He surveyed me gravely. 'You misunderstand me, miss,' he corrected. '_When_ I say an eccentric, I mean, a crank.' 'They are much the same thing,' I answered, briskly. 'Though I confess I would hardly have applied so rude a word as _crank_ to you.' He looked me over suspiciously, as if I were trying to make game of him, but my face was sphinx-like. So he brought the machine a yard or two nearer, and explained its construction to me. He was quite right: it _was_ driven by a crank. It had no chain, but was moved by a pedal, working narrowly up and down, and attached to a rigid bar, which impelled the wheels by means of an eccentric. Besides this, it had a curious device for altering the gearing automatically while one rode, so as to enable one to adapt it to the varying slope in mounting hills. This part of the mechanism he explained to me elaborately. There was a gauge in front which allowed one to sight the steepness of the slope by mere inspection; and according as the gauge marked one, two, three, or four, as its gradient on the scale, the rider pressed a button on the handle-bar with his left hand once, twice, thrice, or four times, so that the gearing adapted itself without an effort to the rise in the surface. Besides, there were devices for rigidity and compensation. Altogether, it was a most apt and ingenious piece of mechanism. I did not wonder he was proud of it. 'Get up and ride, miss,' he said in a persuasive voice. I did as I was bid. To my immense surprise, I ran up the steep hill as smoothly and easily as if it were a perfectly-laid level. 'Goes nicely, doesn't she?' Mr. Hitchcock murmured, rubbing his hands. 'Beautifully,' I answered. 'One could ride such a machine up Mont Blanc, I should fancy.' He stroked his chin with nervous fingers. 'It ought to knock 'em,' he said, in an eager voice. 'It's geared to run up most anything in creation.' 'How steep?' 'One foot in three.' 'That's good.' 'Yes. It'll climb Mount Washington.' 'What do you call it?' I asked. He looked me over with close scrutiny. 'In Amurrica,' he said, slowly, 'we call it the Great Manitou, because it kin do pretty well what it chooses; but in Europe, I am thinking of calling it the Martin Conway or the Whymper, or something like that.' 'Why so?' 'Well, because it's a famous mountain climber.' 'I see,' I said. 'With such a machine you'll put a notice on the Matterhorn, "This hill is dangerous to cyclists."' He laughed low to himself, and rubbed his hands again. 'You'll do, miss,' he said. 'You're the right sort, you are. The moment I seen you, I thought we two could do a trade together. Benefits me; benefits you. A mutual advantage. Reciprocity is the soul of business. You hev some go in you, you hev. There's money in your feet. You'll give these Meinherrs fits. You'll take the clear-starch out of them.' 'I fail to catch on,' I answered, speaking his own dialect to humour him.