add, unhappily in this case you guessed wrong? Did she suspect? Then at the psychological moment, the girl bumped the door open with her tray and brought in the coffee and scrambled eggs. I am rather lucky with my intuition, sometimes, said Jesse. Remorse that had been accumulating in his mind for two days surged to the top of his mind. What a shabby liar he was. And besides, he must sooner or later, inevitably, give himself away. Chapter thirty-five. Mr. Hoop driver helped the eggs, and then instead of beginning, sat with his cheek on his hand, watching Jesse pour out the coffee. His ears were a bright red, and his eyes bright. He took his coffee-cup clumsily, cleared his throat, suddenly leaned back in his chair, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. I'll do it, he said aloud. Do what, said Jesse, looking up in surprise over the coffee-pot. She was just beginning her scrambled egg. Own up. Own what? Miss Milton, I'm a liar. He put his head on one side and regarded her with a frown of tremendous resolution. Then in measured accents, and moving his head slowly from side to side, he announced, I am a draper. You're a draper? I thought, you thought wrong. But it's bound to come up, hens, attitude, habits. It's plain enough. I'm a draper's assistant let out for a 10 days holiday. Just a draper's assistant. Not much, is it? A counter-jumper. A draper's assistant is in a position to be ashamed of, she said, recovering, and not quite understanding yet what all this meant. Yes it is, he said, for a man in this country now, to be just another man's hand as I am, to have to wear what clothes you are told, and go to church to please customers, and work. There's no other kind of men stand such hours. A drunken bricklayer's a king to it. But why are you telling me this now? It's important you should know it once. But Mr. Benson, that isn't all. If you don't mind my speaking about myself a bit, there's a few things I'd like to tell you. I can't go on deceiving you. My name's not Benson. Why I told you Benson, I don't know. Except that I'm a kind of fool. Well, I wanted somehow to seem more than I was. My name's Hoop Driver, yes. And that about South Africa, and that lion. Well, lies. Lies? And the discovery of diamonds on the ostrich farm lies too. And all the reminiscences of the giraffes lies too. I never wrote on no giraffes. I'd be afraid. He looked at her with a kind of sullen satisfaction. He had eased his conscience anyhow. She regarded him in infinite perplexity. This was a new side altogether to the man. But why, she began? Why did I tell you such things? I don't know. Silly sort of chap, I expect. I suppose I wanted to impress you. But somehow now I want you to know the truth. Silence. Breakfast untouched. I thought I'd tell you, said Mr. Hoop Driver. I suppose it's snobbishness and all that kind of thing, as much as anything. I lay awake pretty near all last night thinking about myself, thinking what a got-up imitation of a man I was and all that. And you haven't any diamond-shares, and you're not going into Parliament, and you're not all lies, said Hoop Driver, in a sepulchral voice. Lies from beginning to end. How I came to tell him? I don't know. She stared at him blankly. I never said eyes on Africa in my life, said Mr. Hoop Driver, completing the confession. Then he pulled his right hand from his pocket. And with a nonchalance of one to whom the bitterness of death is past, began to drink his coffee. It's a little surprising, began Jesse vaguely. Think it over, said Mr. Hoop Driver. I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart. And then breakfast proceeded in silence. Jesse ate very little, and seemed lost in thought. Mr. Hoop Driver was so overcome by contrition and anxiety that he consumed an extraordinarily large breakfast out of pure nervousness. And he ate his scrambled eggs, for the most part, with the spoon that belonged properly to the marmalade. His eyes were gloomily downcast. She glanced at him through her eyelashes. Once or twice she struggled with laughter. Once or twice she seemed to be indignant. I don't know what to think, she said at last. I don't know what to make of you, Brother Chris. I thought, do you know, that you were perfectly honest. And somehow, well, I think so still. Honest with all those lies? I wonder. I don't, said Mr. Hoop Driver. I'm fair ashamed of myself. But anyhow I've stopped deceiving you. I thought, said the young lady in gray, that story of the lion. Lord, said Mr. Hoop Driver, don't remind me of that. I thought, somehow I felt, that the things you said didn't ring quite true. She suddenly broke out in laughter at the expression of his face. Of course you are honest, she said. How could I ever doubt it? As if I had never pretended. I see it all now. Abruptly she rose and extended her hand across the breakfast things. He looked at her doubtfully and saw the dancing friendliness in her eyes. He scarcely understood it first. He rose, holding the marmalade spoon, and took her proffered hand