Lest the noise of his motor should be a cause of distraction he slows down when passing military bands, barrel organs, churches (during the hours of worship), the Houses of Parliament (while sitting), motor-buses, the Stock Exchange, and open-air meetings of the unemployed. If he meets a restive horse he will turn back and go down a side road and wait till it has passed. If all the side roads are occupied by restive horses he will go back home; and if the way home is similarly barred he will turn into a field. He encourages his motor to break down frequently; because this spectacle affords an innocent diversion to many whose existence would otherwise be colourless. It is his greatest joy to give a timely lift to weary pedestrians, such as tramps, postmen, sweeps, and police-trap detectives; even though, the car being already full, he is himself compelled to get out and do the last fifty or sixty miles on foot. He declines to wear goggles because they conceal the natural benevolence of the human eye divine, which he regards as the window of the soul; also (and for the same reason he never wears a fur overcoat) because they accentuate class distinctions. Finally--on this very ground--the Perfect Automobilist will sell all his motor-stud and give the proceeds to found an almshouse for retired socialists. * * * * * Illustration: _Obliging Horseman_ (_of riverside breeding_). "Ave a tow up, miss?" * * * * * Illustration: _Cyclist._ "Why can't you look where you're going?" _Motorist._ "How the dickens could I when I didn't know!" * * * * * Illustration: _Middle-aged Novice._ "I'm just off for a tour in the country--'biking' all the way. It'll be four weeks before I'm back in my flat again." _Candid Friend._ "Ah! Bet it won't be four hours before you're flat on your back again!" * * * * * THE LAST RECORD (_The Wail of a Wiped-out Wheelman_) AIR--"_The Lost Chord_" Reading one day in our "Organ," I was happy and quite at ease. A band was playing the "_Lost Chord_," Outside--in three several keys. But _I_ cared not how they were playing, Those puffing Teutonic men; For I'd "cut the record" at cycling, And was ten-mile champion then! It flooded my cheeks with crimson, The praise of my pluck and calm; Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum" With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm. But my joy soon turned into sorrow, My calm into mental strife; For my record was "cut" on the morrow, And it cut _me_, like a knife. A fellow had done the distance In the tenth of a second less! And henceforth my name in silence Was dropt by the Cycling Press.