Norfolk Broads. "I?" said Hoopdriver when the question came to
him. "Why, cycling, of course."

"You're never going to ride that dreadful machine of yours, day
after day?" said Miss Howe of the Costume Department.

"I am," said Hoopdriver as calmly as possible, pulling at the
insufficient moustache. "I'm going for a Cycling Tour. Along the

South Coast."
"Well, all I hope, Mr. Hoopdriver, is that you'll get fine

weather," said Miss Howe. "And not come any nasty croppers."
"And done forget some tinscher of arnica in yer bag," said the

juniorapprentice in the very high collar. (He had witnessed one
of the lessons at the top of Putney Hill.)

"You stow it," said Mr. Hoopdriver, looking hard and
threateningly at the juniorapprentice, and suddenly adding in a

tone of bitter contempt,-- " Jampot."
"I'm getting fairly safe upon it now," he told Miss Howe.

At other times Hoopdriver might have further resented the
satirical efforts of the apprentice, but his mind was too full of

the projected Tour to admit any petty delicacies of dignity. He
left the supper table early, so that he might put in a good hour

at the desperate gymnastics up the Roehampton Road before it
would be time to come back for locking up. When the gas was

turned off for the night he was sitting on the edge of his bed,
rubbing arnica into his knee--a new and very big place--and

studying a Road Map of the South of England. Briggs of the
"dresses," who shared the room with him, was sitting up in bed

and trying to smoke in the dark. Briggs had never been on a cycle
in his life, but he felt Hoopdriver's inexperience and offered

such advice as occurred to him.
"Have the machine thoroughly well oiled," said Briggs, "carry one

or two lemons with you, don't tear yourself to death the first
day, and sit upright. Never lose control of the machine, and

always sound the bell on every possible opportunity. You mind
those things, and nothing very much can't happen to you,

Hoopdriver--you take my word."
He would lapse into silence for a minute, save perhaps for a

curse or so at his pipe, and then break out with an entirely
different set of tips.

"Avoid running over dogs, Hoopdriver, whatever you do. It's one
of the worst things you can do to run over a dog. Never let the

machine buckle--there was a man killed only the other day through
his wheel buckling--don't scorch, don't ride on the foot-path,

keep your own side of the road, and if you see a tram- line, go
round the corner at once, and hurry off into the next county--and

always light up before dark. You mind just a few little things
like that, Hoopdriver, and nothing much can't happen to you--you

take my word."
"Right you are!" said Hoopdriver. "Good-night, old man."

"Good-night," said Briggs, and there was silence for a space,
save for the succulent respiration of the pipe. Hoopdriver rode

off into Dreamland on his machine, and was scarcely there before
he was pitched back into the world of sense again.--Something--

what was it ?
"Never oil the steering. It's fatal," a voice that came from

round a fitful glow of light, was saying. "And clean the chain
daily with black-lead. You mind just a few little things like

that--"
"Lord LOVE us!" said Hoopdriver, and pulled the bedclothes over

his ears.
THE RIDING FORTH OF MR. HOOPDRIVER

IV.
Only those who toil six long days out of the seven, and all the

year round, save for one brief gloriousfortnight or ten days in
the summer time, know the exquisite sensations of the First

Holiday Morning. All the dreary, uninteresting routine drops from
you suddenly, your chains fall about your feet. All at once you

are Lord of yourself, Lord of every hour in the long, vacant day;
you may go where you please, call none Sir or Madame, have a

lappel free of pins, doff your black morning coat, and wear the
colour of your heart, and be a Man. You grudge sleep, you grudge

eating, and drinking even, their intrusion on those exquisite
moments. There will be no more rising before breakfast in casual

old clothing, to go dusting and getting ready in a cheerless,
shutterdarkened, wrappered-up shop, no more imperious cries of,

"Forward, Hoopdriver," no more hasty meals, and weary attendance
on fitful old women, for ten blessed days. The first morning is

by far the most glorious, for you hold your whole fortune in your
hands. Thereafter, every night, comes a pang, a spectre, that

will not be exorcised--the premonition of the return. The shadow
of going back, of being put in the cage again for another twelve

months, lies blacker and blacker across the sunlight. But on the
first morning of the ten the holiday has no past, and ten days

seems as good as infinity.
And it was fine, full of a promise of glorious days, a deep blue

sky with dazzling piles of white cloud here and there, as though
celestial haymakers had been piling the swathes of last night's

clouds into cocks for a coming cartage. There were thrushes in
the Richmond Road, and a lark on Putney Heath. The freshness of

dew was in the air; dew or the relics of an overnight shower
glittered on the leaves and grass. Hoopdriver had breakfasted

early by Mrs. Gunn's complaisance. He wheeled his machine up
Putney Hill, and his heart sang within him. Halfway up, a

dissipated-looking black cat rushed home across flile road and
vanished under a gate. All the big red-brick houses behind the

variegated shrubs and trees had their blinds down still, and he
would not have changed places with a soul in any one of them for

a hundred pounds.
He had on his new brown cycling suit--a handsome Norfolk jacket

thing for 30/--and his legs--those martyr legs--were more than
consoled by thick chequered stockings, "thin in the foot, thick

in the leg," for all they had endured. A neat packet of American
cloth behind the saddle contained his change of raiment, and the

bell and the handle-bar and the hubs and lamp, albeit a trifle
freckled by wear, glittered blindingly in the rising sunlight.

And at the top of the hill, after only one unsuccessful attempt,
which, somehow, terminated on the green, Hoopdriver mounted, and

with a stately and cautiousrestraint in his pace, and a
dignified curvature of path, began his great Cycling Tour along

the Southern Coast.
There is only one phrase to describe his course at this stage,

and that is--voluptuous curves. He did not ride fast, he did not
ride straight, an exactingcritic might say he did not ride well-

-but he rode generously, opulently, using the whole road and even
nibbling at the footpath. The excitement never flagged. So far he

had never passed or been passed by anything, but as yet the day
was young and the road was clear. He doubted his steering so much

that, for the present, he had resolved to dismount at the
approach of anything else upon wheels. The shadows of the trees

lay very long and blue across the road, the morning sunlight was
like amber fire.

At the cross-roads at the top of West Hill, where the cattle
trough stands, he turned towards Kingston and set himself to

scale the little bit of ascent. An early heath-keeper, in his
velveteen jacket, marvelled at his efforts. And while he yet

struggled, the head of a carter rose over the brow.
At the sight of him Mr. Hoopdriver, according to his previous

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