with abject humility. Lord, he broke out, if you aren't enough. But there. I see it all now. A brilliant inspiration had suddenly obscured her humour. She sat down suddenly, and he sat down too. You did it, she said, because you wanted to help me. And you thought I was too conventional to take help from one I might think my social inferior. That was partly it, said Mr. Hoop-driver. How you misunderstood me, she said. You don't mind? It was noble of you. But I am sorry, she said, you should think me likely to be ashamed of you because you follow a decent trade. I didn't know at first, you see, said Mr. Hoop-driver. And he submitted meekly to a restoration of his self-respect. He was as useful a citizen as could be. It was proposed and carried. When his lying was of the noblest. And so the breakfast concluded much more happily than his brightest expectation, and they rode out of ready little Blandford, as though no shadow of any sort had come between them. CHAPTER XXXVI As they were sitting by the roadside among the pine trees, halfway up a stretch of hill between Wimborn and Ringwood, however, Mr. Hoop-driver reopened the question of his worldly position. You think, he began abruptly removing a meditative cigarette from his mouth, that a draper's shopman is a decent citizen? Why not? When he puts people off with what they don't quite want, for instance, need he do that? Salesmanship, said Hoop-driver, wouldn't get a crib if he didn't. It's no good you're arguing. It's not a particularly honest nor a particularly useful trade. It's not very high up. There's no freedom and no leisure. Seven to eight-thirty every day in the week don't leave much edge to live on, does it? Real workmen laugh at us, and educated chaps like bank clerks and solicitor's clerks look down on us. You look respectable outside, and inside you are packed in dormitories like convicts, fed on bread and butter and bullied like slaves. You're just superior enough to feel that you're not superior. Without capital there's no prospects. One draper in a hundred don't even earn enough to marry on, and if he does marry his G.V. can just use him to black boots if he likes, and he dare not put his back up. That's drapery, and you tell me to be contented? Would you be contented if you was a shop-girl? She did not answer. She looked at him with distress in her brown eyes, and he remained gloomily in possession of the field. Presently he spoke. I've been thinking, he said, and stopped. She turned her face, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. There was a light in her eyes that made the expression of them tender. Mr. Hoop-driver had not looked in her face when he had talked. He had regarded the grass, and pointed his remarks with red-knuckled hands held open and palms upward. Now they hung limply over his knees. Well, she said. I was thinking it this morning, said Mr. Hoop-driver. Yes? Of course it's silly. Well? It's like this. I'm twenty-three about. I had my schooling all right to fifteen, say. Well that leaves me eight years behind. Is it too late? I wasn't so backward. I did algebra, and Latin up to auxiliary verbs, and French genders. I got a kind of grounding. And now you mean, should you go on working? Yes, said Mr. Hoop-driver. That's it. You can't do much at drapery without capital, you know. But if I could get really educated, I've thought sometimes. Why not? said the young lady in gray. Mr. Hoop-driver was surprised to see it in that light. You think? He said. Of course. You are a man. You are free, she warmed. I wish I were you to have the chance of that struggle. Am I man enough? said Mr. Hoop-driver aloud, but addressing himself. There's that eight years, he said to her. You can make it up. What you call educated men, they're not going on. You can catch them. They are quite satisfied, playing golf, and thinking of clever things to say to women like my stepmother, and dining out. You're in front of them already in one thing. They think they know everything. You don't. And they know such little things. Lord, said Mr. Hoop-driver, how you encourage a fellow. If I could only help you, she said, and left an eloquent hiatus. He became pensive again. It's pretty evident you don't think much of a draper, he said abruptly. Another interval. Hundreds of men, she said, have come from the very lowest ranks of life. There was Burns, a plowman, and Hugh Miller, a stone mason, and plenty of others. Hodsley was a footman. But drapers were too sort of shabby gin teal to rise. Our coats and cuffs might get crumpled. Wasn't there a Clark who wrote theology? He was a draper. There was one started a sewing cotton, the only one I ever heard tell of. Have you ever read Hearts Insurgent? Never said Mr. Hoop-driver. He did not wait for her context, but suddenly broke out with an account of his literary requirements. The fact is I've read Precious Little. One don't get much of a chance situated as I am. We have a library at business, and I've gone through that. Most B-Sant I've read, and a lot of