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The Wheels of Chance-Part11_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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morrow, and thence he passed gloriously into the wonderland of

dreams.



THE PURSUIT

XX



And now to tell of Mr. Hoopdriver, rising with the sun, vigilant,

active, wonderful, the practicable half of the lead-framed window



stuck open, ears alert, an eye flickering incessantly in the

corner panes, in oblique glances at the Angel front. Mrs. Wardor



wanted him to have his breakfast downstairs in her kitchen, but

that would have meant abandoning the watch, and he held out



strongly. The bicycle, cap-a-pie, occupied, under protest, a

strategic position in the shop. He was expectant by six in the



morning. By nine horrible fears oppressed him that his quest had

escaped him, and he had to reconnoitre the Angel yard in order to



satisfy himself. There he found the ostler (How are the mighty

fallen in these decadent days!) brushing down the bicycles of the



chase, and he returned relieved to Mrs. Wardor's premises. And

about ten they emerged, and rode quietly up the North Street. He



watched them until they turned the corner of the post office, and

then out into the road and up after them in fine style! They went



by the engine-house where the old stocks and the whipping posts

are, and on to the Chichester road, and he followed gallantly. So



this great chase began.

They did not look round, and he kept them just within sight,



getting down if he chanced to draw closely upon them round a

corner. By riding vigorously" target="_blank" title="ad.精力旺盛地；健壮地">vigorously he kept quite conveniently near



them, for they made but little hurry. He grew hot indeed, and his

knees were a little stiff to begin with, but that was all. There



was little danger of losing them, for a thin chalky dust lay upon

the road, and the track of her tire was milled like a shilling,



and his was a chequered ribbon along the way. So they rode by

Cobden's monument and through the prettiest of villages, until at



last the downs rose steeply ahead. There they stopped awhile at

the only inn in the place, and Mr. Hoopdriver took up a position



which commanded the inn door, and mopped his face and thirsted

and smoked a Red Herring cigarette. They remained in the inn for



some time. A number of chubby innocents returning home from

school, stopped and formed a line in front of him, and watched



him quietly but firmly for the space of ten minutes or so. "Go

away," said he, and they only seemed quietly interested. He asked



them all their names then, and they answered indistinct murmurs.

He gave it up at last and became passive on his gate, and so at



length they tired of him.

The couple under observation occupied the inn so long that Mr.



Hoopdriver at the thought of their possible employment hungered

as well as thirsted. Clearly, they were lunching. It was a



cloudless day, and the sun at the meridian beat down upon the top

of Mr. Hoopdriver's head, a shower bath of sunshine, a huge jet



of hot light. It made his head swim. At last they emerged, and

the other man in brown looked back and saw him. They rode on to



the foot of the down, and dismounting began to push tediously up

that long nearly verticalascent of blinding white road, Mr.



Hoopdriver hesitated. It might take them twenty minutes to mount

that. Beyond was empty downland perhaps for miles. He decided to



return to the inn and snatch a hasty meal.

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



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

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



man of substance as he emerged in the blinding sunshine, but even

by the foot of the down the sun was insisting again that his



skull was too small for his brains. The hill had gone steeper,

the chalky road blazed like a magnesium light, and his front



wheel began an apparentlyincurable squeaking. He felt as a man

from Mars would feel if he were suddenly transferred to this



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

two little black figures had vanished over the forehead of the



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

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



progress up the hill, but at the crest a sprawl on the turf

beside the road, to contemplate the Weald from the south. In a






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