jumped up on the
pavement and riding
squarely at a neat wooden
paling. He struck this with a
terrificimpact and shot forward
off his
saddle into a
clumsy entanglement. Then he began to
tumble over sideways, and completed the entire figure in a
sitting position on the
gravel, with his feet between the fork
and the stay of the machine. The concussion on the
gravel shook
his entire being. He remained in that position, wishing that he
had broken his neck, wishing even more
heartily that he had never
been born. The glory of life had
departed. Bloomin' Dook, indeed!
These unwomanly women!
There was a soft whirr, the click of a brake, two footfalls, and
the Young Lady in Grey stood
holding her machine. She had turned
round and come back to him. The warm
sunlight now was in her
face. "Are you hurt?" she said. She had a pretty, clear, girlish
voice. She was really very young--quite a girl, in fact. And rode
so well! It was a bitter draught.
Mr. Hoopdriver stood up at once. "Not a bit," he said, a little
ruefully. He became
painfully aware that large patches of
gravelscarcely improve the appearance of a Norfolk suit. "I'm very
sorry indeed--"
"It's my fault," she said, interrupting and so saving him on the
very verge of
calling her 'Miss.' (He knew 'Miss' was wrong, but
it was deep-seated habit with him.) "I tried to pass you on the
wrong side." Her face and eyes seemed all alive. "It's my place
to be sorry."
"But it was my steering--"
"I ought to have seen you were a Novice"--with a touch of
superiority. "But you rode so straight coming along there!"
She really was--dashed pretty. Mr. Hoopdriver's feelings passed
the nadir. When he spoke again there was the faintest flavour of
the
aristocratic in his voice.
"It's my first ride, as a matter of fact. But that's no excuse
for my ah! blundering--"
"Your finger's bleeding," she said, abruptly.
He saw his
knuckle was barked. "I didn't feel it," he said,
feeling manly.
"You don't at first. Have you any stickingplaster? If not--" She
balanced her machine against herself. She had a little side
pocket, and she whipped out a small
packet of sticking-plaster
with a pair of
scissors in a
sheath at the side, and cut off a
generous
portion. He had a wild
impulse to ask her to stick it on
for him. Controlled. "Thank you," he said.
"Machine all right?" she asked, looking past him at the prostrate
vehicle, her hands on her handle-bar. For the first time
Hoopdriver did not feel proud of his machine.
He turned and began to pick up the fallen
fabric. He looked over
his shoulder, and she was gone, turned his head over the other
shoulder down the road, and she was riding off. "ORF!" said Mr.
Hoopdriver. "Well, I'm blowed!--Talk about Slap Up!" (His
aristocraticrefinementrarely adorned his speech in his private
soliloquies.) His mind was whirling. One fact was clear. A most
delightful and novel human being had flashed across his horizon
and was going out of his life again. The Holiday
madness was in
his blood. She looked round!
At that he rushed his machine into the road, and began a hasty
ascent. Unsuccessful. Try again. Confound it, will he NEVER be
able to get up on the thing again? She will be round the corner
in a minute. Once more. Ah! Pedal! Wabble! No! Right this time!
He gripped the handles and put his head down. He would overtake
her.
The situation was primordial. The Man beneath prevailed for a
moment over the civilised superstructure, the Draper. He pushed
at the pedals with archaic
violence. So Palaeolithic man may have
ridden his simple
bicycle of chipped flint in
pursuit of his
exogamous
affinity. She vanished round the corner. His effort was