Mrs. Braddon's, and Ryder Haggard, and Marie Corelli, and, well, and Ouida or so. They're good stories, of course, and first-class writers. But they didn't seem to have much to do with me. But there's heaps of books one here has talked about I haven't read. Don't you read any other books but novels? Scarcely ever one gets tired after business, and you can't get the books. I have been to some extension lectures, of course, Elizabethan dramatist that was, but it seemed a little high-flown, you know. And I went and did wood carving at the same place. But it didn't seem leading nowhere, and I cut my thumb and checked it. He made a depressing spectacle with his face anxious and his hands limp. It makes me sick, he said. To think how I've been fooled with, my old schoolmaster ought to have a juiced hiding. He's a thief. He pretended to undertake to make a man of me, and he stole twenty-three years of my life, filled me up with scraps and sweepings. Here I am, I don't know anything, and I can't do anything, and the learning time is over. Is it, she said? But he did not seem to hear her. My old people didn't know any better, and went and paid thirty pounds premium. Thirty pounds down to have me made this. The G.V. promised to teach me the trade, and he never taught me anything but to be a hand. It's the way they do with draper's apprentices. If every swindler was locked up, well, you'd have nowhere to buy tape and cotton. It's all very well to bring up burns in those chaps, but I'm not that make. Yet I'm not such a muck that I might not have been better with teaching. I wonder what the chaps who sneer and laugh at such as me would be if they'd been fooled about as I've been. At twenty-three, it's a long start. He looked up with a wintry smile, a sadder and wiser hoop-driver indeed than him of the glorious imaginings. It's you done this, he said. You're real. And it sets me thinking what I really am, and what I might have been. Suppose it was all different. Make it different. How? Work. Stop playing at life. Face it like a man. Ah! said hoop-driver, glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. And even then, no, it's not much good. I'm beginning too late. And there, in blankly thoughtful silence, that conversation ended. At Ringwood they lunched, and Jesse met with a disappointment. There was no letter for her at the post office. At the hotel, the checkered career, was a machine shop with a conspicuously second-hand Marlboro Club tandem tricycle displayed in the window, together with the announcement that bicycles and tricycles were on hire within. The establishment was impressed on Mr. Hoop-driver's mind by the proprietor's action in coming across the road and narrowly inspecting their machines. His action revived a number of disagreeable impressions, but happily came to nothing. While they were still lunching, a tall clergyman with a heated face entered the room and sat down at the table next to theirs. He was in a kind of holiday costume. That is to say, he had a more than usually high collar, fastened behind and rather the worse for the weather, and his long tailcoat had been replaced by a black jacket of quite remarkable brevity. He had faded brown shoes on his feet. His trouser legs were gray with dust, and he wore a hat, a piebald straw, in the place of the customary soft felt. He was evidently socially inclined. A most charming day, sir, he said with a ringing tenor. Charming, said Mr. Hoop-driver, over a portion of pie. You are, I perceive, cycling through this delightful country, said the clergyman. Touring, explained Mr. Hoop-driver, I could imagine that with a properly oiled machine there could be no easier nor pleasanter way of seeing the country. No, said Mr. Hoop-driver, it is in half a bad way of getting about. For a young and newly married couple, a tandem bicycle must be, I should imagine, a delightful bond. Quite so, said Mr. Hoop-driver, reddening a little. Do you ride a tandem? No, we are separate, said Mr. Hoop-driver. The motion through the air is indisputably of a very exhilarating description. With that decision, the clergyman turned to give his orders to the attendant in a firm, authoritative voice, for a cup of tea, two gelatin lozenges, bread and butter, salad, and pie to follow. The gelatin lozenges I must have, I require them to precipitate the tannin in my tea, he remarked to the room at large, and folding his hands remained for some time with his chin thereon, staring fixedly at a little picture of over Mr. Hoop-driver's head. I myself am a cyclist, said the clergyman, descending subtly upon Mr. Hoop-driver. Indeed, said Mr. Hoop-driver, attacking the mustache. What machine may I ask? I have recently become possessed of a tricycle. A bicycle is, I regret to say, considered to, how shall I put it, flippant, by my parishioners. So I have a tricycle. I have just been hauling it hither. Hauling, said Jesse, surprised, with a shoelace, and partly carrying it on my back. The pause was unexpected. Jesse had some trouble with the crumb. Mr. Hoop-driver's face passed through several phases of surprise. Then he saw the explanation. Had an accident? I can hardly call it an accident. The wheels suddenly refused to go round. I found myself about five miles from here with an absolutely immobile machine. Ow, said Mr. Hoop-driver, trying to seem intelligent, and Jesse glanced at this insane person. It appears, said the clergyman, satisfied with the effect he had created, that my man carefully washed out the bearings with paraffin and let the machine dry without oiling it again. The consequence was that they became heated to a considerable temperature and jammed. Even at the outset the machine ran stiffly as well as noisily, and I, being inclined to ascribe this stiffness to my own lassitude, merely redoubled my exertions. Hot work all around, said Mr. Hoop-driver. You could scarcely put it more appropriately. It is my rule of life to do whatever I find to do with all my might. I believe, indeed, that the bearings became red-hot, finally one of the wheels jammed together, a sidewheel it was, so that its stoppage necessitated an inversion of the entire apparatus, an inversion in which I participated. Meaning, that you went over, said Mr. Hoop-driver, suddenly much amused. Precisely. And not bricking my defeat, I suffered repeatedly. You may understand, perhaps, a natural impatience. I expostulated, playfully, of course. Happily the road was not overlooked. Finally, the entire apparatus became rigid, and I abandoned the unequal contest. For all practical purposes, the tricycle was no better than a heavy chair without casters. It was a case of hauling or carrying. The clergyman's nutriment appeared at the doorway. Five miles, said the clergyman, he began at once to eat bread and butter vigorously. Happily, he said, I am a eupeptic, energetic sort of person, on principle. I would all men were likewise. It's the best way, agreed Mr. Hoop-driver, and the conversation gave precedence to bread and butter. Gelatin, said the clergyman presently, stirring his tea thoughtfully, precipitates the tannin in one's tea and renders it easy of digestion. That's a useful sort of thing to know, said Mr. Hoop-driver. You are all together welcome, said the clergyman, biting generously at two pieces of bread and butter folded together. In the afternoon, our two wanderers rode on at an easy pace towards Stony Cross. The conversation languished, the topic of South Africa being in abeyance. Mr. Hoop-driver was silenced by disagreeable thoughts. He had changed the last sovereign at Ringwood. The fact had come upon him suddenly. Now, too late, he was reflecting upon his resources. There was twenty pounds or more in the Post Office, Savings Bank in Putney, but his book was locked up in his box at the Entrabus Establishment. Else this infatuated man would certainly have surreptitiously withdrawn the entire sum in order to prolong these journeys, even for a few days. As it was, the shadow of the end fell across his happiness. Strangely enough, in spite of his anxiety and the morning's collapse, he was still in a curious emotional state that was certainly not misery. He was forgetting his imaginings and posings, forgetting himself altogether in his growing appreciation of his companion. The most tangible trouble in his mind was the necessity of breaking the matter to her. A long stretch uphill tired them long before Stony Cross was reached, and they dismounted and sat under the shade of a little oak tree. Near the crest, the road looped on itself so that, looking back, it sloped below them up to the right and then came towards them. About them grew a rich heather with stunted oaks on the edge of a deep ditch along the roadside. And this road was sandy. Below the steepness of the hill, however, it was gray and barred with shadows, for there the trees clustered thick and tall. Mr. Hoopdriver fumbled clumsily with his cigarettes. There's a thing I got to tell you, he said, trying to be perfectly calm. Yes, she said. I'd like to just discuss your plans a bit, you know? I'm very unsettled, said Jesse. You are thinking of writing books? Or doing journalism, or teaching, or something like that? And keeping yourself independent of your stepmother? Yes. How long did it take now to get anything of that sort to do? I don't know at all. I believe there are great many women journalists and sanitary inspectors and black and white artists, but I suppose it takes time. Women, you know, edit most papers nowadays, George Edgerton says. I ought, I suppose, to communicate with a literary agent. Of course, said Hoopdriver. It's very suitable work, not being heavy like the drapery. There's heavy brain labor, you must remember. That wouldn't hurt you, said Mr. Hoopdriver, turning a compliment. It's like this, he said, ending a pause. It's a juiced nuisance alluding to these matters, but we got very little more money. He perceived that Jesse started, though he did not look at her. I was counting, of course, on your friend's writing and your being able to take some action today. Take some action was a phrase he had learned at his last swap. Money, said Jesse. I didn't think of money. Hello, there's a tandem bicycle, said Mr. Hoopdriver abruptly and pointing with his cigarette. She looked and saw two little figures emerging from among the trees at the foot of the slope. The drivers were bowed sternly over their work and made a gallant but unsuccessful attempt to take the rise. The machine was evidently too highly geared for hill climbing and presently the rearmost rider rose on his saddle and hopped off, leaving his companion to any fate he found proper. The foremost rider was a man unused to such machines and apparently undecided how to dismount. He wobbled a few yards up the hill with a long tail of machine wobbling behind him. Finally, he made an attempt to jump off as one does off a single bicycle, hit his boot against the backbone and collapsed heavily, falling on his shoulder. She stood up, dear me, she said, I hope he isn't hurt. The second rider went to the assistance of the fallen man. Hoopdriver stood up too. The lank shaky machine was lifted up and wheeled out of the way and then the fallen rider, being assisted, got up slowly and stood rubbing his arm. No serious injuries seemed to be done to the man and the couple presently turned their attention to the machine by the roadside. They were not in cycling clothes, Hoopdriver observed. One wore the grotesque raiment for which the cockney discovery of the game of golf seems indirectly blamable. Even at this distance, the flopping flatness of his cap, the bright brown leather at the top of his calves and the checkering of his stockings were perceptible. The other, the rear rider, was a slender little man in gray. Amateurs, said Mr. Hoopdriver, Jesse stood staring and a veil of thought dropped over her eyes. And she no longer regarded the two men who are now tinkering at the machine down below there. How much have you? she said. He thrust his right hand into his pocket and produced six coins, counted them with his left index finger and held them out to her. 13, four half, said Mr. Hoopdriver, every penny. I have half a sovereign, she said. Our bill wherever we stop, hiatus was more eloquent than many words. I never thought of money coming in to stop us like this, said Jesse. It's a nuisance. Money, said Jesse. Is it possible, surely, conventionality? May only people of means live their own lives? I never thought, pause. Here's some more cyclists coming, said Mr. Hoopdriver. The two men were both busy with their bicycle still, but now from among the trees emerged the massive bulk of a Marlboro Club tandem ridden by a slender woman in gray and a burly man in a Norfolk jacket. Following close upon this came blank black figure in a piebald straw hat, riding a tricycle of antiquated pattern with two large wheels in front. The man in gray remained bowed over the bicycle with his stomach resting on the saddle, but his companion stood up and addressed some remark to the tricycle riders. Then it seemed as if he pointed uphill to where Mr. Hoopdriver and his companion stood side by side. A still-odder thing followed. The lady in gray took out her handkerchief, appeared to wave it for a moment, and then, at a hasty motion from her companion, the white signal vanished. Surely, said Jesse, peering over her head, it's never. The tandem tricycle began to ascend the hill, quartering elaborately from side to side to ease the ascent. It was evident from his heavy shoulders and depressed head that the burly gentleman was exerting himself. The clerical person on the tricycle assumed the shape of a note of interrogation. Then, on the heels of this procession, came a dog cart being driven by a man in a billycock hat and containing a lady in dark green. "'Looks like some sort of excursion,' said a Hoopdriver. "'Jesse did not answer. "'She was still peering under her hand.' "'Surely,' she said. "'The clergyman's efforts were becoming convulsive. "'With a curious jerking motion, "'the tricycle he rode twisted round upon itself "'and he partly dismounted and partly fell off. "'He turned his machine uphill again immediately "'and began to wheel it. "'Then the burly gentleman dismounted "'and with a curtly attentiveness "'assisted the lady in gray to a light. "'There were some little differences of opinion "'as to assistance. "'She so cleverly wished to help push.' "'Finally, she gave in and the burly gentleman "'began impelling the machine uphill "'by his own unaided strength. "'His face made a dot of brilliant color "'among the grays and greens at the foot of the hill. "'The tandem bicycle was now, it seems, repaired, "'and this joined the tail of the procession, "'its riders walking behind the dog cart "'from which the lady in green "'and the driver had now descended.' "'Mr. Hoopdriver,' said Jesse, "'those people. "'I'm almost sure.' "'Lord,' said Mr. Hoopdriver, "'reading the rest in her face "'and he turned to pick up his machine at once. "'Then he dropped it and assisted her to mount. "'At the site of Jesse mounting against the skyline, "'the people coming up the hill suddenly became excited, "'and then did Jesse's doubts at once. "'Two handkerchiefs waved and someone shouted. "'The riders of the tandem bicycle began to run it uphill, "'past the other vehicles. "'But our young people did not wait "'for your further developments of the pursuit. "'In another moment, they were out of sight, "'riding hard down a steady incline toward Stony Cross.' "'Before they had dropped among the trees "'out of sight of the hill-brow, "'Jesse looked back and saw the tandem rising over the crest, "'with his rear rider just tumbling into the saddle. "'They're coming,' she said, "'and bent her head over her handles "'in true professional style. "'They whirled down into the valley over a white bridge "'and saw ahead of them a number of shaggy little ponies "'frisking in the roadway. "'Involuntarily they slackened. "'Shoo,' said Mr. Hoopdriver, "'and the ponies kicked up their heels derisively. "'At that Mr. Hoopdriver lost his temper and charged at them, "'narrowly missed one, and sent them jumping the ditch "'into the bracken under the trees, "'leaving the way clear for Jesse.' "'Then the road rose quietly but persistently. "'The treadles grew heavy, "'and Mr. Hoopdriver's breath sounded like a saw. "'The tandem appeared, "'making frightful exertions at the foot "'while the chase was still climbing. "'Then, thank heaven, a crest "'and a stretch of up-and-down road, "'whose only disadvantage was its pitiless exposure "'to the afternoon sun. "'The tandem apparently dismounted at the hill, "'and did not appear against the hot blue sky "'until they were already near some trees "'and a good mile away. "'We're gaining,' said Mr. Hoopdriver, "'with a little Niagara of perspiration "'dropping from brow to cheek, that hill. "'But that was their only gleam of success. "'They were both nearly spent. "'Hoopdriver, indeed, was quite spent, "'and only a feeling of shame "'prolonged the liquidation of his bankrupt physique. "'From that point, the tandem grained upon them steadily. "'At the roof of stone, "'it was scarcely a hundred yards behind. "'Then one desperate spurt, "'and they found themselves upon a steady downhill stretch "'among thick pine woods. "'Down hill, nothing could beat "'a highly geared tandem bicycle.' "'Automatically, Mr. Hoopdriver put up his feet "'and Jesse slackened her pace. "'In another moment, they heard the swish "'of the fat pneumatics, "'and the tandem passed Hoopdriver "'and drew alongside Jesse. "'Hoopdriver felt a mad impulse "'to collide with this abominable machine as it passed him. "'His only consolation was to notice that its riders, "'riding violently, were quite as disheveled as himself "'and smothered in sandy white dust. "'Abruptly, Jesse stopped and dismounted, "'and the tandem riders shot panting past them downhill. "'Brake,' said Dangle, "'who was riding behind and stood up on the pedals. "'For a moment, the velocity of the thing increased, "'and then they saw the dust fly from the brake "'as it came down on the front tire. "'Dangle's right leg floundered in the air "'as he came off in the road. "'The tandem wobbled. "'Hold it,' cried Phipps over his shoulder, "'going on downhill. "'I can't get off if you don't hold it.' "'He put on the brake until the machine stopped, "'almost dead, and then feeling unstable "'began to pedal again. "'Dangle shouted after him, "'Put out your foot, man,' said Dangle. "'In this way the tandem riders were carried "'a good hundred yards or more beyond their quarry. "'Then Phipps realized his possibilities, "'slacked up with the brake, "'and let the thing go over sideways, "'dropping onto his right foot. "'With his left leg still over the saddle, "'and still holding the handles, "'he looked over his shoulder, "'and began addressing the uncomplimentary remarks to Dangle. "'You only think of yourself,' said Phipps, "'with a florid face. "'They have forgotten us,' said Jesse, "'turning her machine. "'There was a road at the top of the hill "'to Lindhurst,' said Hoopdriver, "'following her example. "'It's no good. "'There's the money, we must give it up, "'but let us go back to that hotel at Rufus Stone. "'I don't see why we should be led captive. "'So to the consternation of the tandem riders, "'Jesse and her companion, "'mounted at road quietly back up the hill again. "'As they dismounted at the hotel entrance, "'the tandem overtook them, "'and immediately afterwards "'the dog cart came into view in pursuit. "'Dangle jumped off. "'Miss Milton, I believe,' said Dangle, "'panting and raising a damp cap "'from his wet and matted hair. "'I say,' said Phipps, receding involuntarily, "'don't go doing it again, Dangle. "'Help a chap!' "'One minute,' said Dangle, "'and ran off after his colleague. "'Jesse leaned her machine against the wall "'and went into the hotel entrance. "'Hoopdriver remained in the hotel entrance. "'Limp, but defiant.' End of section. Recording by Tom Lotz, Peachtree City, Georgia, USA.